Jerome stubbed out his cigarette and winked at the woman. Then he went in through the doors and started to climb the staircase. This was going to be the easiest £100k anyone had ever made.

He reached the top of the staircase, out of breath and sweating, and stuck his head out the door. This wasn’t the freaking honeymoon suite. It was some kind of garden – a roof garden, loads of trees and shrubs and shit, a pretty cool place. He decided he’d like one when he owned his owned penthouse. The parties would be immense.

Trotting back down the stairs he went through another door and found himself standing at the end of a short, cool corridor with springy carpet beneath his Nikes. Cool. This must be it.

He took out his phone. All the way up, he’d been figuring out his plan. He needed to see the kid. He would look pretty damn stupid if he called the cops now and, when they turned up, she wasn’t there. He couldn’t see any way he could eyeball the girl without going into the hotel room.

This was going to be easy, though. The woman in Georgia’s photo was old. It wasn’t like she was going to fight him. All he had to do was get in the room, lock it and call the police. Maybe even make a motherfucking citizen’s arrest. He could imagine the feds’ faces when they rocked up and found out who the big hero was.

He rapped on the door.

From within, a woman said, ‘Who is it?’

This was exactly like being in a movie, one in which he was the star. That was another thing he wanted to do when he was loaded. Make a film, one with loads of guns and cars and money and boobs.

What would he say if this was a movie? ‘Room service.’

‘I didn’t order anything.’

‘I brought you some champagne, madam.’ He suppressed a laugh. ‘Compliments of the manager.’

He waited, and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to buy it. But then she opened the door.

‘You don’t look like—’

He barged past her, pushing her aside and slamming the door behind him. The crazy bitch started yelling at him, asking him who the hell he was, but he ignored her, scanning the huge room. There was a large lump in the bed. A kid-sized lump. He walked over to the bed, ready to pull back the covers.

‘Stop right there.’

He turned around, preparing to grin at her, but his smile was stillborn.

She was holding a gun.

He put his hands up. Shit, he hadn’t been expecting that.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked. She had a weird accent, kind of Essex mixed with a bit of Australian. ‘Are you police?’

‘Police? Uh-uh. I’m a friend.’

‘A friend of whose?’