“Fine,” Marlen said a bit too loudly. Nerves made him bolder. “I'll make all the noise I like, then.” He attacked the crates, dumped their contents out, and tossed rocks with abandon. Adrenaline and the cold air gave him energy he rarely had at two in the morning. Dust got up his nose, his eyes watered, and an annoying itch took up residence in the back of his throat. His jeans acquired half a dozen snags, his shirt changed from white to gray, and his brown leather jacket was soon smeared with rat droppings. He found lumpy rocks, three enormous spiders, and a tin of petrified biscuits. The search proved fruitless, but at least it warmed him up.

He returned to the shelves. It wasn't until after he scoured the last one and decided to call it quits, that he heard the heavy tread of footsteps above his head. “Now the bastard decides to wake up,” he murmured. Marlen dashed for the window and scrambled onto a rickety pile of crates. He grasped the ledge, got a good grip and heaved himself out.

Breathing a little easier, he clapped his hands together, turned around, and walked straight into the arms of a waiting constable.