‘Anyway, there’s really no need to get worked up.’

‘Who’s worked up?’ Farrell said.

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘It’s not true, though, is it?’ He leaned towards her, conspiratorial. ‘You don’t really know the last time I shook hands with my best friend?’

She smiled, not quite so easily thrown. ‘As it goes, we’d be delighted to fix you up with whoever would make you more comfortable. A lawyer, if you want; your mum and dad. Maybe that nice chaplain of yours, if it would help. We could all reconvene at the station, do everything properly.’

‘I don’t actually have to do anything, though, do I?’

‘No, absolutely not. We’re just talking.’

‘Fine then.’ He put all his weight on one foot, preparing to leave. ‘Nice to talk to you.’

‘But when that happens, we just sit around and start asking questions. Of ourselves, I mean. We wonder why you don’t like us. Why you’re so reluctant to help. What you might be trying to hide.’

Farrell started to shake his head, grinning like he thought her efforts were clumsy and amateurish. ‘I’m going back to school now,’ he said. ‘It’s double history this afternoon, and that’s my favourite.’

Kitson wanted to slap him stupid.

‘Come on, wankers.’ Farrell shouted across to his friends and started to walk away. Once there was breathing space between themselves and Stone, the other boys puffed out their chests, fell into step with each other and quickly caught Farrell up.

Stone moved across to Kitson. ‘They’re not afraid of very much, are they?’ he said.

They watched the boys swagger down the ramp. As they reached the bottom, one of Farrell’s friends tossed his empty bag towards a litter bin. The others jeered at the miss and the three kept on walking.

‘It’s easy when there’s a few of you,’ Kitson said.

Farrell glanced back, a couple of steps before he turned the corner; looked round as though he’d forgotten something, just for a second or two before he disappeared.

His hand was slapping the side of his leg in time to the music.

Kidnap or not, as operation posts went, the security was fairly relaxed. Thorne had taken part in plenty of intelligence operations – usually involving the Serious and Organised boys – where a steady stream of visitors to the target address had meant days on end in the back of a stinking van, pissing in plastic bottles and living on biscuits. In this instance, the surveillance provided by the cameras meant that there was no need for any vehicle to be located within direct sight of Conrad Allen’s flat. So there was a degree of flexibility in terms of individual movements, and conditions within the team vehicles themselves were not quite as spartan.

Less than a minute on foot from Allen’s flat, Porter had spent most of her morning south of the Bow Road, on a one-way street between Tower Hamlets cemetery and the tube station. After their brief meeting on Fairfield Road, Thorne had joined her in the back of a dirty Transit, its panels boasting the logo and contact details of a local roofing contractor.

That had been just after three o’clock. Nearly an hour before.

A trestle table ran down one side of the van. Two small monitors displayed the black-and-white shots from the cameras front and back, while a scarred metal speaker broadcast communications from the assortment of unit vehicles in the vicinity. A strip of grubby brown carpet had been laid on the floor, and a plastic bag was wedged into one corner, bulging with Styrofoam containers, newspapers, empty cans and cartons.

‘So what do we think?’

‘It’s been forty-five minutes since we went into the old woman’s flat.’

‘Longer,’ Porter said.

Two other officers were sharing the space with Porter and Thorne. Kenny Parsons sat in one of two folding canvas chairs, with the other taken by a fat DS named Heeney – a gobby Midlander with a lazy eye and an attitude to match. Porter looked less than delighted at being harassed by either of them. She brought the radio handset to her mouth. ‘How are we doing, Bob?’

There was a pause.

‘I’m sure he’ll let you know,’ Thorne said.

Porter gave him a look like he wasn’t helping a hell of a lot, either.

Then, from the speaker, with a hint of annoyance: ‘Still nothing.’

‘You’ve checked the equipment?’

‘Twice. The equipment’s fine.’

‘Sorry…’

It had been a stupid question. The microphones were about as high tech as they could ask for, and she knew that the technical operator had done his homework. They’d established that the flat was rented, had guessed correctly that the firm below it would have handled the letting and had gone in bright and early to acquire a diagram of the layout. A kitchen-diner, two small bedrooms and a bathroom, all leading off the single corridor. The listening equipment that had been set up in the premises next door would be more than adequate: nowhere in a flat that size would be out of range.

‘Someone’s going to have to make a decision here,’ Heeney said. His accent turned ‘make’ into ‘mek’; turned his opinion into complaint.

Thorne sat with his back to the van’s doors and stared across at Porter, perched on the wheel-arch directly behind the driver’s seat. She looked right back at him and raised an eyebrow. He thought she might be asking what he thought, but he couldn’t be sure, and he was even less sure how she’d react if he told her. So he said nothing; failing to offer any opinion, because he didn’t want to risk a row in front of the others. And because he didn’t really have one to offer.

There were far too many questions that needed to be answered, boxes to be ticked, with no option to pass.

Were Conrad Allen and his girlfriend in the flat?

Was that where they were holding Luke Mullen?

Had they graduated from plastic guns to real ones, and how were they likely to react if a team of armed police officers smashed through their front door?

‘If I had final say, I’d go in,’ Porter said.

Thorne pulled up one knee, then the other, but he was unable to find any position that wasn’t painful. ‘Would you want it?’

‘The final say? Probably not.’

‘Good call, I reckon. With great power comes great responsibility.’

‘I didn’t have you down as a philosopher.’

‘It’s from Spiderman,’ Thorne said.

She lifted the handset. ‘I need an opinion, Bob.’

From the speaker: ‘There’s nothing moving in there.’

‘Fuck!’

‘Sorry, but there it is.’

‘Maybe the kid’s drugged and they’re both asleep.’

‘What don’t you understand? Nothing’s moving. I can hear a clock ticking, and I can tell you which room it’s in, if you want. I’ve got water moving through the radiators, and the rattle of pipes expanding, but I don’t hear anyone snoring or turning over in bed. These mikes can pick up the sound of breathing, and I can’t hear any.’

There was a snap of static, and another voice cut in: ‘This is DCI Hignett.’

‘Sir…’

‘It’s time to go in, Louise.’

It was suddenly as though the Transit had been wired up to the National Grid. Everyone jumped, looked hard at one another, and Thorne crouched straight back down by the doors as Porter gave all units the order to move in.

Thorne threw open the doors and jumped down on to the road. He felt Porter’s hand on his shoulder; felt it dig in, and pull him back.

‘Hang about, Tom. I don’t want a crowd of us going in there behind the guns.’

‘Are you joking?’

Porter wiped a fleck of Thorne’s spittle from her lip. ‘Look, Heeney’s staying put as well, so don’t get stupid about it.’

‘Who’s making these decisions?’

‘You’re only supposed to be helping out, remember. I haven’t got time for this. Get back in the van and stay by the radio.’

Thorne watched her and Parsons sprint towards the Bow Road and climbed back into the van. Heeney was sitting again and looked at his feet as Thorne moved past him to take up Porter’s place next to the monitors. The big DS mumbled something about Porter being ‘on the rag’. Thorne turned away and tuned him out. He sat on one of the chairs, leaned closer and stared at the small screen, at the fixed and flickering picture of a black, metal fire-escape.