This was most unexpected in the purchase of a Honda Accord EX V6 sedan with power windows; but it was so human, and obviously Mr Wong was a very lonely man.

‘You enjoy the car. Good to see you. I must go.’

As if Mr Smith had been detaining him.

‘I still train.’

‘Yes, you told me that.’

‘I will go for that now. Here is the bill of sale. Thank you, Mr Smith.’

Then Mr Wong was keying his way into his building and Mr Smith, the proud new owner of a dull red car, chugged down the street.

To block out the noise of the engine he put his earphones in and played Lana Del Rey; now, she didn’t wail, but she could have a moan; he was now Ever again, reverting back to type, out of his adopted character; relieved – Mr Smith was beginning to bother him.

He enjoyed being absorbed in Lana’s misery.

‘The Blackest Day’ was playing and he found his way west. No Kate this time, to help.

Never sure if Lana was singing about sex or just life; just life, well well, life. Depth and darkness and enduring pain. Anyway, he empathised with it, in the way he wanted to. Take it as you sense it. That’s the point, there is no right way.

What in the name of God does ‘Purple Rain’ mean? He knew for him what he wanted it to mean and that was enough and he wasn’t telling. Anyone.

On the journey back, he was looking for another piece to add to his plan. He wanted a piece of wasteland where he could dump and possibly destroy this beauty and attract minimum attention in the middle of an afternoon. There was more than one option, he catalogued them in a brain which didn’t have a lot of space. But he could remember the key things. The compulsive satisfier things. He drove onto one empty, disregarded piece of land backing onto the high and windowless wall of a warehouse – an industrial-type building – to see what the movement was like around it; he parked the car and sat.

It saw no persons walk across its potholed earth and the worn-out, given-up attempts at a gravelled surface. The patch of land was almost underneath the 110 Freeway and couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile from the gallery area. Looming over the land was an isolated tower with the words ‘Ritz Carlton’ blazing out at the top; from where he was standing it was an incongruous sight of poverty swamped by wealth.