Jack accessed the HOLMES database on his mobile and checked the details of the white Mercedes. It was owned by a 28-year-old Brazilian woman called Betina Barro. He got her home address from the DVLA and then went to her Instagram account. Here, he found thousands of selfies of Betina from all over the world, standing next to various iconic landmarks, or on picturesque beaches in a tiny bikini. She was absolutely stunning, but Jack wondered how much of her was real, and how many hours it took her each morning to look that perfect.

In any case, he preferred the more natural look. Maggie rolled out of bed in the morning with no make-up and her hair like a bird’s nest, but he fancied the pants off her every single time. She oozed contentment and happiness and that was sexy in a way that Betina, even with her perfect figure, was not. She looked untouchable, like a priceless piece of artwork, and – as such, she was breathtaking at first sight, but wouldn’t remain interesting for very long.

From Betina Barro’s Facebook page, Jack learnt more about her background: her father owned a chunk of their home country the size of Wales and she had a brother, renowned polo player, Alberto Barro. Alberto seemed to have been a star of the polo world in his younger days, but at 38 was now a player-for-hire with no real loyalty to any particular team; he went where the money took him and, in his career, had played for numerous teams across Europe and in the UK, where he once apparently played against Prince William. It was telling that he didn’t stay with one team for very long, suggesting that he perhaps wasn’t an easy man to be around.

Alberto’s photographs showed a fit-looking, handsome man with coal black hair. But, like his sister, his flawless look made him appear fake. Jack thought the beautiful owner of the Merc, and her playboy brother, would easily blend in among the posh horsey set at the annual equestrian event in the Cotswolds.

Jack made his way back across the road, towards the underground car park, where he was stopped at the barrier by the security guard, who asked him for ID. This was a private car park for Emporium businesses only, and the guard knew that Jack did not belong.

Jack played the affable passer-by. ‘No worries, mate, I just saw the Ferrari pulling in and wanted to see if it was a Scaglietti. Never seen one close up . . .’

The security guard assured Jack in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to see this one close up either, and to please move on. He sniggered at his own joke and his friend over on the main door to the emporium, joined in. Jack could see that his tradesman’s attire, that had served him so well in the café across the road, was now letting him down.