We hustled towards a large silver contraption that I took to be Morris Armstrong’s trailer. I did my best to stay behind the others but, with only four of us, it was obvious that I couldn’t stay hidden for long.

Moonbeam took the lead, marching up the steps and knocking on the door. There was a muffled yell from inside and he shrugged then entered with the rest of us on his heels.

The trailer’s interior was considerably more spacious and luxurious than I imagined. I gazed round in awe at the plush decorating and shiny surfaces. I could easily live like this, I decided.

I wasn’t the only one who was impressed. Mazza’s expression was something akin to a small child being introduced to ice cream for the first time. He let out a low whistle and then blushed immediately. He flicked a quick look at Amy and blushed even more. I decided that I liked him the most.

Armstrong appeared from the far end, wiping his hands on a towel. He tossed it to the floor and stared at our little group as if he’d completely forgotten the reason why he’d asked us here. Then his expression cleared. ‘You’re the runners.’

Moonbeam again stepped forward. ‘We are.’ He put out his hand. ‘I’m Moonbeam.’

Armstrong gazed at him with a blank face. ‘No, you’re not.’

‘I am. It’s a strange name but…’

The director held up a palm and Moonbeam fell silent. ‘I will not call anyone Moonbeam. You are Number One. That is what you will answer to from now on.’ He pointed at Amy then at Mazza. ‘Number Two. Number Three.’ His head turned to me. As soon as he registered my face, his mouth snapped shut.

‘Number Four,’ I offered helpfully, in case his arithmetic had suddenly deserted him.

Armstrong’s eyes narrowed. I held my breath and waited for him to throw me unceremoniously off his set. Instead he muttered something under his breath and gave a barely perceptible nod. He recognised me from the train – of that there was no doubt – but for some reason he was declining to mention it just yet.

‘Your job is going to be the most vital of all,’ he barked. ‘You might only be runners but everyone has to start somewhere. I was once like you, you know.’ His eyes took on a faraway cast as if he were fondly remembering his golden days of being a dogsbody when he didn’t have to worry about large gleaming trailers and lots of money.

Armstrong shook himself. ‘As runners, you have access to all areas. Naturally we have security on hand to deter any trophy hunters or rabid fans or,’ he shuddered, ‘the press. But that doesn’t mean that the more cunning of them will not find ways of gaining access. This is supposed to be a closed set. In my experience there is no such thing. This area was chosen because of its longstanding historical links to witchcraft. It’s certainly not the sort of place I would have chosen if I’d had the choice. There are simply too many opportunities for outsiders to sneak in. We can’t completely barricade ourselves off. More’s the pity.’