I grinned. ‘I asked him the way to El Cerco. He wanted me to present his condolences to Mrs Salton – that’s how I know his name.’

‘That’s all?’ Hanna was suspicious.

‘That’s all.’

He thought for a few moments. ‘You and Ogilvie both saw Don Jackson. Together or separately?’

‘Separately.’

‘Why see him at all?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! He runs a newspaper. It’s a good source of information.’

Hanna pondered. ‘All right, Mr Kemp, that will be all for the moment. I must ask you to keep yourself available for further questioning. Where are you staying? The Royal Caribbean or El Cerco?’

‘The Royal Caribbean. Where can I find Ogilvie?’

Hanna scribbled on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me. ‘That’s the hospital. One more thing – where did Mrs Salton go this morning?’

‘She didn’t tell me.’

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can find out from Benning.’

‘How would they know?’ I asked curiously.

‘All aircraft leaving Campanilla must depart from a state-licensed airport. That usually means Benning International.’ He smiled. ‘We have to collect the departure tax, you know.’

Plus it makes a handy method of police control, I thought. I stood up and said, ‘I’ll get along to the hospital.’

‘There’s not much point,’ said Hanna. ‘He’s still unconscious and you probably won’t be allowed to see him.’

‘I’ll go anyway,’ I said, and left his office.

The Chronicle’s editor had implied that the police were unreliable in this case, being corrupted by the government. Hanna had reinforced this impression: although he declined to say so outright, he had as much as told me that Barstow, under pressure from Conyers, had soft-pedalled on the investigation. Yet there was room for hope in the lines of Hanna’s questioning. He knew damned well that Salton’s death was a factor to be considered when looking at poor Ogilvie.

And then there was his interest in Jill Salton’s sudden flight. Twice he had asked me where she had gone, once on the telephone and again in an apparent fit of absentmindedness that didn’t fool me for a minute. It struck me that Hanna might be a fundamentally good copper who would go on doing his job in spite of instructions to the contrary from above.

I found Ogilvie looking like something recently excavated from a sarcophagus. The bits of him that weren’t bandaged were blue with bruising. He breathed stertorously, but then he was lucky to be breathing at all. He was still unconscious.

The doctor in attendance was professionally cautious. When I asked him the outcome, he said, ‘It’s difficult to say at this stage, Mr Kemp.’

‘Try to put a percentage on it.’

He shrugged slightly. ‘Call it fifty-fifty.’