‘You mean SIS?’ he asks, dropping his voice even lower. ‘MI6?’

‘Give the man a medal,’ says Mr Erskine, laughing. ‘And right now, if I’m any judge, GCHQ will be listening to every word we’re saying. Given that they’re about as much use as a sackful of wet mice, that probably means we’ve got plenty of time to talk, but just in case they’re having one of their productive days, I’ll keep it brief.’

‘Can I record this?’ asks Paolo, fiddling with his phone.

‘I’d be appalled if you didn’t,’ replies Mr Erskine and Paolo can imagine the smile on his face. ‘Now, listen, and you might just learn something.’

TWO

November 29, 2016

Somewhere on the B6264, Cumbria

Paolo is sitting in the back of a red Volkswagen saloon when the call comes through. The train journey up from London has been excruciating. There was nowhere to sit for the first two hours and when he finally got his ample buttocks on a chair there was no plug to charge his laptop or phone and he’d been forced instead to stare out of the window and consider his thoughts, and that had led him nowhere good.

It’s mid-afternoon now and he’s on the road from Carlisle to Brampton. A light rain is drifting in across miles of nothingness and the streetlamps are already winking on. There’s forest either side of the road and as a seasoned city dweller he finds the nearness of untamed nature distinctly menacing. There are one or two nice houses here and there and there was a pretty little town a mile or so back, but nothing about the landscape has persuaded him that his future lies north of Watford. Even going back to Dundee seems like a ludicrous idea. His mum still lives there and she’s a horror who believes her only son to be a wastrel, and ingrate and an embarrassment, all because he quoted her in a story when he couldn’t think of anybody else to whom he could attribute a quote without fear of litigation.

The call, when it comes, immediately lifts his spirits. His mobile flashes blue and the number of the caller illuminates the screen. It’s from America, and he cannot help thinking that this story will rise or fall based on what he learns.

‘Mr Fergus? This is Juan Fernandez from the Asociación de la Antropologia Forense.’

Paolo rearranges himself. He’s glad he sat in the back of the taxi. The driver had seemed the sort who might want to talk and right now, all he wants is a clear head and decent mobile service.

‘Dr Fernandez,’ he says, smoothly. ‘You received my email. I’ve heard a rather fantastical tale …’