‘Lars Winther here. Journalist with DG Sports. What are you actually planning to do with that wildlife camera you just stole?’

THE REALIZATION

Once again he attempted to concentrate on the motive.

Why he was sitting there.

Was standing there. Why he was lying there, on this hard bunk, or why he had been left to go to the toilet over a grate that was now stinking out the whole cell. He jogged occasionally. Along the walls, around in a small circle, his feet were sore from the rough underlay, and he could not for the life of him understand what he had done wrong. His balls were smarting: they were damp and had broken out in a red rash.

It was a long time now since he had received any food. Bizarrely enough he was hungry, though he had never felt the need for food in here. He had eaten just because he knew that he must. Thirst was never a problem. Although the trickling hole was ever so disgusting, the water that came out of it was fresh and cold. Food was delivered so seldom that he had actually managed to swallow down most of it. A few hours ago he had gobbled down a slice of bread from yesterday, with liver paté that had hardened at the edges and tasted of cod liver oil. Now there was nothing left.

The consolation was that it was just as long since the machine had been switched on.

The room was still square.

He thought about women. There had been many of them. They never stayed long. Once or twice they had been the ones to leave, but as a rule he had been the one to become bored. Not all the break-ups had been particularly dignified. A couple of them had been downright brutal, on reflection. To the best of his knowledge, however, he could not imagine having done anything to deserve a punishment like this.

A wicked hellhole such as this cell. At his age it was impossible not to have fallen out with anyone in the course of his life. A couple of colleagues, maybe, but never any really serious rift. A neighbour, he remembered now, involved in a furious row about the siting of a garage. The conflict had nearly landed up in court, but he had chosen to sell his childhood home and move to an apartment before it reached that stage.

The person who had put him in here knew of his worst nightmare.

Even though he had mentioned his phobia to the New York Times, he had refused to talk about it here at home.

He had been naïve.

The person who had kidnapped him must hate him.

After perhaps forty rounds of the little room – he had to change direction every other time to avoid becoming dizzy – he lay down on the bunk. Closed his eyes.

That was when it dawned on him.