The men nearby shook their heads, growling at one another, as if something had gone properly wrong. They shot hard glances at the other man and he gave them a shrug that said there wasn’t much that could be done about it now.

‘You mentioned Cordelia,’ said the tall man, looking at me. ‘She’s the owner? Her husband’s a politician, you say?’

‘Cranham,’ I gasped. ‘He’s something important but I don’t know what. I’ve only met him a couple of times. Cordy’s my friend. She said to come and get the place ready …’

‘To clean,’ he said again, emphasizing the word as if it’s significant. He shrugged again. Pursed his lips and blew out a long thin plume of grey air. ‘Lordy, this is a pickle.’

‘Nothing on him,’ said one of the other lads nearby. He sounded British enough. Sounded royally miffed, too. ‘No weapons, no paperwork …’

‘No weapons?’ I asked, feeling like I’d been reading a book and turned over three pages at once. ‘What are you talking about …?’

‘Come on then,’ said the man I took for the leader. ‘Best get in out of the cold, I suppose. We’ll get the kettle on. Have a little chat. See if we can’t all make friends. Morgan, Bench … try and be gentle, yes?’

They did as they were told. Hooked their arms under John’s and got him to his feet. Moved us towards the house while I wittered and fretted and tried to dust the muck and the pee off his front. He was sweating. Shivering and sweating and already there was a smell coming off him that said he was running a fever and something inside of him had gone wrong.