‘Hm.’ William had counted out the dice and flattened Priest’s assault, leaving his reserves depleted and his last continent exposed. ‘Oh, bad luck, by the way, Charles. Truly, the statistical improbability of my last victory was quite evident. There’s nothing wrong with your strategy, brother. You’re just out of luck.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Priest mumbled under his breath, although not completely inaudibly.

‘Now, in what way was the face abused?’

‘Ears and eyes blowtorched and the mouth stitched up,’ Priest said grimly.

‘Indeed. Quite a show. How was the needlework?’

‘Amateurish, and the burning was messy, too.’

‘Well, you’re well under way given that you can eliminate anyone who is either a surgeon or a car mechanic.’ Priest looked up. William was running through his own cards and rearranging reserve troops. In all likelihood, he hadn’t intended his comment to be funny at all.

‘Thanks, Wills. That’s helpful.’

‘You’re welcome. And by the way, Charles, is it the murder that’s upsetting you at the moment or the blonde girl you slept with last night? What’s her name? Something that starts with a vowel, I dare say.’

Priest felt wrong-footed; he made to reply but faltered, much to William’s apparent pleasure. Then he looked down, realising the presumption would have been based on William’s detection of some physical evidence, and there it was: a long strand of blonde hair attached to his jacket sleeve. He picked it off and dropped it on the floor.

‘I sense she’s trouble, brother. Do be careful,’ William cautioned.

‘And how have you reached this conclusion?’

‘She cooked breakfast for you this morning wearing your shirt. A little presumptuous after a first liaison, no?’ Priest felt he was half a second behind his older brother at every turn – it was a feeling he had endured since he was three years old. William went on, gleefully aware of his advantage. ‘There’s cooking fat splashed on your shirt and the faint smell of bacon about you. You never cook yourself breakfast at home, you don’t have time, so she must have done it for you, in your shirt, and of course she would have known you never eat a cooked breakfast unless it’s from that dreadful cafe of yours if you had spent more than a night with each other, as surely you would have mentioned it.’

‘Maybe I’ve changed my habits,’ Priest suggested, although he knew it sounded unconvincing and was received as such.

‘Rubbish. Serengeti leopards and all that. Now don’t be such a bore: back to the murders and the destruction of the second victim’s eyes. To stop her seeing something or to punish her for something she had already seen?’

‘Not sure yet.’