“I always had trouble controlling the big machines, you see,” Beckman murmured, gesturing humbly at his great mechanical physique. “My mind doesn’t have the muscles. I needed always to stay close to keep control. So I thought: why not get as close as I can? Wire myself in? Hardwired. Like this, my thoughts go directly through the mechanism. I really don’t know my own strength. This is how I killed your friend Morecambe. It was an accident. I only meant to knock him out. I gave him just a tap, like this.”

Beckman lashed a huge arm at the wall behind him, gouging a hole in the concrete.

“But I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite. Please, now.”

Alex said nothing. He was furiously concentrating.

“Very well.” Beckman came striding toward him.

Reaching out his mind, Alex finally found his flier. It lay not far away on the roof above. One wing was damaged, so it kept veering left as it haltingly flew. He fought to compensate, urging the flier to move faster, up. Looking down from its eyes, he saw the circular courtyard below, the shadowy figure stalking across it. He dived at Beckman in a jackknife.

Beckman somehow sensed the attack. He turned, sending a glove-hand shishing up to meet the flier midair. In the same moment, the dark windows behind the broken statues blazed with light. Inside the museum, shadowy police and guards came running. Beckman whirled around to them.

The distraction was enough. Alex took his chance and leapt. Beckman swatted the flier spinning away over the roof with a blow that left Alex feeling like his mind had been stabbed with a glass shard. He slammed against the top of the wall and hung clinging to the edge, scratching at slippery stonework for a grip. The weighty heels were dragging him down. A padded white fist smashed into the wall, inches away from him. Alex heaved himself over, pain ringing in his head.

He could just make out the road where Harry had parked ahead. Alex saw his stunned flier lying between him and the roof’s edge. Another fist pounded down behind him, sending up a dust cloud of pulverized concrete, glittering in the moonlight. This glove resembled the clawed, furry paw from a Wolfman costume. It began scuttling like a crab straight for him.

Alex lurched up and ran stiffly, staggering as he picked up the unresponsive flier. Wind tugged at the painting on his back as he hurled himself off the roof.

He jumped wildly, arcing over the street in a leap that sent him crashing down into the roadworks opposite, sprawling face-first in a mound of damp sand. Abandoned tools scattered about him as he tumbled forward.