The lion reared up like a horse preparing to gallop. Easily two metres tall, maybe two and a half. Cruel claws on the end of massive legs.

Very suddenly, Ash realised how the hand had been stolen, and by whom, and what the smell was. Pheromones. A scent the lion was programmed to respond to. Making it believe the jar was it’s property, one of it’s cubs.

The lion tamer. He must have sprayed the jar with pheromones, let the lion out, and waited for it to collect the jar and take it back to their den while he was chatting with the performers elsewhere - a perfect alibi.

His plan unfolded itself in Ash’s head, daring and brilliant. When the others saw the hand was missing, they’d search the big top, but they’d never dare step in the lions cage. They’d ask him to check. And when he told them the cage was empty, they’d start looking for an intruder, someone like Ash.

Although the lion tamer probably hadn’t expected someone to actually be there. Or that he had an undercover cop in his troupe.

None of that was important right now. What was important was that Ash was holding a jar smeared with lion cub pheromones in front of a furious lion.

The lion growled. Heart racing, Ash set the bottled hand down on the ground, slowly, and took a big step back.

The lion padded towards the jar. Sniffed it. Scratched the ground with its claws. Then it kept coming, slinking towards Ash.