Jameson lay with his right cheek pressed against the cold concrete. He’d been Tasered once before, in MI6, but two fellow trainees had been holding his arms to stop the inevitable fall, which is where the real injury can occur. He had felt nervous but safe. Experts were on hand and it would last no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds, it turned out, that felt like a lifetime.

This time, Beardsley must have held on for at least thirty seconds. Only now did he feel the heat of the injuries to his cheekbone and elbow. He hoped neither was broken.

But his physical pain paled against the shock of Sarah’s deceit. He knew that somewhere in the world there were at least three women who would delight at the idea that when Marcus Jameson had finally fallen in love it was with an illusion, nothing more than a projection of his own fantasy. He also knew that the sick anger he felt now was only the beginning. The depression would follow. If he made it out of here alive.

There was movement above him. Chairs scraped the floor and shoes clipped against the concrete. He took a moment to check his body, flexing the muscles in his feet, ankles and legs, and, when all seemed well, repeated the process in his arms and torso. His right elbow sent a searing dagger of pain through his bicep and into his shoulder. He bit his tongue and counted to five. The heat dissipated. His elbow was probably broken. He lifted his head a fraction, releasing the pressure on his face. His cheekbone hurt, but his elbow was far worse.

There was something shiny nestled in a groove between the cobblestones in front of his face. It was a small silver L-shaped pendant. From a necklace. And not just any necklace. He was sure he had seen it around Lana’s neck. Could that be right? There must be hundreds of similar silver necklaces, worn by hundreds of women, any one of whom could have dropped it here. Yet he was sure Lana had been in this room.

‘Wakey, wakey, baby-facey.’ He saw Seraphine’s feet in their high heels. A few hours ago, those feet had been snaking up his thigh. And man, had he loved that. The disgust came again in a fresh wave of sickness. She stooped and her face came into view. ‘Hey, baby. You OK?’ The concern in her eyes looked so authentic that for a micro-second Jameson’s brain read it as real.

‘Back off,’ he said as his senses recovered.

Seraphine tilted her head as if studying a cute puppy. ‘You know that circle of psychos, as you so fondly christened us? Well, we just got one link stronger. So I’d be careful what you say.’ She stood up straight before he could respond. ‘Get him up.’