We also have no shame, so once we’d found nothing of note on the first floor we split up, Guleed to check the second floor, where Mr Chorley had his domain, while I went downstairs to keep an eye on the man himself and, with a bit of luck, look at his motor.

I found him in the kitchen where he offered me tea, but I asked if I could see the garage. He asked if I liked cars and, when I said I did, he gave me a wan but genuine smile.

‘Then you’re going to like this,’ he said.

The garage was clean and, judging from the perfectly balanced temperature and humidity, had the sort of environmental control system that Postmartin demands for his most fragile historical documents. The brickwork was painted a bright glossy white with just the Pirelli Calendar and an immaculate tool rack to break up the sterility. All the better for us to appreciate the car.

The Ferrari was a ridiculously beautiful motor, fire brick red with proper sleek 70s sci-fi lines so that it looked like any second the wheels would fold down to become lift engines and the vehicle would launch itself back to the future that never was. It also had a completely insane de-bored 2.8 litre V8 engine that could do nought to a hundred in less time than it takes to say it. And, from the point of view of the magic police, no electronic transmission — which meant you couldn’t accidentally wreck your own motor when in hot pursuit. I’m not saying that Nightingale should have traded in the Jag, but would it really have killed him to lay down a couple of Italians from the golden age of supercars? Just as an investment, if nothing else.

I asked Mr Chorley if he ever took it out for a spin.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘There’s no point owning a car like this if you never drive it.’

I was just wondering if there was a way I could wrangle a ride or, failing that, just a go in the driving seat with the engine on when Martin Chorley checked his watch. It was a slim steel coloured Montblanc Timewalker, two grand and change from reputable stockists and the sort of high quality wind-up that any practitioner would be proud to wear.

I literally nearly shat myself.

I was suddenly certain that I was bonding over a motor with the Faceless Man, and if it was him then he already knew who I was. Which meant that either he was just playing with me or was still hoping to maintain his cover. I considered whether I could tackle him right then – but he was fast and ruthless, and if I didn’t take him down with the first blow I probably wasn’t going to get a second attempt.