So, the last thing I need is to reach my car and see that all four tyres have been slashed. Immediately, the air is pulled from my lungs with fear. It has been a few days since the break-in – I was hoping that whoever was messing around last week has backed off.

Glancing around, aware that I am exposed on all I sides, I try to see if anyone is watching. I look for shadowy figures peering out from behind pillars, hooded people in cars. There are a few people milling about, but none of them look suspect. None of them have that air of evil lurker about them.

There’s a harried-looking woman, weighed down with shopping bags. A family with a child clinging on for dear life to a balloon from a fast-food restaurant. Two teenagers in hoodies who seem more interested in how far they can slide their hands into each other’s back pockets than wanting to vandalise anyone’s car.

I search for the nearest CCTV camera, hoping that there is one close enough that might have caught some footage of whoever has done this. I spot one, just about, which may or may not be pointed in the right direction. My tired eyes strain to focus on it.

I shiver. I’m scared. Tired. And angry. I’m just doing my job. Why can’t people realise that? I want to run, but I also want to sit down on the ground and cry. I just want it all to stop.

That’s when I notice a folded piece of paper under one of my windscreen wipers, which I cautiously reach for, knowing instinctively it’s not going to say anything pleasant. My hands shaking, I unfold it.

Three words are scrawled across it in jagged handwriting. Stark bold capitals, scored into the paper so that the nib of the pen leaves an indentation.

YOU WERE WARNED

I feel the tears spring to my eyes before a flush of anger takes over. I’m not a crier. I am not a person who gives in to emotion. I hastily brush the tears away and take a deep breath, then unlock my phone to call for help. Just as I’m dialling my garage to arrange for someone to fix my car, a security guard approaches me.

‘Miss, are you okay? Someone reported that your car has been damaged.’

‘Yes, it has,’ I say and nod towards it.

I hear his intake of breath. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting this. A prang maybe. A bump from someone who hasn’t learned how to park properly. A scrape from someone walking too close. Not four slashed tyres and a threatening note.

‘Um … I think … we should call the police,’ he says, lifting his walkie-talkie to inform his colleagues before I have the chance to tell him that it’s fine. That I’ll just get my car picked up by the garage and sort it.