‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I’d like to speak with Jessica Ellinder, please,’ Priest declared with feigned conviction.

The receptionist raised a thinly plucked eyebrow. ‘Of course. Do you have an appointment?’

‘No. I do not.’

‘You just popped in on the off chance?’

‘Yes. Clearly.’

The receptionist hesitated before consulting his computer screen. Several clicks later he announced that Miss Ellinder was in a meeting but he was happy to let her know that Priest had dropped by on the off chance. Priest declined the offer and asked to use the toilet, whereupon he was, with considerable disdain, directed to the right.

‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.’

The toilets were located in a sizeable alcove off the main area and out of the receptionist’s line of sight. The male and female toilets were opposite each other but ahead a set of glass double doors led to a stairwell. A sign advised that entry was for authorised personnel only and that all visitors should report to reception. To make the point firmer, the door was locked and entry was controlled by a keypad, for which Priest did not have the code.

At least I know she’s in and, like all egotistical corporate machines, the executive floor will be at the top.

Priest checked over his shoulder but he was hidden from view, unless someone wanted to use the facilities. He investigated the door; there was also a fob system but the keypad offered hope. Maybe it was an older mechanism awaiting removal or a backup for people who forgot their fobs. It didn’t matter. Priest took out a small rattle-can filled with LCD screen cleaner and quickly sprayed the keypad. The fine powder settled, although to no obvious benefit, before Priest took a photograph of the pad with his iPhone, making sure the flash was on.

He studied the photo. Ideally, he would have used fluorescent spray or aluminium powder but he tended not to carry those around these days. The spray wouldn’t show the prints clearly but, under intense light, a slight mark was visible on four of the numbers: one, three, five and nine. He just needed to work out what order they should be in.

Priest clicked his tongue and repeated the numbers in his head before tapping in a combination. The door emitted a satisfying click and he pushed it open.

Nineteen fifty-three. The year Ellinder Pharmaceuticals was founded. Easy.

There was a spiral stairwell on the other side encased in a cylinder of glass going both up and down – a transparent conduit impaling the heart of the building. Priest looked up. At least fifteen storeys and no lift.

Bollocks.

He took the stairs two at a time and by the time he reached the executive floor his thighs were burning. That wouldn’t have mattered in itself were it not for his progress having been frustrated by another locked door – this time with no keypad.

More bollocks.