He thought that the evening had gone about as well as it could have done, but it was difficult to say anything more than that. He had known, of course, that the subject of Jackson would be raised. He had detected nothing that would suggest that del Pozo knew he was lying. He had been careful in Manchester to ensure that he had not been seen by any witnesses, nor had his image been recorded on any of the cameras that they had identified near the junction. The only way that he could have betrayed his involvement was by a lack of credibility when the accusations were put to him this evening. He thought he had responded with the appropriate confusion and then indignation, but the matter was out of his hands now.

They either believed him, or they didn’t.

And if they didn’t?

Nothing he could do about that now.

Milton undressed and got into bed. He was tired. It had been a long day, and the effort of maintaining his legend had been draining.

He closed his eyes and was quickly asleep.

50

Milton awoke. He didn’t know what time it was, but, as he slowly came back to full consciousness, he realised that he had heard a noise. He held his breath and listened, lying still as he looked out into the gloom of the bedroom.

Had he heard something?

Perhaps not. Perhaps he had imagined—

He was blinded as a flashlight came on; the beam shone directly into his face from the foot of the bed. He looked away, but the damage was already done; his night vision was compromised, splashes of white pulsing across his retinas. He tried to scramble up the mattress, but he was too sleepy and too slow. Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him around, turning him so that he was flat on his chest. A heavy weight pressed down on his back; he realised that someone had straddled him, their hands on his shoulders as a second person pinned his flailing right hand and fed something around his wrist.

“Get off me,” he grunted.

His left hand was pinned down and then yanked behind his back. He felt something around that wrist, too, and then he gasped with pain as both wrists were forced together and the restraint—a zip tie, he thought—was pulled tight.

He was dragged off the bed and dumped onto the floor. His left shoulder hit first, taking all of his weight until his legs came over the bed and he crashed down onto his side. He looked up, blinking to clear his vision, and saw three shadows. He felt hands beneath his shoulders as he was hauled upright. The door that led out of the bedroom to the terrace was opened, and Milton was dragged out.