I recognized the marque instantly, and unbelievingly. It was a car for the car fanatic, the dream of adolescents of all ages. It was one of the road cars hand-built for supposedly advanced drivers by the engineering company who sponsored, manufactured and raced one of the most famous sports cars in the world. The company was based on one of the few commercially run islands in the Archipelago. This was the beach and mountain resort of Lillen-Cay, the playground of the super rich. No seignioral dynasty presided over the island. The only hierarchy was the scale of wealth, the size of private yacht, the speed of hand-built road car.

‘There is room for your luggage in the trunk,’ Frejah said. We walked around to it. The compartment was small. Her own bag was already there, standing tidily on edge to one side. I could get my larger one in by lying it down, with the smaller one on top. I made to retain my computer tote to have with me in the car. ‘Everything must go in here,’ she insisted. ‘Space inside is restricted.’

I placed my tote on top of the other cases, but it was obvious that when the lid came down it would crush against it. I turned the tote around, tried to ease it, pressed down. That made little difference. I moved my overnight case out, then put it back in again at a different angle.

Frejah stepped around, perhaps to guide or supervise me. As she did so the shadow she had been casting from one of the overhead lights moved with her. The inside of the trunk was suddenly visible to me. There was a gun there, a large weapon, an assault rifle, attached to the back wall, close up against the passenger compartment. It was partly concealed by Frejah’s own bag, partly by mine. It was disassembled, the parts mounted on a cushioned board: a snub barrel, metal stock, magazine, firing pin. I could see what it was.