He looked behind him, back along the route they had run, the full length of a building eerily deserted for a place so alive with noise.

‘Crawford here, guv.’ Porter recognised the voice of the young PC. ‘No sign of any of ’em. No one’s tried to get out front.’

Porter turned a full circle, looking around as he tried to work out what they had missed. They had to be in here somewhere. He decided to retrace their steps, and signalled to the others to follow him back towards the front of the building, breaking into a trot. They were almost halfway back to the doorway that led to the offices, when Whittaker’s voice burst over the radio.

‘He’s here. Left-hand side of the building. Bolton’s here.’

They skidded to a halt, Styles ploughing into Porter’s shoulder, knocking him against the corner of a shelf. They barely had time to separate when Porter heard the first shot.

Porter ran down the left-hand edge of the building, his jacket peeling away on both sides, threatening to wrap around his hands every time they brushed past. He knew Styles and the two AFOs were behind him. Their footsteps overlapped the beat of his own. He scanned ahead for signs of activity, saw figures up ahead. Crouching? Sitting? Hard to tell from here. There had been five shots, maybe six. It was hard to tell with the acoustics in a place like this. Nothing since, though.

He was within fifty feet now, and saw there were two men up ahead. One slumped against a stack of wooden pallets, the other kneeling over him. The man kneeling looked around at the sound of Porter’s approach. It was Jon Whittaker, eyes wide, looking from Porter, then back to the man beside him. Porter slowed as he approached, seeing what had caused the panic on his face. George Carmichael was alive, barely. His eyes fluttered behind closed lids. His mouth a pale blue line, pursed in pain. Whittaker’s tie was wadded in his hand, pressed just above Carmichael’s collarbone, slick with blood. Porter fancied he could see more coming through the gaps in his fingers.

‘Where’s Bolton? What happened?’ said Porter as he crouched down on one knee.

‘Bastard was hiding between the crates. They all were. Came out of nowhere. Grabbed Palmer’s gun and sent him flying before we knew what was happening.’

‘Palmer? Where the hell is he, then?’

‘Bolton got a few shots off. Carmichael went down, he nicked my arm with one as well, then they all fucked off down the far end. Palmer took Carmichael’s gun and went after them.’

‘Them? Locke and Stenner as well?’ Porter noticed Whittaker’s arm for the first time. The sleeve of his jacket was torn near the shoulder, ripped fabric matted with blood.