‘Omega to Bravo One, stick with him!’ Bolt shouted into the radio as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘We can’t afford to lose this guy.’

‘Up to the end of the street and turn right,’ said Mo. ‘We might be able to intercept him.’

‘Call backup. I want this whole place flooded with coppers, plus helicopters. If he escapes, we’ve had it.’

Bolt barely stopped at the end of the street before swinging a hard right, and accelerating away. He couldn’t believe that Hope had spotted the tail five minutes from home after it had been glued to him for the previous forty-eight hours. It was bad luck in the extreme, but that no longer mattered. The important thing was to stop him, but Bolt knew full well that if Hope continued to drive like a lunatic, especially in winding residential streets like this, and with darkness beginning to fall, they’d have to abandon the chase. The rules of police pursuits in the UK are some of the strictest in the world, and Bolt knew it wouldn’t just be him who suffered if something went wrong – like a civilian getting injured, or even killed – but every other copper involved as well. But he wasn’t prepared to give up now, not when they were this close to a man who’d murdered nine people.

‘Next left,’ hissed Mo, interrupting his conversation with the emergency dispatcher.

Bolt yanked the wheel, making the turn, imagining what the media would say if The Disciple escaped now. There’d be a firestorm, and he’d be right in the middle of it.

‘Bravo One to all cars!’ shouted Grier over the radio. ‘He’s just turned into Hillcroft Crescent, now heading north. He must be going sixty! Oh shit—’

‘Omega to Bravo One, what’s going on?’

‘A car’s just pulled out in front of us . . . He’s blocking the road . . . We’re trying to pass.’ Bolt heard the sound of horns, and cursing. ‘Bravo One to all cars, we’ve lost the eyeball. We think he might have turned into Park Hill.’

‘All right, boss, we’re near,’ said Mo. ‘Make a left here.’

Bolt barely slowed up as he turned into yet another residential street, the tyres of the Audi A4 he was driving wailing angrily. It was almost dark now and he knew he was going to have to be careful not to get in an accident. A primary school loomed up on the left, then a church. He saw a mother walking hand in hand with two young children and, hearing his rapid approach, she turned and gave him an angry look, motioning for him to slow down, although he wondered if she’d be quite so annoyed if she knew the identity of the man he was after. On the radio, the different cars of the surveillance team were communicating in short, urgent bursts, but it was clear that none of them had Hope’s van in their sights.

‘Okay, boss, left again up here. I think we may be able to cut him off.’

Gritting his teeth, Bolt made the turn.

‘Park Hill’s just up here on the right. It’s about another fifty yards.’

But Mo had barely finished speaking when a white van came hurtling out of a side road, clipping a car parked on the other side, before righting itself and driving up the street away from them.

Bolt didn’t even bother to read the registration number. He knew it was Hope and he slammed his foot hard on the accelerator, giving chase.

Up ahead, a car was coming down on the other side of the road, but it was veering out towards the middle. Hope, who was rapidly picking up speed, swerved to avoid it, hit another parked car and lost control of the van completely, scraping another couple of cars before mounting the pavement and smacking into a wall.

‘Right we’ve got you now!’ yelled Bolt triumphantly. Only fifty metres separated him from Hope’s van and the speed he was going he’d cover the ground in a few seconds, and then finally they’d be able to take him down.

Up ahead, a figure jumped out of the van and sprinted away from it, while the car that had been coming the other way pulled up on some double yellow lines, its driver opening the door to get out.

Bolt sounded his horn to warn the driver to stay in the car, making no attempt to slow down.

‘Careful, boss,’ said Mo, gripping his seat, as Bolt raced towards the stricken van.

And then, as they drew level with the turning from which Hope’s van had emerged only a few seconds earlier, a sudden glare of headlights loomed up out of nowhere as a car came flying out far too fast, shunting the Audi in the side like a bumper car and sending it spinning round a hundred and eighty degrees in a sickening shriek of metal. Bolt didn’t have time to react before they hit a parked car sideways-on and came to a crunching halt.

For a second, neither he nor Mo moved. The other car was a few yards away, smoke rising from its ruined bonnet. Both occupants – a man and a woman – looked shocked but otherwise unhurt, and Bolt recognized them instantly as two of the surveillance team.

Then his instincts kicked in. Jumping out of the car, he shouted for Mo to follow him, and took off after Hope at a sprint. He could make out the faint wail of sirens coming from more than one direction, but they were still too far away to be of any help, and there was no immediate sign of the rest of the surveillance team. Grabbing his radio, he was about to shout his current location, but realized he didn’t know the street name, so pocketed it. Right now he was on his own. And, full to the brim with adrenalin and aggression, that suited him just fine.

He couldn’t see Hope any more, but there was no way he’d be hiding behind one of the cars. He’d be trying to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. There was a left turning up ahead and Bolt took it at a sprint. He didn’t have time to look for a road sign but just kept running. Unlike Mo, he not only liked to keep fit, but also to make his own collars. Too many times these days, the detectives left it to the TSG, the Territorial Support Group (the Met’s version of the Riot Police), to arrest the suspects, but for Bolt there was nothing better than taking down the person you’d been hunting. It was one of the great joys of the job and he felt a real exhilaration now as he ran alone down the cool, night street, ignoring the pain in his side from the impact of the crash.

Hope was in his sights now, thirty yards away and running, which was when Bolt noticed something strange. It looked as if he was on the phone. They’d always been convinced he was working alone, but it suddenly struck Bolt that maybe they were wrong. Maybe he had an accomplice. Serial killers had worked together before. It was rare but not unheard of, and, in this case, it made sense. It was no easy task to control and restrain a couple, but if there were two of you . . .

Bolt redoubled his pace, his footfalls heavy on the pavement. Hope was a big man and well built, but Bolt felt sure he could take him alone if he had to.

Hope must have heard his pursuit because he pocketed the phone and looked back over his shoulder, suddenly increasing his own pace, but he was nowhere near as fast as Bolt, and barely fifteen yards separated them now. Bolt felt his excitement growing. Hope was running like a desperate man, his gait ungainly, and there was no way he could keep it up for much longer.

When there were only ten yards between them, Hope turned into another side street, almost tripping over his feet in the process, and Bolt sensed victory. So much so that he didn’t even slow down as he followed his quarry round the corner, and was subsequently completely surprised to see Hope right in front of him, swinging an arm through the air.

Bolt just had time to see that he was holding something big and solid in his hand, and then he felt a sudden excruciating pain in his cheek as the blow struck him, the force of it sending him falling sideways into the road. He landed next to a parked car and rolled over, temporarily dazed, his vision blurring.