‘I’m not a snob, love. I just care that you’re safe.’

She enters a code and pushes open the front door, and Jesus Christ. It’s like I’ve been teleported into some gritty TV crime drama. This place is a dump. The first thing I clock is that the smell of skunk intensifies, along with the stench of stale piss. It smells like a public gents’ toilet in here. The next thing, once I follow her in, is the gang members lurking in the dingy lobby. The metal and concrete staircase is to their right, just visible behind them a bank of lifts. They’re all in black hoodies or balaclavas, and they’re loitering in a way that smells trouble.

I’m instantly, horribly, conscious of the chunk of metal on my left wrist, courtesy of Patek Philippe. I’m pretty sure the cuff of my shirt is hiding it, but I daren’t glance down and risk drawing attention to it. They stop talking as we enter and stare at us. Marlowe, I notice, doesn’t engage with them at all. She bows her head and makes herself as small, as invisible as possible, scuttling towards the stairs. They ignore her, but they don’t fucking ignore me.

‘What you staring at, fam?’ one of them asks as I put my foot on the bottom step. He’s a skinny white guy with a spider tattoo on his face. Charming. I shoot him a look I hope will communicate my derision. ‘I’m looking at you, dickhead.’

Probably not my smartest move, but I’m a fucking leader in business. I’ve got more petty cash in my sock drawer than these losers will ever see in their pathetic, crime-ridden lives. I have no intention of letting these little shits intimidate me.

‘Brendan,’ Marlowe hisses without breaking stride. ‘Come on.’

‘You ‘ere that, Baz?’ Spider says. ‘He called me a dickhead. That’s not very nice, is it?’

His mate steps up, a massive Asian bloke. At least a foot taller than Spider. Built like a brick shithouse. ‘No, it’s not. We don’t like posh, cocky wankers around here. And we have our ways of showing them they’re not welcome.’ He pulls out a knife and flicks the blade open. When he holds it up, it glints in the dim light.

What a prick. My PT is a former marine. I have moves these guys have never seen. So no, I’m not scared of a crappy little blade, but I have no intention of exposing Marlowe to a knife for a second longer.

‘There’s no need for any of that shit,’ I tell the guy. ‘You and I both know it’ll only land you in prison, so don’t do anything stupid, yeah? I’m not here to make trouble.’ I turn to Marlowe as calmly as I can. ‘Let’s get out of here, love.’