‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured. He sounded panicky.

Marsh looked across the screens and spoke into his radio. ‘We’re still on you, Crane. You’ve got six plain-clothes officers stationed around, who can be with you in seconds. You’ve also got two armed transport police officers in the walkway behind you. Just stay calm… She’s a woman, she’s decided to be fashionably late,’ he added, trying to ease the tension.

‘She’s not fucking showing up,’ said Sparks. ‘We should be concentrating on Isaac Strong, not pissing away resources on some blind date.’ Marsh shot him a look. ‘Sir,’ he added.

Just then, on the large screen, the crowds around Crane shifted and a group of women approaching Crane were shoved forward. One fell, hitting the concourse floor, causing the crowd around her to bump and surge. Crane was pushed and the flowers he was holding were knocked from his grasp.

‘What’s going on here?’ said Marsh. ‘Crane, talk to me?’

‘Hang on, sir,’ said Crane, as he was jostled along.

‘Look. It’s a fight, a bloody fight,’ said Sparks, pointing to the CCTV monitor, showing the escalator behind the clock. A group of young lads in baseball caps came into view, shouting and jeering and parting the crowd of commuters like the Red Sea. Two of the boys, one dark and one blond, were fighting, and they went down on the floor. The dark-haired boy landed a punch to the blond one, and his face was quickly a mess of blood. The crowd surged away in all directions and the British Transport Police waded in, clasping their guns, which caused even more screams and commotion.

Crane had managed to get himself into the doorway of a Marks & Spencer convenience store, and watched as his meeting place under the clock was overrun with police, as they restored order. The two boys were put in handcuffs and the police began the laborious task of booking them.

‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Marsh into his radio. ‘Get them to bloody well move, this is screwing up our meeting place.’

‘She isn’t going to be crazy about meeting him there, even if she does show up!’ said Sparks.

‘Crane, can you hear me?’ said Marsh, ignoring Sparks.

‘Yes, sir. Things got a bit hairy there,’ said Crane as he stepped out from the doorway of the Marks & Spencer.

‘We’ve still got you on camera, Crane. All okay?’

‘I’ve dropped the flowers,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry. We’re going to get the uniform crowd moved on, and then you move back,’ said Marsh.

‘What the fuck is this? Mrs Mop?’ said Sparks, looking up at the view under the station clock. A wizened old cleaning lady had stopped her cart where blood had splattered from the blond-haired boy’s nose, and she was dipping her grotty mop in a bucket of grey water with slow determination. One of the boys being interviewed started to heckle her, but she either didn’t hear or paid no attention, and starting to mop the concourse floor at a glacial pace.

‘Where is DC Warren?’ asked Sparks. There was a beep and Warren came on the radio.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s your position?’

‘I’m at the WH Smith on the concourse opposite.’

‘Get that old dear out of the way, will you? And don’t let her put one of those yellow signs up under the clock,’ he started.

‘Hang on, hang on, hang on,’ said Marsh. He was looking back at the screen where Crane was waiting close to the clock. A small dark-haired woman wearing a smart black jacket was approaching him. Marsh grabbed his radio. ‘Shit! All units, a dark-haired woman is approaching Sergeant Crane. I repeat, a dark-haired woman is approaching Sergeant Crane. Stand by.’

‘All units standing by,’ came a voice through the radio. Two of the large screens on the wall cut to a view of Crane from above and an angle on the other side. The woman was now talking to him, looking up at him enquiringly. They talked for another minute or so, then Crane said something back and she walked away.

‘Crane, report, what the hell is going on?’ asked Marsh.

‘Sorry, boss, false alarm. She was asking if I wanted to buy car insurance.’

‘Shit!’ said Marsh, slamming his hand down on one of the desks. ‘Shit! Sparks, I want that woman questioned anyway. Stop her, ID her and find out everything you know.’

‘Something tells me she’s not going to hit her sales target,’ said Sparks as the woman was surrounded by three plain-clothes police officers.

80

At 6.30 p.m. Erika was almost climbing the walls in Keith’s tiny flat. Her phone beeped in her bag and she pulled it out. It was a text from Marsh: