‘Get your coat,’ he said gruffly. A light snow had begun to fall, but the funicular ran in all but the worst weather, so there should be no trouble reaching the village. The thought of boarding the train to Geneva made his heart skip with glee. If he was lucky, they would not pass through any tunnels. It wouldn’t do to have a panic attack while making his escape, but he couldn’t worry about that now. The important thing was to get home and back in the lab. For a brief moment he imagined the sound of his colleagues’ applause when he walked into his first department meeting after so many agonising weeks away. He would feign surprise at the dinner they had arranged for him in belated celebration of the Søgaard Prize, the golden plum that neuroscientists the world over dreamed of holding in their hands. Now, one of their number, Vidor Kiraly, belonged to the blessed few. Next year, it would surely be the Nobel.

‘Are you all right?’

He turned to see an attractive older woman looking at him with alarm. She looked familiar, but he’d momentarily forgotten her name. Ah, yes. Helen. The girl from Cleveland.

‘What?’

‘I’ve been calling your name, but you were off in a world of your own.’ She hesitated. ‘Don’t you think it would be best to forget whatever plan you’ve come up with and let Dr Gessen continue your treatment?’

The frightened bird in his chest pecked at his heart. ‘No. Put a jacket on. We’re leaving now.’

While she gathered her things, he yanked out the phone wires. Not that it would help much, but it felt satisfying to destroy the only line of communication from the house. She returned with a handbag, though not the Chanel one with the doll, if it actually ever contained such a thing. It was still difficult to adjust his understanding of who she was. Or claimed to be. Perhaps the heiress story was all a lie, and she was indeed as crazy as the rest of them.

Hélène pulled on a warm parka and pushed her feet into fur-lined boots.

‘Do you have your passport?’ ‘Yes.’

‘Let me see it.’

She took it from her bag and showed him. Grande-Duché de Luxembourg. Luxembourg? The tangled layers of her story continued to mutate and grow.

‘Good. Let’s go.’ With a length of washing line he’d found in a kitchen drawer, he tied her right hand to his left.

She winced as he tightened the knots. He was sorry to hurt her, but there was no other way. He slipped a fish knife, sharp as a razor, into his coat pocket.

Hélène paled at the sight of the knife. ‘I won’t use it unless I have to,’ he said, with as much menace as he could muster. Desperate times called for desperate measures.