The article didn’t say much. Just that the conditions had been ‘medieval’ and that there had been allegations of physical and sexual abuse. Hardly worthy of the front page. If it had all taken place in Britain, Oliver could understand such a report appearing in an English paper, but why bother Londoners with such routine dross? Sexual abuse, he decided. The phrase sold millions of papers up and down the land. The law-abiding liked to read about it at their breakfast tables and on their trains. They tut-tutted in horror while deep inside their deepest, darkest fantasies were touched.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you haven’t been uncomfortable. You’ve been crying I see, do borrow my handkerchief.’

‘Simon?’ Oliver stared. Cotter was removing his sunglasses. He had dyed his hair blond. No, he had undyed his hair. The blond was streaked with grey.

‘Simon?’ said Ned. ‘I know no Simon. Look again.’

Oliver looked again and saw that he was looking into the blue eyes of Ned Maddstone.

‘Not exactly the same fridge,’ he observed at length.

‘No,’ Ned admitted ruefully. ‘But as close as I could get. Thought it might help you feel at home.’

‘Oh it does, it does.’ Oliver was holding himself together very well. ‘You’ve been busy,’ he remarked.

Ned looked around the kitchen. ‘Thank you. I always say good design is all about taking away, not adding. You’ll note that aside from the fridge there is no other furniture or fitments, for reasons you will discover later. The old place hadn’t changed that much, as a matter of fact. Oh, there’s the Aga of course. Same old one. Tch! Agas, eh? Where would we be without them?’

‘No, no. I meant Ashley Barson-Garland and now poor old Gordon Fendeman. I should have made the connection.’

‘People keep saying that to me. You mustn’t blame yourself, it was a long time ago. But we mustn’t say “poor old Gordon Fendeman”, you know. He’s happy now. Gone to a better place.’

‘Quite the avenging angel, aren’t you?’

‘I do my best, Oliver, I do my best. As you will discover.’

‘You escaped then, from the “Swedish Hospital of Hell”?’ Oliver jerked his head towards the newspaper.

‘Ah, I thought that might amuse you. All nonsense as a matter of fact, had the paper specially made up for your entertainment. You’ll be pleased to know that dear Dr Mallo is still there. He’s working for me now. I have some documents in my possession that he would prefer kept private between ourselves. He’s a very reasonable man, as you know. He likes to describe himself as a rationalist. Pompous, but rather touching.’

‘Am I to be lectured at? If that’s your punishment, I might as well tell you here and now that I’m very good at switching off.’

‘My dear old periwinkle, was I lecturing? How very graceless of me. Let me fetch you a glass of milk. No? I’m having one myself. Sure? Okay then. Fresh and creamy this time. Not UHT semi-skimmed. There are limits to authenticity, after all.’

Oliver was thinking rapidly. The plastic bracelets around his wrist were more than he could cope with on his own. The man behind the wheel he had now identified as Sergeant Floyd, the Drug Squad officer he had bribed to keep his mouth shut over Ned’s arrest. He still had no idea who the other two men might be, but he had a nasty idea.

‘Smart of you to escape. I have to confess I didn’t mark you down as that sort.'

Ned sat down at the table opposite Oliver. ‘You met Babe, I think. You were one of the squad that tried to beat it out of him when you found out that all that money was missing.

‘So Mr Memory himself put the jigsaw together for you did he? Thought it was rather beyond your limited capabilities.’

‘His capabilities are now mine.

‘Oh I don’t think so, old crocus. Babe was special.’

‘Well,’ said Ned, not allowing himself to be annoyed. ‘We can agree on that at least. He even remembered your mother, you know? One glance at a file is all he ever had. Date of birth, everything.’

‘Must have been fun for him to have a blank canvas on which to paint,’ said Oliver. ‘Dumb brick of a child, eager to learn. Taught you all those languages. Smattering of philosophy and mathematics. Arranged your escape too, I’ll bet. You couldn’t have managed that on your own. Too weak to make it over the wall himself. Am I to expect him to walk through the door at any minute? “Aha, you pampered Asiatic Jades, I’ve a thirst on me today.” All that? My old boss used to do quite an impression of him.’

‘Babe is dead. Yes, he did arrange the escape. Yes, he did teach me. Yes, I was a dumb brick. You can’t expect me to rise to such obvious bait.’

‘Above that, are you? All passion spent. What are you now? Nemesis? The Hammer of God? The Cold Hand of Fate?’

‘Something like that,’ said Ned. ‘You will have plenty of time to decide what I am. You will be able to ponder too on what you are. Years you will have. There’ll be Martin and Paul and Rolf and dear Dr Mallo to help you come to a decision. The best possible care. No one else, I’m afraid. A small staff, but since there will be only one patient, I’m sure you won’t feel badly served.’

‘For fuck’s sake

‘The journey will be painful. But no more painful than was mine. My driver John, his two friends the Draper brothers and ex-Superintendent Floyd will take you over the water. My driver John – you’ll remember him as Mr Gaine, he’s put on a bit of weight, but you’ll find he’s lost none of his charm – will dislocate your shoulder which will cause quite shattering pain. It will unbalance your walk, which we can’t have, so Rolf will dislocate the other One for you.

‘You’re insane.

‘If I’m insane then so are you. Nothing will happen to you that did not happen to me. You are a grown man. I was a frightened child.’

‘My family! I have a family. You’ve sat with my children.’

‘I had a family, Oliver. The Fendemans had a family. When you had me recite the name of Peter Fendeman into a tape-recorder, did you consider Portia’s family?’

‘But her father is fine! He was released after a week. Special Forces had been a little rough when they arrested him, but he was soon released. He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s happy? And think…’ Oliver was clutching at straws now. ‘Why did he name his daughter Portia? Remember Portia in The Merchant of Venice? “The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesses him that gives and him that receives."'

‘How perfectly marvellous that you should mention Shakespeare’s Portia. A happy coincidence, I was about to come to the one option left open to you if you really do wish to avoid a lifetime as a guest of Dr Mallo.’

‘Yes? What? What is it?’

‘There are, in case you have forgotten, two Portias in Shakespeare. One, as you rightly pointed out just now, in The Merchant of Venice. But have you forgotten the other Portia. The Portia in Julius Caesar?’

Oliver’s head was dizzy. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘She chooses to take her own life, if you recall, by swallowing hot coals. Always used to fascinate me as a child. How could it be done? Well, the Aga there is old-fashioned. The solid fuel type. There’s no other means of self slaughter in the room, I’m afraid. I’ve checked thoroughly and I know something about how rooms are furnished to prevent suicide. The floor and walls are rubberised, nothing metal, stone or wooden here. You could bash your head against the Aga I suppose, but I doubt it would kill you and it would certainly annul our agreement. It’s up to you. The plastic of your cuffs will melt against the stove very nicely. Agony, I should imagine, but it will work. You simply lift up the lid and help yourself. Basically, Oliver, it’s up to you. Swallow fiery coals like Portia or face the rest of your life in an insane asylum. You have ten minutes to make up your mind.’