I gave up talking and fixed my gaze ahead. To my surprise, rather than heading straight on towards the base, our driver made a left and soon pulled up before a single-storey brick-and-wood building that looked like some kind of hunting lodge. It wasn’t until I saw the multilingual sign outside that I realized it was, in fact, the island’s former police station.

It didn’t look like anything connected with law enforcement, at least from the outside. Overgrown grass and weeds partly hid the entrance, while overhanging palm trees swayed in the breeze. There was a second jeep parked outside, which I guessed must have been used to bring Rozalia.

Inside, one of the Patriot agents took Nadia into an office, while his associate led me through the back to a cell block.

‘Shoes, belt,’ he said, as he opened the barred door of a cell.

‘You have to be fucking kidding,’ I said, regarding him with a stunned expression. ‘You think I might kill myself?’

‘Now,’ he repeated, glowering at me. I glanced at the holstered gun just visible beneath his open jacket and held my tongue.

He locked me in and I listened to him retreat down the corridor. The cell had a single barred window, and since I had nothing better to do, I sat and watched the clouds tracking across the sky before I gave up hoping they might let me out any time soon.

I lay back on the narrow bench bolted to the wall, until fatigue finally carried me back off into sleep.

It felt like midday when I woke some hours later to the sound of footsteps coming back. From what I could see out of the window, it was a fine and sunny day.

The cell door swung open, and someone new walked in. He was dressed the same as the two agents who’d picked up Nadia and I that morning, and he was accompanied by the agent who had earlier deprived me of my shoes and belt. The newcomer carried a small metal stool in one hand, which he placed in the centre of the cell, facing the bench on which I’d slept. He took a seat facing me. The other agent meanwhile stood by the cell door with a watchful expression, his hand never far from his holster.

‘Mr Beche,’ said the man on the stool. ‘My name’s Langward Greenbrooke and I represent an internal agency of the Authority that investigates various . . . irregularities, for want of a better word.’ He spoke as if we were neighbours meeting for the first time over a garden fence. He reached out one hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

I leaned back, and fought the urge to shake his hand. ‘I think,’ I said as evenly as I could manage, ‘you should tell me why I’m here.’