I explain the feeding instructions I was given, the pole I hooked into his harness to keep the creature at bay whenever I cleaned out its sty. There was special food, liquid food, like sloppy porridge, I had to mix it twice a day. There was a drug in it, I reckon. A sedative. It kept it asleep, much of the time. At others, I played the gramophone, or sang at the top of my voice. Once, it bit through its gag. I had to pretend to the crew the screams were mine.

The policeman nods, takes down a note, rings a little bell on his desk. It must be an agreed signal, for a clerk appears carrying a plate with some bread and two boiled eggs. A reward, I understand. We both eat hastily, sharing the plate, left hungry by the interrogation. When we are finished, the fat man licks his fingers one by one, uncaps his pen again, leans forward.

“What name did he use, this man in La Rochelle?”

I note the phrasing of the question. As though he already knows who the man is.

“He never gave his name,” I answer truthfully. “I am sorry.”

The policeman’s face looks placid. If he is keen for this particular piece of information, only his legs show it, uncrossing themselves under the table. His weight sits low, below the belly. Like he has crammed a cushion into his crotch.

“Think, Captain. I beseech you.”

But, faced with his need, I find myself reluctant to speak.

ф

It takes me two days to answer the policeman’s question. I spend them in a cell. The room is clean and heated. Nobody mistreats me. And yet a steady feeling of dread is growing in me. It is as though the world has forgotten me. I try to pray but there is no God in this nameless place, only the cluttering of typewriters, the bustling steps of clerks. Every few hours my interrogator stops by.

“Did you think of anything else?” he keeps asking.

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Perhaps.”

He has explained to me that he regards torture to be distasteful and contrary to the tenets of British Law. But after that little snack of bread and hard-boiled egg, there is no further food.

Two days. The length of the interval is not chosen at random. If my business partner keeps to the terms of our contract, he will have instructed his bank in Rotterdam to transfer the final instalment within forty-eight hours of delivery. I hope I can trust to his honesty as he has been able to trust to mine. I am a Dutch trader, after all. We do not cheat.

When two days have passed and the hunger starts eating into my guts, I decide that the time has come to reveal my final piece of information. Perhaps the policeman will be satisfied and permit me to leave.