I insert one at the bottom of the lock and, with a thumb, maintain pressure in a down and sideways motion. Then I take the second pin – already free of its little plastic baubles and pulled out into a wide ‘v’ (prepared earlier at home under the instruction of that YouTube video). I insert one end into the top of the lock and jiggle it up and down, up and down… Up and down… and then, just like on the video, the lock begins to turn.

Click.

Slowly I pull the drawer open, as though someone might hear me.

I reach inside and feel around: there. I have it. A small circular fob. I clasp onto it and crawl to the back room, lifting it to the pad by the door.

Beep.

Click.

I reach for the handle and let myself in, my heart ricocheting.

Closing the door behind me, I feel the walls either side of the door for a light switch.

Flick.

The room is flooded with light as I glance from one wall to the other.

There’s a part of me that expected it to be empty. Or worse, for Mr Tall and Creepy to be waiting for me in here. But, instead, it looks exactly like it did in Sabine’s video: a small, tidy room with wooden crates the shape of canvases against the wall to my right and a sturdy metal set of shelves in the left-hand corner. It’s full of printing paper, boxes of pens and lever arch files.

I rush towards it and my eyes scan the labels. Invoices. No. Tax files. No. Client details. Invoices. Artist invoices. No. No. No.

I look around for a safe. Not that I will be able to get into a safe but I could try the codes I have… but there isn’t one. There are just files upon files upon files.

And so I do the only thing I can, I pull down the first one and start to look through it.

It’s half an hour later and I’m halfway through a file labelled ‘Invoices’, when a small, thin, purple file – the cheap kind you’d find in a supermarket – catches my eye. It’s one level down and the spine reads ‘Notes diverses’. Loosely translated I’m pretty sure that means miscellaneous notes.

I reach for it, lay it down on the floor and open it up. It’s a series of brightly coloured section dividers and I flip through them, scanning the first page of each section. There are stationery orders. Some sort of membership papers. And then, right in the middle, is a plastic pocket.

And inside are a set of papers.