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carrying a briefcase.
    ‘Sorry about Razor’s improvisation, but there was method in his madness,’ said Dan Shepherd. He unbuttoned his denim shirt to reveal a microphone taped to his shaved chest.
    ‘I heard,’ said Button. ‘If anything, it added to the scenario. There’s nothing like a loose cannon to ratchet up the authen ticity.’
    Singh helped Shepherd to remove the microphone and the transmitter that was taped to the small of his back.
    ‘You wouldn’t have shot him, would you, Razor?’ teased Button. ‘Please tell me you wouldn’t have blown a two-month operation by putting a bullet in Mr Corben’s chest.’
    ‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’ Sharpe scowled.
    ‘You went off menu,’ said Shepherd, rebuttoning his shirt. ‘I always hate it when you do that.’ He grinned to show there was no ill-feeling. He had worked with Sharpe on countless occasions and had total faith in him. It had to be that way when you were under cover.
    Four men in black overalls appeared at the doorway, members of the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit, and began to pack up the weapons. Singh put the transmitting equipment into his briefcase and went to Sharpe, who was taking off his shirt. Like Shepherd, he had also been wearing a transmitter.
    Shepherd indicated the roof. ‘Pictures okay?’ The three small cameras that Singh had fitted the previous day were hidden in the metal rafters. They had transmitted pictures to the temporary control centre in one of the adjacent warehouses.
    ‘Perfect,’ said Button. ‘We’ve everything we need. The transmitters that Amar embedded in the guns are good for seven days so we’ll track them for five and see how many of O’Sullivan’s gang we can pull in. Hopefully one of them will roll over on the Hatton Garden robbery in which case O’Sullivan and Corben will go down for life.’
    Three weeks earlier a security guard had been shot in the stomach at close range with a sawn-off shotgun. Half a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and rubies had been stolen, and the man had died in hospital two days later, his wife and three sons at his bedside. O’Sullivan hadn’t fired the fatal shot, but he had orchestrated the robbery, one of more than half a dozen he was thought to have carried out in the previous year. Conor O’Sullivan was a professional criminal who, either through luck or good judgement, had never been to prison. The Serious Organised Crime Agency’s undercover operation was about to change that.
    ‘Is that it, then?’ asked Sharpe.
    ‘Keep the mobiles going for a week or so just in case,’ said Button. ‘There’s always a chance that O’Sullivan will spread the good word.’
    The men in black overalls carried out the cases containing the weapons and ammunition. One, a burly sergeant with a shaved head, flashed Button a thumbs-up as he walked by. ‘Thanks, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’ll have the paperwork for you by tomorrow morning.’
    ‘What’s next for us?’ asked Shepherd.
    ‘Don’t worry, Dan, there’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll have something for you.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I have to be at the Yard this afternoon. I’ll call you both later. But job well done, yeah? O’Sullivan’s needed putting away for years.’ She headed towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘you’ve both got biannuals this month, haven’t you?’
    Shepherd and Sharpe nodded. Every six months all SOCA operatives had to be assessed by the unit’s psychologist.
    ‘We’ve a new psychologist on board,’ said Button. ‘Caroline Stockmann. She’ll be getting in touch to arrange the sessions.’
    ‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ asked Shepherd.
    ‘She’s moved on,’ said Button.
    ‘To where?’
    ‘Academia. Bath University.’
    ‘Couldn’t stand the heat?’ asked Sharpe.
    Button’s expression registered disapproval. ‘She got married, actually.’
    ‘To a man?’ asked Sharpe, unabashed. He raised his hands as if to