Emil Borreson was a Swedish Bitcoin dealer who lived in a seven-bed mansion on five acres of land just outside Chipping Norton. He sat at his office desk, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard of his laptop. Stuck to the art nouveau shade of the desk lamp was a polaroid photograph of a terrified, crying woman seated on the floor of a dark room. Framed photos on the same desk suggested that this woman was Borreson’s wife, or at least his partner. Also visible in the polaroid was a pair of feet, wearing Adidas NMDs. That same man now stood by Emil’s side as together they watched the spinning circle in the middle of the laptop screen.

Betina stood a few yards away, mobile in hand, ignoring its buzzing. She had twelve voicemails from Alberto and she finally pressed play on one of them. ‘Answer my calls! I’ve got away. Have you? You said you were safe – why aren’t you answering me?’ Then another: ‘The police were waiting at every house, I just need to know that you’re safe. Why aren’t you . . . if this is the cops, pick up. Pick up or . . . I’ll kill someone. Anyone. Where’s my sister?!’ And another: ‘Betina, if you’re not with the cops, and you are safe, pick up! Or have you betrayed me, Betina? Did you know they were coming? Please don’t tell me that’s it . . . please! This is that bastard De Voe’s doing. And you let him! When did I become part of the fucking cannon fodder, you bitch? They have your name, Betina. They have his name, so you’re not safe at all. You’d better hope the police find you before I do, darling sister. Because, blood or not, if you’ve betrayed me, I’ll slit your fucking throat!’ Betina listened to the voicemails without any expression on her face.

Adidas Man waved Betina across to the desk. Borreson’s request to cash out his £20 million cryptocurrency account had been granted by the crypto exchange and the money was now on its way to a second bank account. Betina texted De Voe:

With you shortly.

‘Please . . .’ Borreson’s voice was no more than a whisper. His armpits were dark with sweat. He stared at the image of his wife’s terrified face. ‘Please. Give her back to me.’

Betina assured Borreson that his wife was alive. After they left his home, they’d return to the place she was being held and let her go. Betina moved his laptop and his mobile out of reach, and placed a small camera on the desk in front of him, pointing in his direction. ‘If you move from your desk before your wife walks through that door, I’ll kill her. If you call the police, I’ll kill her.’

Borreson said that he understood. He said it over and over.