On the way to Wychall’s, Amanda’s home from home for the past year or so, he stops briefly at the twenty-four-hour shop on the northern fringes of Clifton to look for her favourite petticoat tail shortbread and, finding only shortbread bars, picks up a pack and makes his way to the till. Outside it has started raining hard and on his dash to the car rivulets of ice-cold water make their way down the back of his neck, adding to his general resentment. Caught between two demanding and unreasonable women. He turns the keys in the ignition. Terrible, jarring music blares from the radio. Hadn’t he left it on a classical station? He presses buttons until he reaches someone talking on the BBC World Service about Greek myths which gets him pondering which of the women in his life is best described in which myth. He decides that on a good day Veronica is Helen of Troy but on a bad day she can turn into an absolute harpy. Amanda is a Furies-slash-Sirens-slash-Medusa mash-up. He tries to picture her with snakes for hair and the thought makes him laugh out loud.

On the drive over he has to pull in for an ambulance, lights flashing, but no siren at this late hour. He taps on the dashboard, watching it go before gliding out into its slipstream. At Wychall’s, he pulls into a parking spot, makes his way to the locked entrance and rings the night bell. One of the nightshift carers (Maura?) bustles over and opens the door.

‘Oh, Professor Cullen! We were expecting you a little earlier,’ Maura says, with a smile.

‘Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. Admissions season at the university. Horrible workload,’ Cullen says now.

‘She refused a sleeping pill. She’s still saying she’s been kidnapped.’ Maura smiles kindly. ‘She’s in her room. I’ll bring you both a cup of tea.’

Cullen creeps along the peach corridor to room 24 where he finds Amanda sitting up in bed with a scarf tied around her head. There has been an attempt at make-up, which gives her the air of a panto villain. He goes over and takes her hands. The skin is papery thin with plum-coloured patches.

‘I am very unhappy, Christopher,’ she says, as though stating something momentous, the discovery of a new planet, or the start of World War Three. ‘This is not the sort of hotel I’m used to. I’ve complained but they’ve kidnapped me so they won’t do anything.’

Cullen lets go of her hands and settles himself into the winged armchair opposite the bed.

‘Who exactly has kidnapped you, Mother?’

‘Never you mind. I’d like you to take me home.’ Her voice falls to a whisper. ‘Have you brought the money? Otherwise I’ve no idea how I’m going to pay them to let me go.’