I squint. Sunrise brightens the otherwise dingy room. I should be grateful I"m awake, but I"m stiff limbed, adding to the darts of pain shooting down my arm. The leg is not much better. I reach for the water bottle, careful to take only a sip, then rummage in the rucksack for the other half of the protein bar I ate last night. Feeling around inside, not wanting to extract Gloria"s present, my knuckles press against something in the interior pocket. I realise in a flash it"s the document folder. At first, I"m puzzled. Then I cast my mind back. I put it there last week planning to visit Pedro to discuss a strategy for dealing with the situation. Neither of us was keen to hand over the documents—copies of an illegal development plan, emails, transcripts of text message exchanges—to the police
