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of the shoe-shop window, and clocked a dark figure lurking in a doorway over the road and a second loitering behind a car. He walked quickly away, and after ten or so paces turned round abruptly. He scratched his head and looked about, pretending to be drunk and lost. He hurried back the way he had come. Both figures had moved. He was being followed.

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    With all the cars parked at the side of the road and the big shop windows, the street had a wealth of reflective surfaces , and Jian was able to keep an eye on both his followers . On the other side of the road a chunky guy walked with slow deliberation, matching Jian’s pace, hands thrust deep into a long leather coat. He was pretty good – at least he looked natural. Further back, and on this side of the road, a slimmer, nervier man skipped along the gutter and peeked round parked cars. He was an amateur.
    Jian was soon convinced that there was just the two of them. Two men were not enough for a tail. It took at least four, spread out in front and behind, with good communications . He was confident he could lose them. He could take a couple of sharp turns, then double back, dive into a bar or restaurant and find a back exit, or just hop into a taxi.
    He passed an alleyway where a youth was bent over being sick. Through foggy windows he could see a raucous crowd. Music pulsed. It was an enormous bar. He would lose his pursuers in there, no trouble at all. There might be a cloakroom where he could leave the case. But losing them would achieve nothing. What he needed to do was turn the tables.
    Perhaps he would hire a private karaoke booth and a girl to sing with, and then, while his enemies were watching the booth, find a back way to slip out. He could monitor the one outside, and when they realised he had given them the slip maybe he could follow them.
    He felt energized. Maybe he had spent too long behind a desk. This was like being an eager rookie again – going on missions, out-thinking bad guys. A man on mean streets living by his wits at least knew he was alive.
    It was, he reprimanded himself, an inappropriate response, an undisciplined thought produced by fatigue and adrenalin. This was not a mission, his daughter was in danger, and his anxiety renewed itself.
    He stepped into the road and stopped to let a car pass. Its engine roared as it sped up and swerved towards him. It was low-slung and yellow and in the tinted windscreen he saw the distorted reflection of his own startled form and the orbs of streetlights. The passenger door was swinging open. He threw himself back. The bonnet swept by and caught the suitcase and it was wrenched from his grip as the bumper cracked. The open door smashed him in the midriff.
    He collapsed and his head smacked the edge of the pavement . He was aware of the squeal of tyres and running footsteps , but it all seemed to come from far away. He could see only lights sparkling in red mist.
    His jacket was hauled over his head, trapping his arms and smothering his face. A weight pressed down on his neck. Hands groped inside his pockets. Fury at this violation gave him strength. He twisted and flung a bent arm out. His elbow connected with something and the impact sent shivers to his shoulder.
    Pain exploded in his stomach and he gaped and his fingers spread and curled. He tensed for another blow.
    Someone started shouting. No new strike arrived. He heard retreating footsteps and an engine growled then receded.
    He unclenched and groped for the pavement. The jacket fell away from his head as he rolled out of the gutter. A gurglingsound was coming from his throat. Gravel prickled his cheek. His chest felt huge and sore. Red mist retreated and a white shape resolved itself into a pale and sweaty man with a busy mouth and a chin speckled with vomit.
    Jian dragged himself up. The bass thudding from the bar seemed to rhyme with the pain in his head. His suitcase had gone, and most of the contents of his pockets. He’d been done over and