I had to use all my weight on the brake pedal, and my strength on the steering wheel, as, without the engine running, the power assistance was not operative. When I was a sufficient distance from the house, I flattened the accelerator, turned my key hard over, and came as near to having a fatal heart attack as I hope I ever shall. The engine fired, first time, on all eight cylinders, all seven point nine litres of brute Yank V8, built in the heady days before oil shortages and pollution were of concern to the automobile world. It burst into life and the rev counter shot straight up to the three-thousand mark. The noise of the engine shattered the still of the night, and must have shattered it for a good many miles around: the bloody car had no silencer. I snapped on the lights, shoved the shift into drive, and headed away as quickly as I could.

Down towards Lake Michigan, the weather was a bit better, and the roads were clear of snow. I arrived in Adamsville shortly after nine o’clock, and was directed to the American Fossilized plant which was several miles out of the town.

By nine forty-five Slan hadn’t arrived. He was late, the receptionist informed me. He was usually in before she got there. She thought maybe he’d celebrated New Year’s Eve a bit too hard and was sleeping it off. By ten o’clock, he still hadn’t arrived. The girl gave me his home telephone number. I dialled it; the phone rang several times, and then it was answered by a hysterical woman who said, ‘No, I can’t speak now, not – now – you’ll have to call back, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,’ and then hung up.

I decided I’d better go pay Harry Slan a visit at his home, and quickly. But I was too late. The entrance road to the smart middle-management-bracket housing estate was blocked by a patrol car. Behind it I could see a fire engine, an ambulance and two more patrol cars, and then the house. One side of the house looked an awful mess. A state trooper got out of the patrol car as I approached.

‘I’m sorry, you can’t come past here,’ he said.

‘I have to see Mr Slan – it’s urgent.’

The trooper looked me slowly up and down. I was unshaven for two days, white, and shaking from no sleep and a long drive. ‘You want to see Mr Slan, you’re going to have to make an appointment with the Almighty.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you a newspaper man?’

He seemed disappointed when I told him no, I wasn’t a newspaper man. He had obviously been hoping to be quoted.