Spiridon removed his coat and handed it to his brother. He pulled up a chair and sat before De Jaager, so close that their knees almost touched. He intertwined his fingers and gazed upon the man before him, those clement eyes carefully taking in each of De Jaager’s features in the manner of a physiognomist tasked with establishing the evidence of grave moral degeneracy in another. Finally, he spoke.

‘I am sorry it has come to this,’ he said.

De Jaager did not reply. This man was unworthy of it, and no words would make any difference to what was to come.

‘You understand why you and I are sitting here, don’t you?’ said Spiridon. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re about to die in ignorance.’

‘Timmerman,’ said De Jaager.

‘Bravo,’ said Spiridon, and gave a slow, sad clap. ‘Although Andrej never cared for that appellation, and I didn’t either. I had always wondered if you might have been responsible for his death, but then there were so many others who had cause to hate him. I was surprised that we didn’t have a queue of candidates claiming credit for his execution, but perhaps caution caused them to remain silent. That was wise, given what is about to happen to you.’

He stared at his hands and De Jaager tensed, for it seemed to him that this might be the moment of his death, one in which Spiridon would descend upon him with nails like talons and tear him apart. But the Serb, having waited for so long, was now disinclined to hurry.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I once asked Andrej if he’d kept count of how many men he’d killed. I was genuinely curious, and he took the question to heart. He came to me some days later and told me he believed it was between two hundred and fifty and three hundred individuals. He regretted that he could not be more precise, but memory always betrays us. Still, it was impressive that he could recall so many, although I was told that he entered names in a notebook for many years until it became unwise to retain it. He said the wars against the Turks and Croats were the crowning glories of his life, and his only regret was that they had ever ended. He once killed thirty people in a single day, mostly men. They were brought to him from the camp at Omarska. They were forced to kneel before the stump of a tree, and then Andrej shattered their skulls with a mallet made of lignum vitae. He stopped when his arms grew heavy and he could no longer dispatch his victims with a single blow. The women, though, he raped first. Spoils of war.’