Halliwell turned and faced Abbey. "You, can go home, get some rest but make sure you and your classmates are in my office with your passports at nine tomorrow morning or else."

Indignant, she faced him, her arms crossed. "Do you expect me to find my own way home?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "So much for the public helping the police. Where's your office."

"New Scotland Yard." He fumbled and retrieved a card from his jacket pocket. "Show this at the main desk, and they'll escort you."

"And if I don't turn up?"

His eyes sparkled. "I'll have you arrested."

She shrugged. "An interesting point but first you prove I've stolen something. I never told Peters which bank."

"Abbey, shut up. I can hold you on causing a public disturbance by farting in a lift. My people can probe your bank accounts. Believe me when I say I have the power to direct judges. It may not be kosher, but then I don't give a shit."

She laughed as she climbed the stairs to the shop. "See you tomorrow and I'll make sure the others come with me."

"I suggest you do." The calmness in his voice made her smile.

***

A shout came from the tunnel entrance shaft. The thump of boots on metal rungs told the inspector his men were returning. He helped both into the bedroom. "Find anything?"

The sweat on their brows sparkled in the light. "After a few false starts we discovered the ladder Spink used to climb to the surface. It led to a school playground," said the senior constable.

"Go and wait in the wagon."

The inspector gave Halliwell the news.

He shrugged. "I'm not surprised. Leave two men here until the local plod arrive. Tomorrow is another day."

With the building secure, Halliwell and the inspector left.

***

As Abbey approached the closest bus stop, she saw Jacob. His movements were stiff as he emerged from behind the bushes and into the gloom.

A wicked smile played on his lips, and his eyes had the look of annoyance. "Well if it isn't the telltale."

She glared straight at him as fear-drenched her. The fingers of her right hand gripped her house keys.

He took a step forward shoving his face close to hers. "You have something of mine. Give it to me, or I'll take it."

Abbey's shoulders stiffened as she stared straight at Jacob. "The police are searching for you. Fuck off before I scream."

His voice rose. "I watched your friends leave. So what do we do now?" He had expected panic. She was tougher than he had imagined.

As if she had read his thoughts, she sliced his face with her right hand and ran.

He staggered, shocked but recovered and raced after her.

She charged across the road and into the shadows of a building site.

Blood dripped from his wound as he followed.

Abbey was halfway through the rows of half-built buildings when she heard him roar. "I'm going to kill you but first I'll fuck you."

She ran fast turning right into a passage between two houses. The narrow gap between a worker's hut and a wall gave her hope. Desperate, she dragged her frame in, dropped to the ground and prayed.

He ran past, but then stopped. Her stomach heaved, and bile dribbled from her mouth.

Tense, she waited and listened to his foul-mouthed curses. Shouting her name his voice faded in the distance.

For an age, she did not move. Making as little sound as possible, she crawled out and into the open and vomited. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she checked in every direction before taking her first steps. She moved silently and kept to the shadows until she reached the back of the site. Here loose fencing made it easy for her to return to the solid surface of the road. There was no one about. Wary, she walked at a fast pace and in a few minutes came to a well-lit street and started along it. As the distance between her and the building site increased, she remembered the memory stick.

***

Jacob tasted blood on his lips as he made his way towards his hotel. At an all-night chemist, he stopped and let the man treat his wound.

"You need stitches," said the chemist.

"I'll go tomorrow," said Jacob. "How much do I owe you?"

"Bandages, dressings, a bottle of antiseptic. That's eight pounds please."

Jacob took out his wallet and removed a twenty-pound note. "Keep the change. Thank you for your help." He lifted his small case and left.

The man watched as he vanished into the dark.

***

The George, a converted warehouse with twenty-five bedrooms, was his secret place. From his window, there was a view of a debris-filled canal. At night, residents kept their windows closed to keep out the smell.

While walking, Jacob's mood changed. He needed someone to take his mind off that bitch, and he knew where to find her.

As he approached a narrow, cobbled lane, a slim young woman dressed in thigh length black leather boots, red leather skirt and jacket stepped out of the shadows. "Need some company, darling?"

Jesus Christ Wendy, you scared the shit out of me. "What I need is the use of your body."

She grinned. "By the look of your face, you need a doctor."

He shrugged. "Are you working? If you're not, I'll go elsewhere."

"Two hundred pounds and money up front."

He laughed as he withdrew his wallet. "Two hundred pounds."

She grabbed the money and counted every note. "What are we waiting for? Same place as last time?"

The night manager smiled when Jacob and Wendy entered. He knew who and what she was but this guest paid a month in advance for the room. What he did behind a closed door was not his business.

***

With Jacob's needs sated, she rolled off the bed and grabbed her dress.

"Next time it'll cost you double to bugger me."

He laughed. "You'll take my money whatever I do. You're a whore."

"Fuck you." She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her coat and left.

He watched the door close before sliding off the bed. To prevent unwelcome visitors, he removed a wooden wedge from his case and shoved the thin edge under the door. His mind went into overdrive as he set the alarm on his mobile for an early start. While relaxing on his bed, he talked to himself and worked out an escape route. Overcome by tiredness, he yawned, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

***

As she strolled along the road, Abbey cursed aloud. A thought struck her. Jacob would never give up.

On entering her flat, she tossed her coat over a chair. From a cabinet, she took a half-full bottle of gin into the bedroom. Removing the screw cap, she gulped a couple of mouthfuls, seated herself in the only chair. She closed her eyes for a moment as her mind wondered. What was happening to her? So far, she had lived a life of self-indulgent pleasure. Money had never been a problem and men wanted her.

As she swallowed the last of the gin, she undressed and fell on her bed. Sleep did not come. Every idea, urge and episode from the day played on her mind. Each moment demanded scrutiny. I can't stop Jacob any more than Canute can stop the tides. What happens, happens, it's my fate. My life is a sham, I never had to worry, but I would never wish it away. Change is coming. It has no choice. If I swim against the tide, I'll drown. Change or die, isn't that what people tell you.

Worn out, her brain finally dragged her into the abyss of sleep.

Her eyes opened at six the next morning. With a pounding head and a foul taste in her mouth, she remembered the bottle of gin. It hurt to move. Thankfully, she had drawn the curtains, bright light always made her feel worse. She curled under the duvet and closed her eyes.

At seven, she fell out of bed, showered, put on her bathrobe and sat in front of her laptop. With deliberation, she hacked into Bank of Scotland's system and with bloodshot eyes glued to the clock on the wall activated her program. ACCESS DENIED flashed on her screen. "Shit, shit, shit."

Frustrated Abbey stared at the screen. Grim-faced she leaned back in her chair and checked her bank account. One hundred and seventy-one thousand pounds was enough for her to live in comfort. Undecided what to do next, she sat next to the window. Then she remembered the meeting with Halliwell.

***

At three in the morning, Jacob awoke, rinsed his bloody face and dressed. At speed, he checked the room. The drawers were empty, the bathroom clean and no waste in the basket. With his suitcase in one hand and a shoulder bag containing his laptop slung over his shoulder, he gave the room one final glance and closed the door. In silence, he strolled along the corridor. He paused, checked for an intruder alarm before opening an emergency exit and descended the fire escape. A heavy mist cloaked the surroundings in a white veil. The orange glow from streetlights barely penetrated the haze. On reaching the ground, he shivered.

At a steady pace, he walked across Blackfriars Bridge. He grimaced at the sight of a man wearing a shabby black coat that dragged on the ground. Don't look at him. Keep moving.

Jacob slowed and acted as if he were checking something. As he started walking again, he glimpsed the man's face hidden behind a tangled mop of hair.

The stranger's hand grabbed his shoulder."Give me your wallet."

Jacob went to run.

A humourless smile creased the man's lips as the blade of a carving knife reflected the dull glow of the streetlights. "Give me your fucking wallet, arsehole, or I'll cut your heart out."

Jacob's pulse raced as he forced a smile. He stopped, placed his suitcase on the ground and reached inside his coat. The stench of body odour and meths hit his senses. He turned away and retched.

The man grabbed a fistful of Jacob's coat. "Stand fucking still."

Jacob tripped on his case and stumbled. The blade entered under his ribs. For a split second, he did not believe what was happening. Confused, he doubled up, his face twisted, and his legs buckled.

"I told you not to fucking move."

Pain wracked his body as his attacker twisted the blade free. In his final moments, the last signals from Jacob's brain made his legs twitch.

The man bent over and robbed him of his wallet. The laptop he glanced at before it disappeared into the Thames. He lifted the suitcase and ran.

Ten minutes later a patrolling police car saw Jacob's body and stopped.

The police officer jumped out and shone his torch on the man who lay on his side, three feet from the parapet. "Sorry, mate, but you can't sleep here." As he nudged the body with his foot, he saw the pool of thickening blood. With two fingers placed on the man's neck, he checked for a pulse. This was his first dead body.

He shrugged and returned to the car. "This one's for you, Sarge. He's dead."

The sergeant turned off the engine. "And I wanted a quiet night. Touch nothing and tape off the area. I'll contact the station. We need a Scene of Crime Officer and forensics."

The constable opened the boot, removed a roll of blue and white tape, and created a temporary cordon.

***

Halliwell opened his eyes from a fitful sleep. His dream of the world erupting into a nuclear storm scared him. When he checked the time, the truth was obvious. Weary, he had laid-back in his office armchair. Dressed and still wearing his shoes, he grunted. Cramp hit his left leg as he stretched, and forced his aching body erect. With a shrug, he thought, why didn't I go home? Then he remembered the world could soon end. He checked his phone, no messages. From his bottom drawer, he removed his washing gear and a towel. He grinned, the world can end after I've had a shower. He stretched again and yawned. Half asleep, he staggered along the corridor, into the communal shower, set the thermostat, and turned on the hot water. The heat relaxed him, and he stayed for longer than he should have. Refreshed, he left the cubicle and dried himself with his white cotton towel. He had much to ponder. His office clock showed seven thirty. "Breakfast," he muttered.

Still deep in thought he entered the cafeteria, grabbed a carton of milk and bowl of Weetabix from the self-service section. Requiring solitude, he searched for an empty table. After eating and two cups of black tea, he returned to his office.

Halliwell looked at his watch. Time to engage brain. For a minute or two, he stared out of his one window with a view over the city. Ready for his meeting, he went back to his desk and made a few notes on his pad. On the dot of nine, his secretary knocked and entered. "Abbey Lane and two young men to see you, Sir."

"Thanks, Annie."

"Tea or coffee, Sir?"

His face widened to a grin. "Yes please. I'll have an extra strong black coffee."

She nodded, opened the door and guided Abbey and her associates into the room.

As they entered, Halliwell made a gesture with his right hand towards the three chairs in front of his desk. "Abbey, in the centre. You two if you can make a decision." His eyes never left the men. "Her I know. You two, name, date of birth and address."

"Michael Sinclair, August 8, ninety-eight. LSE. I survive in a bedsit.

Haliwell closed his eyes and shouted. "I asked for your address."

Michael jumped. "Fourteen Duke Street, room number five."

"Now that wasn't difficult." He pointed at Tyler. "You?"

"Tyler Pettit, July 10, ninety-seven, LSE. Twenty-four Abercrombie crescent. I live with my mum."

As they spoke, Halliwell studied their body language. From experience, he knew they were scared shitless and telling the truth. "I hate to tell you, but your pal Jacob has dropped you in deep, smelly shit. Abbey gets a gold star and for the moment a get-out-of-jail-free-card. I haven't decided what to do with you two. Tell me everything you know about Jacob Spink."

Michael and Tyler more or less repeated Abbey's story.

"According to the South African police, your friend is antisocial, has no criminal record, and does not belong to any terrorist organisation. He does, have a talent for quantum physics and writing computer programmes. The LSE said he was a loner but knows more than he lets on. He caught you three on one hook, but he didn't need you."

Halliwell raised both eyebrows as he rapped his fingers on the desktop. "Somewhere he left his digital signature. And I doubt if he can survive without using the net. GCHQ will find it, and we'll catch him." He gave a dark smile. "You may go, but as you're under investigation, I'll take your passports. Take note, my officers will keep an eye on your every move."

"This is madness," Halliwell muttered as the trio left. He lifted the telephone and punched in an internal number.

"Inspector Thomas, Sir."

"Any news on our man?"

"Not yet but those downstairs have circulated his photo and description to airports, stations and ports. I reckon we'll have him by the end of the day."

"We should be so lucky."

He ended the call and shouted, "Annie, you forgot my coffee. I'm going upstairs to see the boss, but I need caffeine.

Anne entered carrying a steaming cup of coffee and a cream cake. "I didn't forget, and the cake is on the house."

Halliwell grinned. "I know. None of the women in my life ever forgets. Most enjoyed reminding me of my sins."

"You never sinned, Sir."

"Believe me, I was young once."

***

At the end of a corridor, was a quiet zone. Four comfortable looking armchairs and two coffee tables filled the space. A neat pile of out-of-date magazines rested on one table. In one corner, a coffee percolator bubbled away as it turned expensive coffee into sludge. This sanctuary from the rest of the building was empty. Halliwell poured himself another cup of the hot brew and seated himself in an armchair. As he sipped, his jumbled thoughts slotted into place. Oh, how I wish I could sit here in peace and quiet for an hour or two. He shook his head and drained the dregs from his cup.

Three minutes later Halliwell entered a large plush office. With it being on the top level, the windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling. For a moment, he gazed at the panoramic view of London.

Wearing his perfect charcoal grey suit, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Arthur Robbins was an officer with forty years' experience. Dark rings akin to Halliwell's surrounded his eyes. His face lifted as the Commander entered. "You have good news?"

Halliwell was tempted to say something witty but grabbed a chair and seated himself in front of a polished desk covered in files. "No, Sir. We lost our suspect and GCHQ are quiet. I'm here to recommend our next course of action. It's time to inform the government.

The deputy assistant leaned back in his swivel chair, turned and gazed out of the window. "How long do you think we have?"

"I've no idea, Sir. I was hoping for a breakthrough from GCHQ."

"Are you tired?"

"No, Sir."

The chair spun back as he faced Halliwell. "I am. I'm tired of budget cuts. Tired at the lack of staff, ISIS and the rest of them. They don't give up trying to disrupt this city and those in power want their pound of flesh."

"I know. With the hours I'm keeping, the only reason my wife doesn't think I'm having an affair is she tells me I'm past my sell-by-date."

"In fairness, at the end of the day, no one gives a shit, so long as it doesn't involve them. I'll take this to the top, so standby for a Cobra meeting. It will take time to arrange. Write a few notes, so you don't have to think. You know the drill and be ready for at least one idiot to ask a stupid question."

Halliwell stood ready to leave. "I understand there's a white paper on this which states it cannot happen."

"Governments will always avoid the issue if they don't know the answer. Can I recommend you go home and change? Wear something less creased. Must look your best for the PM."

"Sir." Halliwell smiled, left and made his way back to his office.

From his desk drawer, he removed his Audi S8 keys. As he left, he muttered, "Annie, I'm going home to change my suit."