‘There’s a back door,’ he said. ‘It lets out on an alley but it’s only a quick run to the street. If he’s watching the front, you can duck him for now. But if you want my opinion, call the cops. There’s something not right about him.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I know.’ She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. ‘Thanks. I’m Claire, by the way.’

‘Grant,’ he said. ‘Take care.’

He didn’t offer to walk her home, but she wouldn’t have accepted, anyway; right now, the knife in her bag was the only thing she felt inclined to put her trust in.

The back door supposedly had an alarm, but it was propped open, probably to let in the breeze and compensate for the fierce heat coming out of the pizza ovens. Claire slipped through without anyone stopping her, and took a second to look over the alley beyond. It was deserted, and there was no place for Derrick to hide himself.

She ran for the side street, turned left, and headed straight home.

Even though she spent the whole walk looking over her shoulder, she didn’t see any sign of Derrick. Maybe he’d gone home to wash the sticky mess out of his hair, change clothes, and plot how to make her pay.

Not really all that comforting, in the end.

Claire’s moving boxes arrived an hour later at her apartment, courtesy of a small delivery truck; there weren’t many, and she signed for them as they were carried up to her room and piled in the very little space that remained. She obeyed Dr Anderson’s instructions and opened the carton that contained her Morganville-invented device … which looked a lot like some steampunked ray gun, only a whole lot clumsier. It was there. As far as she could tell, it was intact.

Liz wasn’t home. Claire locked up after the movers and went back upstairs to stack boxes in order of priority unpacking. She texted Dr Anderson to tell her the device was safe, and Anderson quickly got back to her to order her to wait at home. Apparently, she was sending reinforcements.

Claire spent the time waiting checking the windows for any signs of tampering. Nothing. All was secure, or as secure as it could be. She was unpacking winter clothing from the last box when she finally got a phone call to her cell – not from Dr Anderson, but from a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Claire. You don’t know me, but don’t hang up. Irene Anderson asked me to drop in and take you to her lab. My name is Jesse.’ She sounded calm and relaxed, and had a slightly exotic accent, something that vaguely reminded her of the Deep South, but it was well concealed. ‘My friend Pete and I will be there around six.’

‘That’s late,’ Claire said, surprised. ‘I thought she wanted me to get it to her as soon as possible.’