They agreed that whoever located Bolton would call for backup before attempting any arrest. After what had happened to Gibson and Simmons, nobody wanted to take any chances. Course of action agreed, each pair of detectives peeled away towards their own cars.

Porter slid into the driver’s seat and had the engine growling impatiently, already in first gear and ready to pull away, before Styles had even reached the handle. He glanced through the windscreen to where Carter lay on a carpet of broken glass and splinters. Someone had covered his body with a sheet now, but his outstretched hands still peeped over the top edge, like a child playing hide-and-seek. The second his partner’s door closed, Porter hit the accelerator and the car jerked forward.

Simmons had been hunting for a way to put Bolton, amongst others, behind bars for drug trafficking, and had been willing to put herself in harm’s way to do it. The irony dawned on Porter, as he drove, that it would be the harm she had been willing to risk that would see him arrested. He just prayed that she would pull through to see it happen with her own eyes.

The hunt for Bolton bordered on anticlimax. Detectives Booth and Thomas found him in Oyster Bay, a Chinese restaurant that he owned, and the first on their list of three addresses. His car was parked outside, and he and Stenner were sitting there bold as brass at the table in the centre of the restaurant. He was halfway through a plate of Singapore chow mein that could feed a family of four when the delegation of six officers walked in. Anderson and Whittaker took point, with Booth and Thomas bringing up the rear, sandwiching Porter and Styles in between them. Porter was straining at the leash to lead the charge, to be the one to confront Bolton, read him his rights, but he held back. It was more Anderson’s right to claim the collar. Bolton was part of his case, Simmons part of his team.

Bolton didn’t look up or acknowledge their presence as they wound their way between the tables towards him, even when Anderson moved close, practically touching the cloth on Bolton’s table.

‘James Bolton?’

Bolton stabbed his fork into the centre of his mountain of food and twirled it, his fork accumulating noodles like a stick gathering candyfloss. Only after he had heaved it into his mouth and started to chew did he look up. He smiled and tapped his lips with the fork, grunting as he worked his way through his mouthful.

‘Sorry, Officer, my mum always told me it’s rude to talk with your mouth full,’ he said once he had finished. ‘Apologies, but if you’re after a table we’re booked solid. You’ll have to come back another night.’ He gave a smile that had all the warmth of a ventriloquist’s dummy.