The man with the mop of silver hair hesitated.

He had been concerned for a few days now. Worried, and with the occasional hint of genuine anxiety. His excitement, the euphoric self-assurance he had started to get accustomed to, had evaporated.

Selma Falck was not included in the scenario. Nothing had been quite right since she had entered the picture.

It hadn’t been intended that anyone else would put an oar in. It should all have been straightforward, the way he had planned everything so carefully, and the way he had been so certain in advance that it would proceed. Nothing should be investigated. There shouldn’t be anything to uncover. No nosy lawyers should start poking around in anything whatsoever.

It dawned on him that it was very quiet in there.

There was usually a terrible racket each time he approached. Wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth. He had never answered any of the screams. Just opened the hatch, tossed in something edible, assured himself that the trickling water was still accessible to the prisoner, and then fired up the motor that pushed the wall in and made the room smaller.

He had never spoken a word in all the time he was down here.

‘Go away,’ he said suddenly, in a low growl, and gave himself a slap on the ear. ‘No. No. No.’

The guy in there was still very quiet. He must sleep from time to time, but he always made such a hullabaloo. It could be the stairs, the creaking stairs, or the sound of his footsteps on the bare concrete that woke him up. Every time.

Except for now.

He had an idea.

Forcing the GHB into him through the water hole was such a waste. After all, it would run continuously, and in the worst-case scenario the prisoner wouldn’t ingest any of it. Or maybe only enough for a pleasant high.

He shook his head.

A hole in the plan. A hole in the head.

He smacked himself on the forehead.

‘Idiot,’ he snarled resolutely.

Single-minded, he moved towards the sink. Turned off the water supply.

He would have to make the guy in there thirsty. Totally crazy and mad with thirst. Then he would come and offer him a glass through the hatch in the door. A carefully measured dose, not too diluted. Just a little glass of water, so that it was certain that he would pour it all down his throat. It would taste odd, but he would have no other option.

Satisfied with his decision, he put down the can.

He ascended the stairs and bolted the door behind him at the top.

In twenty-four hours the man in the impregnable cell would be dying of thirst. Then he himself would return and get ready to set him free.

After all, there was no intention for anyone to die.

THE NICKNAME

‘In any case, this ointment is the final proof,’ Jan Morell said sharply as he opened the elegant, illuminated drinks cabinet, beautifully integrated into the wall unit.