Not exactly the ideal getaway vehicle. The thing couldn’t be doing more than thirty kilometres an hour, and he was plastered across the top of it for all to see. He craned his head to look behind him. Over the top of a large cargo storage box and two kids’ bicycles lashed to a luggage rack he could see the window of what had been his hotel room until just a moment ago. Dark silhouettes of the cops were milling around in the lit-up windows. Nobody was pointing after him, shouting ‘There he goes!’. As long as they all stayed focused on the inside of the room for another few seconds, he was clean away. The motorhome kept moving, and Ben kept his gaze fixed on the receding hotel window. Nothing happened. Then, as the vehicle reached the corner of the street, it turned sharply to the left and he held on tight to the luggage rack to stop himself sliding sideways. These things hadn’t been designed with roof passengers in mind. He looked back once more as the side of a tall building blocked the hotel and the parked police cars from view.
