‘Just the AFOs first. We go through the barrier, pull back and leave the van blocking off the exit, then get your arses down here. The rest of you pile into the cars and we hit them like a fucking tsunami. No need for heroes, though. Stay in pairs when we get in, and let the AFOs clear the rooms first. We’ve got enough men here so if he won’t come quietly call in your location and the rest of us will come running. Questions?’

A full round of headshakes, no words spoken.

‘Right.’ He checked his watch. Three minutes to noon. ‘Let’s give them a couple of minutes to get comfy, then we’ll get the show on the road.’

Porter reached forward and touched Whittaker lightly on the arm as the other man moved back towards his car. Whittaker flinched and snapped his head around. Porter leant in, speaking softly so the others couldn’t hear.

‘This isn’t on you, Jon. None of us saw it.’

‘I know, guv, but thanks.’ Whittaker gave a sad smile. That wouldn’t be the last version of that he’d hear, a condolence of sorts. No matter how this played out, he was losing his partner. Correction: he’d lost him a while back. He just hadn’t known it.

Anderson fidgeted in the hard plastic seat outside Patchett’s office, where he’d been banished, while Bolton and Patchett stayed inside to talk. He spilt over the sides and the raised ridges dug into his thighs. It was barely noon but his stomach was gurgling its case for an early lunch. He heard Bolton’s voice through the door, low like an idling car engine, followed by Locke’s softer replies. He wondered how long they expected him to wait around like this, surprised he hadn’t had a call from anyone checking his whereabouts from the station.

A glance at his watch. Five more minutes and he would head off. To hell with the consequences. He was still a copper and coppers deserved respect, even from the likes of Alexander Locke and James Bolton. The thought of a token victory, not waiting for another summons, of liberating his arse from the invasive rim of the plastic seat: decision made.