For a fraction of a second I think he will bypass my extended hand, but then, with a glance, he hands me two envelopes.

My heartbeat starts to quicken as he moves away and I am left standing there holding someone else’s post, busying myself with my bag as if rooting around for keys, praying no one opens the door in front of me.

Waiting until he has disappeared from view, I finally dare to look down at the envelopes in my hands.

Pulling my black leather jacket tight around my waist, I stuff the letters into my bag and stare up at the faceless black door, the single bell with an intercom and the tiny camera pointing at the entrance. If the CCTV camera is on, then it’s too late to avoid its gaze. And if someone is monitoring it, they’ve had plenty of time to notice me and come out and ask me what I want.

As far as I can tell, I am alone. Besides, I am too close to turn and leave now.

There is a side gate to the right of the building, partially concealed by black wheelie bins. Walking towards it, I try my hand on the gate, but it doesn’t budge. If I can push one of the bins close enough, I think, assessing the tall spiked gates and the wall embedded with cut glass running parallel to the house down a narrow alleyway, I could easily jump straight over.

At that moment, a sound cuts through the air like a grenade and instinctively I fall to my knees, crawling behind the bins as I hear it again.

At first, it is impossible to know from which direction the voices come. There is a man and woman, that much I can tell; the gravelly depth of his voice and the strained plea in hers makes my blood run cold, the memory of the Heath flashing into focus. Just then another man’s voice rises above them both and the girl goes quiet. For a few moments more, the men continue with raised voices, and yet it is impossible to understand what they are saying.

In a moment of inspiration, I reach into my pocket for my phone – if I record their words, I can ask Mansfield to translate. But as my hand feels inside my bag, I remember my phone is nestling in the footwell of the car where I felt it drop when I took a sharp turn in pursuit of the BMW.

Feeling a pricking sensation on my skin, I keep my eyes squeezed closed, as if this will somehow allow me to protect myself from whatever situation is about to unfold.