The Hanging Tree

14 A Walk in the Park

‘The Fox Club,’ said Nightingale when I called him.

‘In Mayfair,’ I said.

‘Well, at least he’s consistent.’

‘He’s brown bread if we don’t get to him first,’ I said.

‘Let’s see if we can avoid that outcome,’ said Nightingale.

Occasionally, when the mood takes us, the police can react very fast to unforeseen events. So we had a surveillance perimeter set up in less than thirty minutes with a pair of PCs in plainclothes inside the club. One of them was PC Omer Kubat from the Mounted Branch whose legendary good looks mean that nobody ever believes he’s police.

‘Is it true he nearly got arrested while in full uniform?’ Guleed asked.

Since Reynard knew me, her and Nightingale, we’d been placed around the corner from the Fox Club. Which was just as well since we were in the silver Astra with the ‘My Other Car’s an IRV’ bumper sticker.

‘That’s what I heard,’ I said. Rumour had it that Kubat plus horse had been deployed as crowd control during the Olympics when a local Inspector had got it into his head that Kubat was an actor involved in an illegal film shoot.

‘Didn’t believe him,’ I said. ‘Not even when he handed over his warrant card.’

It was a quality that meant that Kubat was constantly getting poached for side jobs like ours, although his duty Inspector made it clear that anybody, regardless of the rank, who tried to transfer him out of Mounted Branch was going to wake up with a bed full of horse product.

The Fox Club, for all its aspirations and Mayfair address, was less an exclusive gentleman’s club and more an expensive bar with some posh hotel rooms attached. Kubat was probably a bit too good looking for its usual clientele, but at least if he were mistaken for something it wouldn’t be an undercover police officer.

The club occupied a regency terrace on a street just off Piccadilly, less than two hundred metres from Lady Ty’s house and almost on top of the underground course of her river. Curzon Street to the north was still partially closed as the Fire Brigade and Thames Water dealt with the flood damage.

I didn’t think it was a coincidence. And the chance that Lady Ty was also using Reynard as bait had been factored into our operational plan, such as it was, and our risk assessment – such as that was.

Me, Guleed and Nightingale were designated Alpha. David Carey and a couple of guys from Belgravia MIT were in Charlie covering Half Moon Street at the back of the club. A couple of PCs in plainclothes on ruinous levels of overtime were in what any other nick would call Bravo but inexplicably Belgravia MIT always called the Banana car. I asked them why, but nobody could remember.

Stephanopoulos and Seawoll were trying to rustle up some armed response, but apparently there was some anti-terror operation currently live in East London so we couldn’t count on getting them until that was done.

Kubat called to report that he had eyes on Reynard.

‘At a table in the main saloon,’ he said. ‘He’s holding some chairs free, too – he must be expecting someone.’

Nightingale told him to hold position and we heard him ordering a pint of lager. A pint is a good drink for undercover work since, unlike a short, you can get away with drinking it slowly, it has low alcohol by volume, and if you keep moving it about people can’t tell how much you’re drinking.

I suggested that we grab Reynard then and there. But Nightingale said wait.

‘I don’t think we’ve played out the line fully yet,’ he said.

Poor Reynard, I thought, demoted from fox to fish – he must’ve done something shitty in a former life. Although how it could be worse than what he was doing in his current life took some imagining.

You don’t half end up thinking strange things when you’re on a stakeout.

Nightingale was proved right when we got a call from the Banana car saying they had eyeballs on an older IC1 and a younger IC3 female heading for the club.

I asked whether the IC3 female was over six feet tall.

‘Definitely,’ said the Banana car.

‘I thought this might happen,’ said Nightingale. ‘Lady Helena is still trying to secure The Third Principia for herself.’

‘Should we stop them?’

Nightingale hesitated – tapping his finger on the steering wheel.

‘No,’ he said finally. ‘If I’m right, then Mr Fossman will either hand it over directly or take them to it.’

‘And if Martin Chorley crashes the trade?’

‘Lady Helena is more than capable of defending herself and her daughter,’ said Nightingale. ‘Or at least of fending him off for long enough that we can sweep in heroically like the Seventh Cavalry.’

Burning tipis and shooting women and children, I thought.

And with that cheerful notion I had a root around in the stakeout bag Molly had provided. One of the wrapped sandwiches had a large H written on the outside – I handed it to Guleed as the rest were all unmarked. I played pot luck and got a suspiciously mundane ham salad sandwich. Nightingale said he’d have his later.

Kubat reported that Lady Helena and her daughter had arrived.

‘They’ve sat down at his table,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t seem surprised to see them.’

Nightingale asked if they’d ordered drinks.

‘Not yet,’ said Kubat.

‘Whatever happens, do not engage,’ said Nightingale. ‘If there’s a Falcon incident you may lose radio contact. Don’t panic, don’t engage the targets. Instead I want you to concentrate on evacuating the civilians.’

Kubat acknowledged and Nightingale contacted Seawoll, who was Gold Commander for the operation.

‘Alexander, can you get some men looking for Lady Helena’s car?’ he said, and rattled off the index from memory. ‘Once they have located it, can you disable it in some fashion?’

Seawoll said they could do better than that, and have Vehicle Recovery lift it onto one of their flatbeds and drive it away.

‘That should limit their options,’ said Nightingale.

Kubat reported that the older IC1 female and Reynard Fossman were having an argument, albeit conducted in angry whispers. The IC3 female, on the other hand, was looking bored and indifferent.

‘Well, if this continues,’ said Nightingale, ‘we might just scoop them all up when they find their car is missing.’

Three minutes later I got a call from an unlisted number – it was Special Agent Kimberley Reynolds.

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ she asked.

‘Bad,’ I said, and put her on speaker.

‘One of our Virgins let slip some information while I was debriefing them,’ she said. ‘We think there’s a second team operating in London and we think they might have been tasked with the apprehension of Reynard Fossman.’

I would have sworn loudly, but Kimberley had some views about blasphemy and I like to be polite.

‘You’re cussing aren’t you?’ she said after a moment. ‘Well, stop it because you don’t have the time. We think they’re running an operation right now, in and around Mayfair.’

‘Damn,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s inconvenient.’

I wanted to know who ‘we’ were – I suspected Kimberley was drawing on support from both the FBI and the NSA, but it’s not like she would tell me if she was and I didn’t have time to ask.

‘And the good news?’ I asked.

‘We think it’s a small team,’ said Kimberley. ‘Four people tops.’

‘Agent Reynolds?’ said Nightingale.

‘Sir?’

‘Could you liaise with DCI Seawoll, who is Gold Commander on this op.’ Nightingale’s voice had got very precise and clipped. ‘I trust you’ve informed CTC?’

‘Kittredge was with me for the interview, sir,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said Nightingale. ‘That should speed things up. Is there anything further your people can contribute?’

‘I’m afraid not sir,’ said Kimberley. ‘Although there may be more intelligence forthcoming.’

‘Very good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Carry on, Agent Reynolds, and keep us apprised.’

‘American intelligence,’ said Guleed once the phone was safely off.

‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Nightingale.

I asked if it wouldn’t be better to cut our losses and grab Reynard, Lady Helena and Caroline before the situation got more complicated. As a rule, the more complex a situation gets the more likely the wheels are to come off. This is why the police strategy with large crowds is to pin them in place until everyone’s too desperate for the loo to cause trouble.

‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’re going to adopt a flexible doctrine. If we spot the Americans we’ll see if CTC can’t round them up without disturbing our principals. If Reynard leads us to his hiding place and Martin Chorley makes an appearance, we shall deal with that mob while CTC fends off the Americans.’

‘Flexible.’ I said. ‘Meaning we’re making it up as we go along.’

‘Quite,’ said Nightingale.

There was a click on the Airwave – it was Kubat.

‘They’re heading for the door,’ he said.

‘Hand off to Banana Car,’ said Nightingale. ‘Banana Car, stay in position and tell me where they go.’

The answer was south – towards Piccadilly and Green Park.

Suddenly Nightingale was pulling out of our parking space and accelerating fast enough to push us back hard into our seats. He swung a sudden left into Half Moon Street while simultaneously ordering Banana Car to shift position to the Bomber Command memorial and await further instructions, Charlie Car was to drop two of its watchers off on the Knightsbridge side of Hyde Park Corner.

‘And drive carefully,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves.’

I hung on grimly to the door handle as he braked hard just short of the corner with Piccadilly and wished he’d take his own advice. We pulled into an insanely unlikely free parking spot and Nightingale looked over and told me to cross Piccadilly and take a position inside the park gate.

‘Get yourself twenty yards behind the targets and follow them,’ he said. ‘Guleed and I will follow ten yards behind you.’

‘The targets all know him,’ said Guleed.

‘They know Peter Grant the dashing constable about town,’ said Nightingale. ‘In his sweat top they’ll take him for an averagely delinquent youth.’ He stabbed a finger in the direction of the park. ‘Off you go – we’ll be right behind you.’

A low cloud had drawn in over London and with it an early twilight. There’d been rain earlier and the smell of wet leaves mingled with the car exhaust. The traffic on Piccadilly was slow and it was easy enough to nip across, vault the safety railings and slip in through the gates.

Green Park had been laid down by Charles II, who nicked the land off a local farmer, laid out the paths and installed an ice house so that he’d never be short of a cool drink after a hard day of amateur theatre. It stayed on the fringes of the city where it served as a convenient open space for midnight liaisons and the occasional spot of highway robbery. It takes pride these days in being the dullest park in London and is noticeably short of shrubs, bushes, kiosks, statues or anything else a dashing constable about town might hide behind.

I should have welcomed the thick mist that seeped in between the upright tree trunks, hazing the street lights and beading my shoulders and the edge of my hood with droplets of water. But I didn’t.

Because I recognised that mist. I’d seen it roll up the Thames when Father and Mama held their Spring Court on the South Bank. And the course of the Tyburn ran through Green Park on its way to Buckingham Palace.

I keyed my Airwave.

‘Tyburn’s about,’ I said, my voice dulled by the moisture in the air.

‘So I see,’ said Nightingale. ‘Our fox is certainly living up to his reputation. I doubt Martin Chorley will risk entering the park while she’s on the warpath. Reynard’s safe while he stays in there.’

‘I can’t see them,’ I said.

‘Southeast of your position,’ said Nightingale. ‘Thirty yards and heading south.’

I stuck my hands in my pockets and slouched off down the path while trying to think delinquent thoughts.

They were a distinctive bunch, so I spotted them walking briskly across the grass towards the centre of the park. I picked up my pace, lifting my knees as if I was doing running practice. I figured I’d look kosher if I stayed on the path. I was crossing their path at a tangent and as I reached the closest approach I forced myself to keep my eyes forward – with luck, even if they looked, my face would be hidden by my hoodie.

Where could they be heading?

South was Constitution Hill Road, notable for not being much of a hill, and just beyond that the walled gardens of Buckingham Palace. Once they hit the road they could go east towards Victoria Memorial and the Mall or west up the hill to Hyde Park Corner.

In my earpiece I could hear Nightingale calmly ordering units into position around the park, while maintaining his position behind me and working without a map. The mist was thickening, the trees that lined the path I was on were flattening out and fading.

Ten metres further down the path I risked a look and saw that Reynard and co had changed direction. Now they were heading downslope – to the east.

I turned off the path but stayed at a tangent so I wouldn’t be obviously following them. But I had to close the distance before they were swallowed up in the mist and darkness. I reported the change in direction.

‘You’re going to have to risk getting closer,’ said Nightingale.

I heard a snarl off to my left and I didn’t think it was a dog. I looked and thought I saw movement in the mist, man-shaped but loping like a big cat, picking up momentum as it ran after my targets. I was about to call it in when a long thin shape hissed over my shoulder and slammed into the running figure, which went tumbling with a yowling scream. A naked man ran past me and did a sort of hopping turn to face me. His long rangy body was smeared in blue paint and he held a pair of spears in his left hand. His hair was a spray of spiky black, and gold gleamed at his throat and wrists.

‘Did you see that?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me you saw that – that’s got to be a worth a song.’

He turned and ran off, shouting over his shoulder.

‘Or at least a memory.’ It sounded almost plaintive.

And then with just a few steps he was gone.

I checked Reynard and the others, but they were still walking calmly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. Either they were the most focused people on Earth or that encounter had been a lot quieter than I thought it was.

‘Boss,’ I said into my Airwave. ‘It’s getting needlessly metaphysical out here.’

‘Ignore it,’ said Nightingale calmly. ‘There’s more than one conflict going on at the moment, but only one of them is your concern.’

I realised that despite having two of the busiest roads in London within a hundred metres, the rush hour had faded to nothing. From behind me I heard a stamping, grunting sound and a noise like pots and pans being rhythmically smacked together. A growl, a shout, a scream.

Stay on target, I thought.

‘They’re definitely heading for Hyde Park Corner,’ I said

Nightingale said that he and Guleed were going to get ahead of them and that I was going to be on my own, but I should be quite safe.

‘As long as you stay focused,’ he said.

Which was easier said than done because that’s when Early Tyburn returned.

I smelt him before I heard him, the copper smell of fresh blood and old sweat, wood-smoke and wet dog.

‘You should listen to your master,’ said a voice by my ear. ‘He’s a cunning man. And by the way, did you see that sick cast – right through the neck. Never saw it coming. Worth a song right, bit of an impromptu beat box maybe.’

‘What’s with the woad?’ I asked. ‘Last time we met you were all medieval.’

Out in the mist the trees had multiplied and the straight London planes and lime trees were sharing space with the shadowy ghosts of oak, beech and poplar.

‘Just being true to my roots, fam,’ said the former incarnation of the god of the River Tyburn – or maybe a hallucination brought on by way too many supernatural wankers messing with my head. Or possibly both at the same time.

I kept my eyes on my targets ahead and my hoodie was as effective as any pair of blinkers, so I almost screamed when I felt him slip his arm around my shoulders, the spare javelins in his left hand clacking against my arm, the tips pushing into my peripheral vision. I felt my balls and my stomach tighten, the anticipation of action as when you run down a deer in the King’s Forest or jack a motor from outside a gaff in Primrose Hill. The defiance of power making the meat taste so much sweeter, the slip into first gear and away so much sweeter.

‘I saw your father,’ I said. ‘He seemed a happy little Roman.’

‘And so he was,’ said the voice. ‘But we are not always the sons our fathers dream of – as you should know.’

As I did know, and all the things sons do to make their fathers proud until you learn to choose your own life for your own reasons. Have your own money, your own car, your own job, you own place, your own life and fuck everybody else.

What have they ever done for you?

But I had felt this seduction before. Or something like it. On a tube train between Camden and Kentish Town when old Mr Punch tried to recruit me for Team Riot, and I knew how well that had turned out in the end.

‘Lady Ty must be a real disappointment,’ I said.

The arm squeezed my shoulders and relaxed its grip. ‘Why don’t you ask her about the Marquee in ’76, the bin bag dress and how she couldn’t quite bring herself to push the safety pin all the way through,’ said the voice. And before I could reply he was gone.

With him went the concealing mist and suddenly I was standing by the Boris Bike stand at the far end of Green Park and listening to the angry traffic fighting its way around Hyde Park Corner.

Hyde Park Corner is what happens when a bunch of urban planners take one look at the grinding circle of gridlock that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and think – that’s what we want for our town. Inspired no doubt by the existence of the Wellington Arch, George IV’s cut price copy of Napoleon’s own vanity project, they wrapped seven lanes of traffic around one corner of Green Park, ran a dual carriageway underneath and produced virtually overnight what had taken the French and Baron Haussmann a hundred years to perfect.

I scanned right to left and spotted Reynard, Lady Helena and Caroline waiting for the lights to change at the pelican crossing. There was enough of a crowd to allow me to cross right after them with just a bit of a last minute dash against the red man.

Ahead of us was the Wellington Arch, with Europe’s largest bronze statue thoughtfully plonked on top to avoid people getting a good look at it. Nike Goddess of Victory riding the Chariot of War driven by a boy racer. There used to be a mini-police station built into the Arch, which would have been bloody useful right now, but they closed it down in the nineties.

It was full night by the time I crossed the street and the Portland stone of the Arch was bleached white by spotlights, the bronze on top lit up in blue. I let Reynard and his party gain some distance as they passed to the right of the structure. In my earpiece I could hear Nightingale calmly positioning spotters to cover the tube station and all the crossings.

‘They’re heading for Hyde Park,’ I told him and then remembered Reynard’s left hand drive Renault 4 that we’d never located. Maybe because it was stashed in a car park somewhere – maybe the one beneath Hyde Park. The one with a reputed tunnel to The Chestnut Tree. I floated the idea past Nightingale and heard Guleed groan in the background. Nightingale punted it up to Seawoll to get some bodies down to the car park to check. If it had been sitting there all this time we were all going to look stupid come case review, but at least we might get there before Reynard.

If they were going for the car park then they’d cross the road and head north up Park Lane or more likely walk along the parallel bridle path.

I veered to the left with the idea of running through the Arch and closing the distance with Reynard, when a young white woman caught my eye. She was slender but toned with strong legs and shoulders under mauve designer jeans and a matching suede jacket. Her face was round and smooth with a snub nose and rosebud lips. Her hair was dark brown and cut into a pixie bob. A pair of pretentious round framed smoked glass spectacles hid her eyes.

She caught me looking and tilted her head in amused recognition before turning and walking away on unexpectedly sensible flat shoes.

I knew that walk, a brisk, business-like walk. A walk to cover the distance quickly without looking hurried or worried.

I keyed my Airwave.

‘I’ve just seen Lesley at the Arch,’ I said.

‘Are you certain?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The face is different but it’s definitely Lesley,’ I said.

‘Is it a mask?’ asked Nightingale.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a mask.’

‘Did she see you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Arrest her,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now.’

I was wearing trainers – you can run really quietly in trainers if you have to. It’s all in the way you roll your feet. I took off as fast as I could, straight for her back. I knew sooner or later she was going to check on my position, but I was counting on her Lesley-esque sense of drama to hold the moment longer than she should. I was three metres short when a white guy in a navy suit jacket over a black Metallica T-shirt theatrically jumped out of my way and yelled, ‘Look out.’

The woman who walked like Lesley turned and I saw the look of surprise on her face. Then I stumbled as the pale skin of her face rippled and her features changed. It started at the bridge of her nose, the skin bunching up and then flopping down horribly, like the wings of a manta or the shroud of a squid. Then suddenly it was Lesley’s face again – or rather the smooth pink version of it I’d seen in the Harrods Jazz Café. I was so shocked that I barely registered the raised hand and the shimmer in the air that signalled pain inbound. I forced myself to lengthen my stumble into a fall and a clumsy roll, taking the impact on my shoulders, as something shot through the space I would have been in, with a noise like my mum beating a carpet.

As I climbed to my feet and dodged right on general principles, I heard yells behind me. I had the Airwave off by then and didn’t dare to turn it back it on to alert Nightingale to potential collateral. I had to trust to his professional instincts and hope that Lesley wasn’t flinging anything too lethal around.

She knew better than to escalate in public in central London – not unless you wanted to take a run up that short ladder that ended with making a personal relationship with the Special Air Service.

I ran through the arch, making my appearance as abrupt as I could, and spotted Lesley heading off towards the Wellington Memorial. She was walking briskly rather than running – hoping, I assumed, to avoid drawing attention to herself.

I flicked an impello at her and felt a moment of mad satisfaction as it knocked her legs out from under her. As I ran to close the distance, I pulled my asp from the belly pocket of my hoodie and flicked it out to full length.

But she rolled and was on her feet before I’d got halfway there. She raised her hand – I saw a flash and got my shield up in time to deflect it into the air. I’ve been training to conjure my shield with an upward slope for use amongst the general public. You don’t want anything eldritch, or even mundanely pointy, ricocheting into innocent bystanders.

Lesley switched direction and headed for the right of the plinth that held up forty tons of mounted military legend so I went around it on the left just in case she planned an ambush – which is how we came to run smack into each other.

I’m bigger, so she went backwards. But not before her forehead hit me hard enough in the mouth to loosen my one filling and make me taste blood. I swung my baton but missed, and she kicked me in the thigh – which was probably a lucky miss. Then she hit me with something impello-ish which knocked me over backwards, but Nightingale has trained me to accept the direction of the blow and roll up so that I regain my feet as quickly as possible.

So far this was all suspiciously non-lethal. Not that I was complaining, mind you, but we were escalating enough for the street lights and spots around us to fizz out. I flung a water bomb in Lesley’s general direction but she’d ducked back behind the plinth and I dared not charge after her in case she was waiting around the corner with something unpleasant. I went wide and caught sight of her vaulting a waist-high stone parapet behind the monument and dropping onto the ramp below. I leaned over and watched as she ran down towards the pedestrian subway. I considered following, but instead darted back and ran down the nearby stairs instead – just in case she tried to double back that way.

Hyde Park Corner has some of the cleanest pedestrian subways in the world – this one was decorated with colourful murals depicting the Battle of Waterloo, just in case any French tourists had some doubt about whose capital they were visiting. This time I went for speed and got within two metres. But she grabbed a startled tourist, swung him around as if dancing, and threw him down in front of me. I had to break stride to jump and that gave Lesley enough time to cut right down another passage. I cornered it myself in time to see her skid left and vanish into the ticket office. I followed slower, risking a peek around the corner to avoid any sudden surprises. Hyde Park Corner has a tiny ticket office and Lesley was already through the barrier. She turned to check whether I was following and that’s when I knew I was being played.

Still, I charged the barriers to drive her down the escalators. But I didn’t follow. Instead, waving my warrant card to reassure the Underground staff, I veered right and back out into the subway. Turning my Airwave back on, I ran up the stairs and found myself at the entrance to Hyde Park. I did a three-sixty scan while waiting for the Airwave to boot up. We used to wait for our electronics to warm up, now it’s our software. But there was no sight of any of the targets.

Finally the Airwave connected and I got Nightingale.

‘It’s a feint,’ I said. ‘Lesley was trying to draw me away – which means wherever they’re going is close.’ And then I looked down Knightsbridge to where the Oriental Hotel was painted a warm orange by its spotlights.

‘It’s One Hyde Park,’ I said. ‘Tell me you have spotters there already.’

‘But of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I believe you may be right.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Reynard and our friends have just walked in the front door,’ he said.

We waited for screams, but none came. That was almost worse.

All of the apartment windows were dark and Seawoll was ninety percent sure that most of the super-rich inhabitants of One Hyde Park were either temporarily not in residence or still living abroad and waiting for property prices in London to peak.

Stephanopoulos and some uniforms in full Public Order kit had sealed off the tunnel from the Oriental Hotel, but David Carey, interviewing staff, was pretty sure at least one group had made it in before it was locked down.

‘Four IC1 males in suits,’ he reported.

‘That will be the Americans,’ said Nightingale.

There were reports of burst water mains and flooding from Sloane Street and the Serpentine. I checked my notebook – all along the course of the Westbourne, whose genius loci was otherwise known as Chelsea Thames. I called Beverley and asked if she knew where her younger sister was.

‘Here at Mum’s,’ she said. ‘Hiding under Lea’s bed.’

‘I don’t suppose Tyburn’s popped in for a visit?’ I asked.

Beverley said no and told me whatever I thought I was going to do next I was to be careful.

‘Always,’ I said.

‘I mean it,’ she said.

‘Tyburn’s probably in there as well,’ I said, after I hung up.

‘Full house,’ said Guleed.

We’d escalated up to having a mobile control room, codenamed Broadway, which was parked on South Carriage Drive with a good view of the back of One Hyde Park. The key advantage of a mobile control room is that it gave Seawoll a place to shout at us while sitting in a comfy chair with a cup of tea.

Luckily for us, the postmodern obsession with transparent walls meant that in One Hyde Park nobody could move around the access stairs or lifts without being seen by the spotter teams Nightingale had positioned in the buildings opposite. We’d closed off South Carriage Drive and pushed a perimeter back twenty metres to the south, but Seawoll was reluctant to close Knightsbridge and Old Brompton because the rush hour was still tailing off.

We had about twenty to thirty minutes before the media twigged that a major police operation had descended on the most expensive bit of real estate in London.

Guleed suggested that we leave them in there and arrest the survivors, which earned her a pleased smile from Seawoll. But then he shook his head.

‘Somebody,’ he said eyeing Nightingale, ‘is going to have go in there and clean up the mess.’

‘Quite,’ said Nightingale and looked at me. ‘Peter?’

‘Noisy or quiet?’ I asked.

‘Oh, quiet,’ said Nightingale.

And so it was decided. But not before me and Guleed climbed into our PSU overalls and, after a bit of an argument, donned the shin and elbow guards. We didn’t bother with the helmets, but Guleed swapped her hijab for a fire resistant hood that made her look like she was about to climb into a Soyuz rocket.

‘Practical and modest,’ I said and she grinned.

Needless to say we both put our metvests on and loaded ourselves down with CS spray, speedcuffs – I even considered packing a taser which I’m now authorised and trained to carry – but they just tend to complicate things.

Finally Nightingale handed me a stave of varnished wood, the size and shape of a pickaxe handle, one end wrapped with canvas strips, the other capped with iron. Branded into the side was a six-digit number and the hammer and anvil sigil of the Legendary Sons of Weyland.

As I gripped it I felt the hum of the hive and sunlight amongst the hills and hedgerows.

Once more into the breach, I thought.

We paraded round the back of the mobile control centre. Seawoll rolled his eyes at the sight of us, but said nothing. Nightingale was dressed in a leather sapper’s coat but thank god not the breeches that went with them. He had donned a pair of serious army boots that had probably only not perished with age because Molly wasn’t going to let any of his clothes die on her watch – dammit!

He caught Guleed’s eye.

‘Sahra,’ he said, ‘things are likely to get somewhat esoteric before the end, and this is not something you’re trained for. I can’t, in all conscience, ask you to join us.’

‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I think I’m going to have to see this through,’ she said. ‘Inshallah.’ As God wills it.

‘Good show,’ said Nightingale.

This is it, I thought. We’re all going to die.