There are two cops, a scientist, a cameraman, a journalist and a photographer. They rush into a shopping centre in an eastern suburb of Glasgow, the kind of place where cars on bricks sit at the roadside. It is the perfect lair for criminal masterminds, slow-moving merchandise, reptilian contraband skulking beneath the radar.
One of the cops enters the shop. He pulls himself up to his full height and moves towards the counter, ignoring the customers stopping to gawp. The scientist shuffles in alongside him, quiet and intense, pulling his brow tight and flashing his identification. The shopkeeper's forehead glistens with sweat.
The thin man cocks his head at a row of tanks, lit by fluorescent lights. "We're here about the tortoises," he says. The shopkeeper nods. "Of course," the shopkeeper says, already moving his hands beneath the desk. Everyone in the room freezes. If a fight breaks out, the floor could be blanketed in shells.