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couldn’t remember if Bang-Bang had an account there. I certainly didn’t, and there wasn’t time to set one up.
    I snapped back to the present. It wasn’t too early to contact IMVU customer service. They were in the US and at least eight hours behind us. It was four here. I emailed them via the site. I had a ticket within seconds, and then an email from Candy from customer services ten minutes after that. I gave it the full jolly-old Englandland, as experience had taught me that Americans love that stuff, and I also laid on the MOD security of the Queen’s realm angle quite thick.
    I had a response within three minutes. Candy from customer services was more than happy to answer my query since it was related to law enforcement. No IP address had logged on to or used that account since September 9th.
    What the hell was going on here? I got my coat and went out, my mind already in deepest Oxfordshire.
     

 
     
    7
     
    At six that evening I was sitting in what we called the KTS staff car, an unremarkable dark blue Ford Mondeo. I was parked in the village of Deddington, Oxfordshire, just before the junction where the ambulance was spotted heading out of town, up the A4260. I’d driven in from junction 10 of the M40, just like the ambulance, and gone straight to Deddington, following the pool car’s satnav, through stone-built villages and deepset, winding roads.
    Deddington was…well, dead. Reddish stone buildings and nothing going on. The sun would set in about an hour, and I wouldn’t have much ambient light after that. I had better get a wiggle on.
    Across the main drag was a pub called the Crown and Tuns. I’d allow myself half an hour or so in there for a bit of HUMINT foraging. I got out of the car, checked any kit I’d brought with me was safely in the boot, locked up, and walked across the street and into the pub.
    The interior was more stripped-pine and modern than I’d been expecting. I’d been bracing myself for a stained red carpet and a rubbish fruit machine, but it didn’t look too bad.
    The barman was gazing enquiringly at me. OK, I needed to blend, so no soft drinks. I didn’t want to set the “Oh my God the Muslims are here” alarm bells ringing so I asked him for a half of Guinness. Hardly anyone in society realised that a lot of us lot drank, and now this would work in my favour. Tonight, I was playing friendly Asian but non-Muslim journalist from That London.
    To that end, I got out my wallet and riffled through the business cards I collected from people. This was classic tradecraft, and very easy. I made a habit of getting as many trade or business cards from all walks of life as I could, as they were a quick and easy way of backing up a cover. I found two ITN cards. One was for a guy called Steve Singh, and he’d have to do. The other one was Angus Walker’s, and there was no way I could pull off being called Angus Walker.
    I smiled and showed it to the barman. ‘Hi. I’m Steve Singh from ITN News, can I ask you something?’
    Of course I could. His face brightened. People just loved talking to telly people.
    ‘Sure. What’s the story? My name’s Stu by the way.’
    ‘Stu, hi. The newsroom’s sent me up here to chase a lead about secret CIA flights from airfields in the area? There was lot of funny stuff going on on September 13th, lots of conspiracy theories. Any angles?’
    Stu opened his mouth but at that exact moment a voice behind me said ‘They were at RAF Barford St. John, just up the road.’
    I turned to look. A punky-looking guy was sitting at a table, with an open laptop and an empty pint before him.
    I grinned. ‘Buy you another pint?’
    My new best mate was called Joe Sab. I guessed he was early twenties, maybe Bang-Bang’s age. I cut that thought out. He took his new pint of IPA and saluted me. I nursed my half. Under the table I’d texted Fuzz ‘ RAF Barford St John get here asap’ .
    ‘I’m Steve, ITN News. So, Joe, what have you heard?’
    The trick here