With amazing speed, O’Grady’s anger drained away, his back and shoulders stiffening as he turned his head, wondering about the lack of light. There was just enough of a grimy glow filtering down the ramp from the frosted glass panels in the garage door to show him the outline of his Jaguar. But even in that half-glimpsed state, he could tell that something was wrong.

He stood rigid, his eyes adjusting more and more to the gloom, the damage swimming more and more into view. Within seconds it was plain that the entire front of his beautiful sixty-grand motor had been brutally mangled, the bodywork crumpled as if from a head-on impact, what remained of the number plate hanging loose, the radiator grille bashed in, the nearside and offside light clusters shattered.

Even to Miles O’Grady’s inexpert eye, there was thousands of pounds’ worth of repair work needed here. When he spied the pool of semi-fluorescent liquid expanding underneath the engine, he realised that it would actually be tens of thousands of pounds.

At first, he’d thought a sledgehammer, or even a couple of sledgehammers. But surely even that …

Of course, none of this really mattered.

All that actually mattered was getting the hell out of this unlit hole in the ground before his car wasn’t the only thing left ripped apart. And he did just that, turning and running for his life, loping back up the steps, three treads at a time.

It was probably the least dignified thing that Miles O’Grady had done in as long as he could remember, crashing in a sweaty heap through the side-door of the garage out onto Long Acre, slamming it behind him and frantically locking it. He backed away a couple of yards before glancing right, to where the main garage door still stood closed and seemingly locked.

How in hell had they got in?

It didn’t matter.

A skeleton key, or something … they always found a way. He backed away further. The question was, were they still down there? Or were they now out here?

He looked around, spinning in a frightened circle. But there was no sign of anyone else on the Acre. Around and overhead, the windows looked to be empty. Less than a hundred yards away, beyond the entrance, traffic rumbled past as usual. Normality. That was what he needed right now. Normality was the only sure place to find safety.

He almost ran that way, slipping and stumbling over the broken, mossy flagstones in his leather lace-up shoes, but at the last second veering across the Acre to his beaten-up Golf. He expected that to be in pieces too, tyres shredded, the guts of its engine hanging out. But no – as far as he could see, this one was intact. They either hadn’t known this car was his – he dug his keys out – or they’d wanted him to get in it and drive.