Before he could, she saw Fallan suddenly spring from the balls of his feet, diving towards the pavement, where he rolled beyond the last of the parked cars into clear space. He came up into a low crouch, both hands raised, a length of metal glinting between them in the late-afternoon sunlight.

She waited for the blasts, but they never came. The only bang was that of the door slamming closed again, followed by a whine from the Vectra’s engine as it commenced a high-speed reverse. Jasmine followed its progress from an ant’s-eye view, seeing its wheels and chassis retreat backwards for a few seconds, before a squeal of rubber and a new gunning of the engine accompanied a precise one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin, allowing the car to make good its escape up the forward gears. It was the manoeuvre Fallan had attempted in his Land Rover on Wednesday, but this time executed perfectly.

She stayed down until she was sure the Vectra was definitely gone, by which time Fallan had made his way over. She saw a flash of metal once more as he slipped a hand into an inside pocket.

As he helped her to her feet, she looked around, to the shops, to the junction cut off by the bollards and to the other side of the road it abutted. She could see a woman walking a dog about forty yards down on the right, well out of sight of where the action had been, but there was nobody else around: nobody running to ask if they were okay, nobody cowering in doorways, nobody calling the cops on their mobiles or, more likely, recording the thing on video. A cul-de-sac wasn’t the ideal place for a drive-by, but that apart, the gunman had chosen his moment perfectly. Once again, it was as though it hadn’t happened, the world obliviously getting on with itself.

This time, however, she was unambiguously grateful for Fallan’s intervention.

‘So you did lie to me,’ she said. ‘About not bringing a gun. Please ignore me if I say anything daft like that again.’

‘No,’ he corrected her. ‘I said I wouldn’t lie to you, and then you didn’t ask. I didn’t bring a gun.’

He reached to the inside pocket and produced his phone.

‘What, can you get a bullets app for that thing now?’

‘I guessed I was dealing with more shite-bag than shooter. Didn’t like it up them on Wednesday and I figured it was one of the same folk. Gave him the impression I had a gun and he skited pronto.’