Their boots trampling the grass, holding torches chest height, dozens of green uniformed state police emerged into the light and, in a perfectly drilled manoeuvre, ringed the audience. Precise. Stealthy. Taking up a position by the stage, their commander issued orders through a loud hailer which Laure did not understand.

Anatomie continued to play, the music ringing through the dark.

Brave, wonderful Tomas…

A detachment of the police now formed a tunnel and directed the audience down it to the exit. Several of the bulkier ones jumped up onto the stage and wrested the instruments from the men.

From the side of the stage, Laure watched as Tomas battled to prevent his guitar being taken by one of the police. But when it was in danger of being damaged, he yielded it up with a shrug.

She knew enough by now to know it was vital that she kept out of sight and made for the tent to pick up her rucksack and to head out.

Too late. Leo, Manicki and Tomas were ushered into the tent, followed by the police commander and his sidekick, both with the powerful torches.

Manicki fiddled with his hair, pulling strands this way and that. Leo stared through the tent entrance when the tail end of the audience could be seen dispersing. Tomas buttoned his waistcoat deliberately and slowly.

He did not look at Laure. She did not look at him – and that was the hardest thing.

Eventually, the police commander issued another order and the three men were escorted out of the tent. His sidekick turned to Laure and levelled an order at her. She shook her head. He repeated whatever it was. Louder. Again, she shook her head and spread her hands in a gesture indicating that she did not understand.

Exclaiming irritably, he seized her by the arm and pushed her out of the tent and escorted her to the exit.

On the abandoned stage, the electricians were performing a frantic demolition job. Flex dangling from one hand, Vaclav sent her a look from under his lids and tapped a finger to his lips. Say nothing.

Say nothing.

Laure repeated Vaclav’s admonition to herself with a sense of growing astonishment that she was where she was. It would be touch and go if she could ever make anyone in Brympton believe her. Bloody drama queen, Jane would say.

She was in a windowless room devoid of furniture except for two cheap plastic chairs adorned with cigarette burns and a black Bakelite telephone at the centre of the table. Its flex was slotted through a hole bored through the table top and ran over to the connection box in the wall. A mad arrangement, she thought. If you didn’t remember it was there, it might trip people up. Maybe that was the point?