‘Well, this bloke was so proud of his he refused to take it off. They escorted him out at gunpoint with his hands above his head. I don’t know what they were so bothered about. He didn’t hassle anyone or try to take anything, and he rode off peacefully enough.’

‘Weird,’ I said.

‘Seriously?’ said Amelia. ‘Now who’s being slow? It’s obvious!’ She turned to Xander. ‘You said it yourself: he was a delivery guy. Did you get a look at the front of his helmet?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And was the visor down, and possibly tinted.’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘With me now?’ she said, looking from Xander to me and back again.

‘He didn’t want to be seen,’ I said, dread blooming in my chest. ‘Meaning he didn’t want to be linked to whatever he was delivering.’

‘I wonder what it was. Did you see?’ asked Amelia.

I don’t know how Xander responded as I was already on my way to the reception desk. That horrible instinct I have for knowing something bad is about to happen just before it does had kicked in. The concierge was filling out a form as I approached. His handwriting was extraordinary, regular as type, and very slow to execute. When he finally looked up I said, ‘My name’s Jack Courtney. Has anything been delivered for me?’

He checked the pigeonholes in the little room behind his desk, and sure enough came back to me with a brown envelope. My name and room number were printed on the front.

‘The guy in the motorcycle helmet delivered this, didn’t he?’

The concierge raised an eyebrow. ‘You know him?’

‘No, but I’m sorry to have caused a problem.’

‘There’s no problem,’ the concierge insisted kindly.

But I knew he was wrong. The problem was pulsing in my hands.

Xander had hobbled over with Amelia beside him. The three of us looked down at the envelope.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Amelia.

‘Yes, Amelia,’ I said, sliding a finger beneath the flap, ‘I am.’

34.

The envelope contained a single sheet of A4 paper. It was blank on one side with a typewritten message on the other. The message wasn’t long, just a few lines in fact, but I didn’t read them immediately because my eyes were drawn first to the bottom of the page, where the sender had taped a lock of hair, a single auburn curl, the exact colour and texture of my mother’s. I steeled myself before reading the note.

To Jack Courtney, son of Nicholas and Janine Courtney. We have your parents. We are holding them hostage and will release them when we receive US$75,000, paid in banknotes directly to our representative. Call the number below immediately for further instructions. Do not contact the police again. If you do, the next envelope will contain a body part.