So, Hélène had done a runner? He suppressed a smile. The old girl was wilier than he’d thought. But where could she have gone? The only way off the mountain was the funicular, and the operator wouldn’t have taken her down without a pass. He hoped she hadn’t flung herself off an escarpment, though it was unlikely. And what of the handbag? Would she have taken it with her? He hadn’t thought she’d be one to flout the rules, but what did he know? Behind those placid, yellow-flecked eyes might lurk a mind like a well-oiled machine.

If only he had the good sense – or courage – to slip away, consequences be damned. In his session yesterday with Dr Lindstrom, he had once again begged her for help, pleading to the point of humiliation that she convince Gessen he should be allowed to return to his life. An uncharacteristic outburst of anger at a stranger, in a long and blameless life, was not reason enough to keep him locked up. He had even confessed to her his greatest fear: that Gessen had no intention of letting him go, and that he would be a prisoner here for ever.

With a deep sense of foreboding, he hauled himself from the chair and headed towards his chalet.

‘Hey, wait up. You’re Victor, right?’

He returned Ismail’s smile with a flat stare. ‘Vidor.’

‘Well, Vidor, Libby and I have a bet going about where you’re from.’

She swatted his arm. ‘No, we don’t.’ She appealed to Vidor. ‘He’s just kidding.’

‘So, tell us who’s right. My guess is Afghanistan. Or maybe Iran.’

Vidor’s heart flipped. Afghanistan. Whatever gave him that idea? ‘If you must know,’ he said stiffly, ‘I’m a full-blood Hungarian. My family are Magyars from centuries back. Though we might, like so many,’ he said, trying to take the edge off his annoyance, ‘have a little Genghis Khan mixed in.’

‘So, I was right, then.’ Ismail cocked an eyebrow. ‘Wasn’t he a Persian bloke?’

Too clever by half. His monthly allowance was probably more than the GDP of some African countries. ‘And you? I take it you’re from where… Dubai, or is it Kuwait?’ Normally, it took a great deal to ruffle him, but something about the boy got under his skin.

Ismail stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and winked at Libby. ‘I mostly grew up here.’ He pointed his chin towards the horizon. ‘Geneva. My father’s a diplomat. But I went to school in England.’ He gazed at Vidor with those inscrutable eyes. ‘So where did you learn to speak Arabic, then?’

What was the lad going on about? In a nervous gesture, Vidor reached up and flicked his ear. ‘I speak several languages, but Arabic isn’t one of them.’

‘Is that so? Umuk majnuna, wa abuk khinzir.’