Ashley Arthur rappelled down the side of the circus tent, feet bouncing against the heavy canvas flaps. She kept one gloved hand behind her, wrapped around the climbing rope, loosening every time she took a jump. The rope made a fizzing sound as it slipped across the carabina attached to her belt.

Jump! Fizzzz.

Jump! Fizzzz.

She had nearly reached the bottom. The entrance to the big top was only a few metres to her right, bathed in the sodium glow of the security light. It was chained shut, but Ash was betting there’d be enough give in the canvas to squeeze through.

Jump! Fizz, crunch. She was on the ground. Crouching, she scanned the moonlit horizon. No cops, no circus security trucks, no pedestrians. So far, so good.

Ash ran over to the entrance, temporarily exposed by the light. She stretched the fabric aside with one hand, clenching the chains with the other so they didn’t rattle, and slipped through the gap.

The inside of the big top smelled like hay and sweat. The punters had long since gone home, but the performers were still hanging around – on the opposite side of the big top Ash could see a hulking strongman and two acrobats in sparkling leotards watching the lion tamer tell an anecdote, twirling his fake moustache and licking his yellow teeth. Faint laughter drifted over to her.

She hit a switch on her watch, which activated the microphone sewn into her collar.

‘Benjamin,’ she whispered. ‘I’m in.’