Who else had spotted Dyer speaking to Marvar in Great Clarendon Street, or an hour later on Port Meadow, immersed in a conversation that nobody could have interrupted, or returning with Marvar to Jericho? What faces behind frosted windscreens had tracked them? Had those same eyes combed Dyer’s house, or were they different ones? Even if Marvar hadn’t been abducted, it was possible that whoever was in pursuit of him had extended their attention to Dyer.

It had happened in his life once or twice. There had come into his mind someone he had not thought about in years, and next moment this person had appeared. Never before, though, not even as he walked into the Cantina da Lua, up the stairs, through the bead curtain, holding a book – the same book Rejas was reading – had he experienced a premonition about an event, and it unfolded.

Dyer was making his way down Magdalen Street when a car swerved, skidded to a halt, doors flying open, and two men sprang out and ripped towards him. He had a staccato impression, rat-at-at-at, of black hoodies, gloved fingers clamping his arms, a silver Passat estate, exhaust fumes. A group of Chinese tourists looked on, gawping, as Dyer flailed out a hand, grabbing one of them, a young woman, by the wrist, and yelled at the top of his voice, at the same time clinging with every particle of his strength to his shoulder bag.

One of the hoodies fought to prise Dyer from the terrified woman, knocking him to the ground. The other hoodie knelt and trapped his head in an arm-lock, wrenching his neck and hoisting Dyer’s gaze to the car.

He glimpsed a dark-skinned face peering out at him from the passenger seat, canal-black eyes without expression, until on studying Dyer closer, they registered a shock of surprise. Dyer heard a curt shout, an order barked in a foreign language – but what language? Arabic, Hebrew, Farsi? He couldn’t be sure, either then or afterwards.

The two hoodies, nonplussed, suddenly released him, stood up and ran back to the car. There was a screech of wheels as they dived in, doors slamming, accelerated off.

Dyer lay not moving for a second. Then he picked himself up from the pavement, checked that he still had his bag, its contents were safe, and helped the Chinese woman to her feet.

She was shaken, but unhurt, she insisted.

He escorted her over to a bench to be comforted by her group.

The tour guide – black blazer with brass buttons; blue-red-and-brown striped tie – was an Englishman like Dyer, with a broad moley face. ‘Who were they?’ he asked Dyer in an educated, interested voice.

‘I have no idea,’ said Dyer.

‘Might they have thought you were someone else?’ with glances at the road.

‘It’s possible,’ said Dyer, and after accepting the woman’s assurance that she was fine, really, he went up the steps into the Taylorian.