There was no danger of Norton Gaming underplaying the ‘murder’ theme. Everywhere he looked there were billboards on which loomed top-hatted killers wielding bloodstained knives, hooded figures with axes, old-timey gangsters with Tommy guns. Just off to his right and currently sectioned off by constructors’ wire fencing was a huge spiked metal ball. Not far away was another. Across from that, a mechanised hand holding a meat cleaver, chopping, chopping, a victim screaming. In one area were a whole bunch of figures presumably intended for distribution around the park. Men in boiler suits carrying machetes. Misshapen axe-wielding monsters. Surgeons with scalpels. Evil nurses with hypodermics. Supplies of red paint in Poland must have been severely depleted by the building of Murder World. Literally everything was liberally doused in blood.

The other thing that Abbott saw in abundance was CCTV. Everywhere he looked were cameras, sometimes whole nests of them fixed, he noticed, rather than oscillating but as he cast his eye around, he realised that they were positioned in such a way that every inch was covered.

Now they reached a pedestrianised area, either side of which were what were no doubt intended to be concessions stands. Empty, of course. A short walk led to a quadrangle. In the middle were picnic benches covered in plastic while on all four sides were more units intended for refreshments and souvenirs, but here, one storey above, was a balcony that ran around three of the four sides. The group approached a door. ‘Staff Only’ said a sign, again in English and Polish.

Kilgore pushed open the door, on the other side of which was a set of austere stone steps leading upwards. They ascended to the balcony above and here at last was another guard. He carried an M-16, same as Wilson and List, and greeted his two colleagues by name, waving them on to a room further along. Through another door, into a staffroom with a line of lockers on one side, a row of pegs on the other, and a piece of elaborate graffiti. ‘Killer Crew’.

‘So,’ said McGregor, ‘today has been an interesting morning for the Nortons. They’ve been meeting each other’s proxies for the very first time.’

‘But we proxies don’t get a look at each other?’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ said McGregor. ‘Come on, you’re the last. As soon they see you, the game begins.’ He indicated a set of overalls. ‘You’re green. The competing colours are yellow, orange and bright blue.’

‘Just four of us? I was expecting five.’

‘Simon Norton has recently expired of a heroin overdose. Consumed by his grief for his inspirational grandfather, no doubt,’ said Kilgore drily. ‘As a result, we have one fewer competitor and therefore one fewer proxy.’

McGregor indicated the overalls. ‘You need to put it on now.’

‘Green’s not my colour.’

‘We’re not going the full Reservoir Dogs on this, are we? You’re green. There’s no discussion.’