We’ve got an ambulance on the way, the dispatcher had said eight minutes, and a scene of crime team scrambled from the local station in case we’re too late. Breaking one of the large glass sheets would be devastating, even if we managed it. The front door is similarly out; it’s wood but solid enough to withstand a tank. Which leaves us with one of the round windows on the first floor.

‘It’s too high. We need something to stand on,’ Vermeer says.

‘You can give me a leg up.’

She looks me up and down, then pulls out her gun.

‘How about you give me a leg up instead?’

I’m not about to start arguing with a woman holding a gun. I lean against the wall, position my hands and lock my fingers together. Vermeer flips the gun round so she’s holding the barrel then raises her boot.

‘Ready?’ she asks.

‘Go.’

The grip on her sole is chunky, and it bites my fingers as I take her weight. She launches up, puts her other foot on my shoulder. Soon she’s standing with one foot either side of my head, and I’m grasping her ankles to keep her steady. My leg muscles are already starting to shake.

‘Close your eyes,’ she says.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to up-skirt you.’

‘You’re not, mainly because I’m not wearing a skirt. Ready?’

‘Do it.’ I scrunch my eyes up.

I hear the impact. Glass tinkles down around me and I hope I’m not about to get another one stuck in my arm. When it’s safe I open my eyes to see a nasty-looking shard, the brother of the one I met the day before yesterday, sticking into the ground just by the toe of my shoe. Vermeer knocks a few more pieces out before declaring herself ready. Here comes the really hard part. I let go of her ankles and hold the palms of my hands flat. She steps onto the right hand first, then the left. I push upwards, my arms straining so hard they’re trembling. I can hear the ambulance in the distance. Just as I think I can’t push any further I feel the pressure ease off. Vermeer must’ve got hold of the sill. She hauls herself through and I’m free to drop my arms.

I’m by the front door well before Vermeer, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s got lost inside. The ambulance is closer now. The door swings open.

‘You okay?’ I ask Vermeer. ‘You’ve got blood on your face.’

‘Just my hand,’ she says, holding it up to show a swooping gash. ‘Must’ve wiped it.’