‘My life has been ruined,’ he said. ‘I consider you to be partly to blame. Both my sons were murdered. Their mother left me for another man, someone much richer than me, and now she is dead too. I worked hard for the police for more than thirty years, but they cashiered me out of the force because they suspected me of what they called a serious transgression. I was believed to have killed another police officer, who was working undercover. They had absolutely no evidence I was involved, no proof. I was completely innocent. I was sacked without an honourable discharge. They even cancelled my pension. I moved away from my home island, Dearth, and since then I have lived peacefully on Salay Tielet, the third. I blame you for none of these events. But my only source of income is a private trust fund, and that has lost all its value. It is now worthless. I know you are responsible for that because you stole a software card from a hotel in Dearth City and have been using it to hack into the banks that support me.’

He was not telling the whole truth. I had read his confession – as Spoder had told me at the outset, it was not only an account of what he had done, but also a boastful claim about skilful concealment of evidence. If he was prevaricating about that now, what else was a distortion?

Spoder, standing to one side by the table, said: ‘There is some evidence that the high economy is recovering. Most banks are about to restore people’s accounts. I heard it on television this morning.’

‘No, that’s not true,’ Jeksid said. He turned back towards me. ‘And it’s irrelevant to what you have done to me. I’m bankrupt, and I need you to do something about it.’

‘I think it’s just a matter of time,’ Spoder said. ‘One of the biggest investment banks in Raba has discovered software errors that were probably responsible. Or partly responsible. This bank is the central lender for many of the trust funds and annuity holders.’

‘That’s too late for me. My money’s gone. I want payback.’

At that moment I heard the sound which I had recently come to associate with a woman I hoped never to see again: there was the loud growl of a highly tuned car engine, close to the house. I listened, hoping it was the souped-up sports car of one of the rich kids who from time to time drove at insane speeds along our streets, but this time the engine cut out.

I said: ‘Wait here!’