Kirkwood Farm was primarily a horse stud, although in recent years it had also become a popular wedding venue, the impressive tithe barn in the grounds proving ideal for both ceremonies and receptions. The owners had also started renting out plots of land for business units and shipping container storage, and Dorothy had now had a contract with them for several years.

The driveway forked as it neared the farmhouse, and Dorothy took the branch that led into the business area, tyres crunching on the gravel as she made her way past the 40 or so shipping containers that were lined up in neat rows on either side of the yard. Her own containers were at the far end of the site, their red-and-white paintwork a little cleaner than the others.

She pulled up outside them and turned off the ignition, nodding in satisfaction as the Hypergreen’s batteries immediately started to charge, drawing power from the electromagnetic induction pad hidden beneath the gravel surface.

Getting out of the car, she crossed to the end container, tapping her password into the digital padlock that secured the doors. With a quick glance around the farmyard to check that she was alone, Dorothy heaved open the heavy steel door and slipped inside.

‘Lights.’

At her voice command a dozen or more wall-mounted lights sprang into life, illuminating a huge open space. Unlike the other containers stored at the farm, these had been specially designed, the internal walls capable of swinging up so that instead of a series of individual storage spaces, a large flexible workspace could be created, in virtually any configuration. From the outside, however, there was no indication that they were anything other than standard shipping containers, and that suited Dorothy just fine.

She had developed them as a means of providing temporary buildings in disaster situations – hospitals, barracks, emergency shelters – but they had also proved to be ideal in providing her a base away from London, far away from prying eyes – her own personal ‘batcave’.

Securing the door behind her, she made a quick inspection of the workshop, checking that it was still secure and that everything was where she had left it. Although she had no reason to believe that anyone suspected that what was being stored on the farm was anything more than emergency aid supplies, assets of A Charitable Earth, Dorothy was paranoid about what might happen if Torchwood ever caught wind of her storage facility, and she certainly didn’t want anything in here falling into the wrong hands.

The walls of the workshop were lined with cupboards and racking, some with familiar tools and machinery, others with strange, unearthly shapes; alien technology that Dorothy had acquired over the years.