It's more than a little impressive and that much shows on his face; it's hard to be terribly cross about anything when someone's just shot out a cctv camera with goddamn lightning. Charlie throws her a sidelong glance, a quick grin, and then quickly crosses toward the Corsa while digging through the small leather satchel at his hip. By the time he rounds to the car's boot, he's got a flat head screwdriver in hand.

He tests the latch first; not surprisingly, it's locked. So Charlie makes quick work of kicking in one of the tail lights, prying the metal backing out with the screwdriver. The hole doesn't allow for a lot of wiggle room, but it's enough space to fit his hand and arm through so he can pop the latch on the boot. In all, it takes about three minutes (god bless the Corsa and it's shit latch design) before he's got it open.

"Be a dear and crawl through there to unlock the door, would you? The seat should push down." He'd do it himself, but let's be honest: he'd have a harder time squeezing through than she will.