Evidently they weren’t going to let them have a long lie. Was this an indication of a desire to send them on their way as fast as was decently possible? Stretching out his hand, he found his watch and looked at it. He noted with surprise that it was nine-five. Not so early. He lay back, gazing at the dingy ceiling. The events of the night seemed unsubstantial. But he knew he had not dreamed them.

Carol propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Now just give me time and I’ll remember the name. Is it George? No. It’s Tom.’ She contrived intense, frowning concentration. ‘Why no! It’s Paul. Hello, Paul. Did you have a good night?’

He pulled her down and growled in her ear. ‘No, I did not. And if we’re going to get any breakfast I think we should get dressed and downstairs as fast as possible.’ And out of here, he added to himself.

‘What, no breakfast in bed?’

‘No. Not here. You heard what the man said. But tomorrow morning I’ll insist on my favourite breakfast.’

‘Oh! What’s that?’

‘A roll in bed with honey.’

‘Oh-ho! Then I think I’ll have my favourite supper tonight.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Garlic and syboes sandwiches.’

He smacked her bottom, kissed her and pushed back the bedclothes. The room was so cold that moisture had frozen on the inside of the window-panes. On the outside ice patterns simulated fern leaves, glittering in the pale-red rays of the sun slanting in the left-hand windows.

He looked out on a bleak white wilderness. The snow had ceased falling, having covered the landscape – ground, bushes, trees, hills. In front of the house the open terrain sloped downwards, with thickly wooded areas of pine and fir on right and left. About four hundred yards away, the shores of a loch could be seen. From the far shore snow-clad mountains rose.

A movement caught his eye. Down below, before the entrance to the house, four men, well muffled up, were trying to dig away the drifted snow, piled high against the sides and fronts of the four vehicles.

With a shiver he turned from the window. Carol was up and dressing, her activities urged on by the chill of the room. He followed her example.

The oil-lamp had been relit in the hall below. It added its light to the sparse amount of daylight grudgingly allowed to filter through the snow-covered glass dome overhead. As they crossed the bare floorboards to the open dining-room door, warmth met them. Inside, the fire was well ablaze, two large log sections crackling and sparking pleasantly. Used breakfast dishes lay on the big table. Arnold Bourne, in a multi-hued Icelandic sweater and dark-grey slacks, sat drinking coffee. Jeremy Hunt, at the other end of the table, was busy scribbling on a clipboard.

‘Ah!’ said Bourne. ‘Our guests. Good morning.’