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The sixth one was looking right at me.

I felt sweat break out beneath my shirt. Mrs Pankhurst’s words were suddenly right there in my head.

There are groups in this country with intents so diabolical, and powers so remarkable, that I believe they would stop at nothing to destroy us. And, if I am being perfectly frank with you, I would include the Metropolitan Police Force in their number.

The policeman was still staring at me. Of course he was – I must have looked a state, lurking in the bushes in my torn clothes. But what if it was more than that?

I turned and made my way out of the park as fast as I could, trying to look natural. I kept my gaze focused ahead, waiting until I was well down the road before stealing a glance over my shoulder to see if the policeman was still watching me.

He wasn’t. He had joined the other five officers again, and was pointing down at something on the steps. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was in the clear.

So why did I still feel like I was being watched?

Maybe it was all in my head – maybe it was the last of the poitin, working its way out of my system. But I was certain now, absolutely certain, that I wasn’t alone. Someone was following me.

I kept walking down the main road, my heart beating faster with every step. An omnibus suddenly turned ahead of me; I glanced at the windows as it drove past, so I could see who was walking on the pavement behind me, reflected in the dark glass. A newspaper boy, a charwoman, a man in a boater and a butcher’s apron, a nanny pushing a perambulator. They all looked perfectly normal. But then I thought back to the undercover officers that I’d seen in the park on Saturday evening – men dressed like anyone else you’d see on the street. What if one of those pedestrians wasn’t who they were pretending to be?

I kept going. I crossed the road at random, taking strange turns to see if anyone followed my path. One by one, the people faded away. By the time I took a final turn down a deserted side road, they’d all but disappeared.

But I still wasn’t alone. I could hear a set of shoes on the pavement behind me, thirty yards away.

I glanced over my shoulder. It was the man in the butcher’s apron. He was still following me, walking at the same speed as me, keeping his distance.

I felt a burst of panic. The road ended just ahead, at the back entrance to a row of shops. There was no way forwards, except a dead-end alleyway lined with bins – no way back, except the way I’d come. The butcher was getting closer.

I made a decision, fast. I dived into the alleyway and hid behind one of the bins, which were reeking in the heat of the day. I had nothing in my pocket except a set of keys – they’d have to do. I pulled them out and clutched them in my fist, sticking the jagged ends between my knuckles, pressing myself tightly to the wall. Then I waited.

The footsteps grew closer. Ten paces. Five. They stopped, right before the alley. I gripped the keys and stood waiting for the butcher to suddenly dart in front of me with a glinting knife held low. I knew I’d have to strike first, stun him before he had the chance to do the same to me. I learnt that in Borstal – the first punch wins out.

I could hear him breathing – hear him reach into his pocket. I braced myself, feeling the weight of the keys in my fist, raised my arm to strike …

A jangle of keys hitting the pavement – a grumbled curse. The butcher stooped to pick them up, unlocked one of the shop doors and stepped inside, slamming it and leaving nothing behind him except the unmistakable smell of sausages.

I stood, panting. He hadn’t been following me – he was just a butcher. A normal, everyday butcher. Another second, and I’d have jumped out and stabbed him in the face. I was going mad.

‘Don’t you look a state.’

I nearly – beg pardon – disgraced myself. I’d had no idea there was someone else in the alley with me, crouched beside the bins opposite. A woman wrapped up in shawls, sheltering from the heat.

‘Cart get you on the way back, did it?’ she cackled, pointing at my clothes.

I had no idea what she was going on about – until I realized who she was. It was the homeless woman I’d seen yesterday, when the milk-cart had nearly flattened me. She probably lived around here.

That’s when it hit me. ‘Are you local?’

She frowned, looking ready to give me a thump if she had to.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ I explained. ‘A homeless man. I was wondering if you might know him.’

She shrugged, and held out a hand. ‘Might do.’

I handed over a penny – this investigation was going to bankrupt me.

‘That’s kind of you, sir, very kind,’ she said, slipping the penny into her shawls. ‘Give me the name of your fella, and I’ll tell you what I know. Twenty years, I’ve been on these streets. There’s no one Maggie don’t know!’

I’d fallen at the first hurdle. ‘Er … I don’t know his name. He was in his fifties or sixties, I guess; big beard, tartan blanket, a hat …’

It wasn’t much of a description. But Maggie’s face lit up. ‘God above – if that’s not Joe, my very own Joe! When did you say you’d seen him?’