Boonzie considered reporting this new development to the police, then changed his mind. Why complicate matters, especially with those two useless idiots in charge of the case? He already knew what he had to do, and they’d only get in his way.

Saddened by the state of the place, he set about tidying up as best he could. As he worked he found a balled-up piece of notepaper lying in the corner behind a wastepaper basket. Uncrumpling it to see what it was, he found that it was covered in handwriting he recognised as Ewan’s.

Boonzie had left his reading glasses at home in Italy, and had to peer closely at the paper to read what Ewan had written on it. The upper third of the page was a scrawl of notes Boonzie didn’t really understand. Something about ‘Louis d’or’, and some dates and other names that meant little to him. Below that were some jottings about local history, dating back to the eighteenth century, featuring a few famous names that Boonzie did recognise, though it was unclear why Ewan had been taking such an interest in the subject. The notes at the bottom of the page switched away from history and were about illegal salmon fishing in the area. Underneath Ewan had scribbled in capitals the words ‘WHO IS THE POACHER??’ and underlined them so hard he’d scratched right through the paper.

Boonzie smoothed the page flat, folded it neatly and put it in his pocket. Then turned to look around him at the wrecked room. Until now he’d managed to keep a handle on his emotions. The image of Ewan in the intensive care unit flashed into his mind, and he thought how his nephew might never awaken from the coma these people had put him into. Rage boiled up inside him.

‘Bastards,’ he muttered.

Boonzie put his hand on his chest as he suddenly felt an odd sensation behind his ribs, followed by a jolt of pain that made him let out a low groan. He swayed slightly on his feet and reached out to support himself on the back of a chair. He waited a few seconds for the pain to subside, then walked slowly into the kitchen to find a glass and fill it with tapwater. He used it to gulp down the last couple of pills from one of the little bottles he now carried everywhere with him. He hated taking them. There was a fresh bottle in his pocket. He tossed away the empty.

When he felt better, he went to pick up Ewan’s landline phone and called Mirella. ‘It’s me. Just checking in. You okay?’

She was happy and relieved to hear from him. They spent very little time apart, as a rule, and she told him how much she was missing him.