‘Stay down,’ said Lesley from outside my view. ‘Or Martin here will start breaking ribs.’

‘She does like to make me sound gangster, doesn’t she?’ said Martin Chorley. His voice was coming from the other side of the car park. He must have just come down the eastern set of service stairs. I heard his footsteps as he walked past me to reach Lesley. He was far too sensible to get close enough to look down on me and risk making himself a target – although I could tell he really wanted to.

‘We need to get a move on,’ he said to Lesley. ‘I left a trail of nasty surprises behind me but he won’t stay cautious for long.’

Something, impello at a guess, dragged me across the concrete and I heard a clattering sound as my staff was dragged behind me by its wrist strap. We both ended up in the middle of the roadway – the decking was strangely warm under my palms.

I felt for the handle of my staff, but it was yanked away, the strap cutting painfully into my wrist and palm until it snapped with a twang. That must have been another spell, because it should have taken my hand off at the wrist before it broke.

‘What’s this?’ asked Martin Chorley. ‘Ah, yes. A genuine army surplus battle staff. You don’t see many of those these days, do you? I wonder if you’ve kept it charged up.’

‘I wouldn’t touch it,’ said Lesley. ‘It’s probably booby trapped.’

What a good idea, I thought, let’s add that to the list.

Another clatter as my staff was kicked or spelled off the roadway and, if the sudden echo was anything to go by, under a nearby vehicle.

Great, I thought, that turned out to be useful in the end, didn’t it?

‘Did you find Reynard?’ asked Lesley.

‘No,’ said Martin Chorley. ‘He’s a slippery little shit, isn’t he? I’m hoping he’ll run into Nightingale or the plod and get himself shot.’

I risked turning my head, slowly, to see if I could locate either him or Lesley. He was standing three or four metres away in the centre of the roadway. He was wearing a tailored charcoal pinstripe suit cut in the modern style. He stood, legs slightly apart for balance, arms held loosely by his side – ready for action. I was happy to note that the suit jacket’s sartorial perfection had been marred by scorch mark that ran diagonally from shoulder to waist and his trousers were soaked through from the thighs downwards. Nightingale was obviously handing out lessons in appropriate work attire.