He had already clocked a hinged panel in the wall, about a metre square: the rubbish chute. Madness, obviously. But leaning beside it was some cardboard packaging, a large piece, about two metres by one. He bent it into a large U, opened the chute, stuffed in the cardboard and got in after it as if it was the finger of a giant glove. It was a desperate measure, but staying in the kitchen wasn’t an option. The lid sprang closed behind him and he was in total darkness, sliding earth-wards in near freefall, buffeted and hammered by the sides of the chute. The card protected his legs, head and face from the worst of the friction, but the clothing round his shoulders and hips was soon shredded. He prayed that the Dumpster below was full, that there would be something to cushion his fall.

Everything went black.

The Dumpster was not full. But there was just enough rotting refuse to prevent him breaking a leg. The smell of it all around him brought him back to consciousness. His whole body ached, but nothing was sprained. He still had to extricate himself from under the mouth of the chute and climb out of the enormous, fetid container. He heaved himself out and caught his breath, taking lungfuls of the comparatively fresh air in the underground parking lot, before dropping behind the Dumpster to evade the cameras.

He hadn’t bargained on leaving the penthouse alone. From his limited vantage-point he spent some time recceing the cameras and the layout of the space. There was no pedestrian exit. The gate – operated by the card he didn’t have – was shut, but it didn’t look particularly strong. It could almost certainly be rammed. Beth’s pick-up was right in front of him. It wasn’t locked but, of course, she had the key. He opened the driver’s door and, still in a crouching position, tore off the plastic cowling round the steering column and examined the ignition assembly. No chance. That was the problem with modern cars: too thief-proof. He looked round at the others.

Then his eye fell on the E-Type Jaguar. His father had had one, in British racing green, fast but serially un-reliable – though easy to hot-wire if the battery wasn’t flat.

He rooted around in the rubbish till he found what he was looking for: a mesh vegetable bag. Perfect. He put it over his head. Then he hunted some more until he found a coat-hanger, which he bent into a hook. This would have to be done fast. He dashed round to the driver’s door, inserted it between the window and the canvas hood and fished for the lock, which clicked open satisfyingly.