He strode across the car park towards the Vlaamse Kaai, his expression introverted, as if he were deep in thought. He was aware that a selection of people were watching him from the windows above, following his every move with laser precision, and this prompted him to walk with dignity, much slower than his usual brisk pace - evidence, he believed, of his excellent physical condition. He turned into Pourbusstraat, a cheerless place lined with derelict buildings and warehouses, reminiscent of New York’s Lower East Side. He walked through an open door and found himself in an ugly brick-paved courtyard with lock-up garages right and left. He produced a bunch of keys, unlocked a grimy plastic roll-down shutter numbered 14, pulled it up, opened the boot of a large black BMW, removed his jacket, folded it inside out, placed it in the boot and slipped into a brown leather sports coat lying beside it. He loosened his tie and tossed it on top of the jacket, closed the boot, got into the car, started the engine and reversed out of the lock-up.
