They were sitting in the morning room, a modern extension to the main building fitted with patio doors and filled with pot plants. It was like a hothouse, and Hepton, who had already taken off his jacket, now dragged his tie loose from his neck. Paul Vincent, dressed in slippers, thick dressing gown and sunglasses, didn’t exactly look ill. He looked rested and a little tanned. In fact, he looked a good deal healthier than Hepton felt.

‘Still,’ Vincent continued, ‘it’s good to see you, Martin. Thanks for coming. So tell me, what’s happening back at the base?’

Hepton shook his head. He hadn’t driven all this way for gossip. ‘What makes you so sure you made a mistake?’

‘Well,’ Vincent opened his arms in supplication, ‘like you say, nothing’s been done about it. And Fagin doesn’t seem to think anything’s amiss.’

‘Fagin can make mistakes.’

‘Not while I’ve been working for him he hasn’t.’

‘So how come we lost Zephyr for over three minutes?’

‘You can’t blame that on him.’

‘Why not? He’s in charge, isn’t he?’

‘Martin, what’s wrong?’ Vincent seemed genuinely concerned.

Hepton rubbed sweat from his forehead. It was a good question. What was wrong? Why was he so keen to see mysteries where there might be none? Paul Vincent didn’t seem anxious. Nick Christopher didn’t seem anxious. Fagin didn’t seem anxious. So why was he bothering?

‘I don’t know, Paul. It’s just …’ He sighed. ‘I really don’t know.’

Vincent smiled. ‘It really was nice of you to come. I haven’t seen anybody since I came in here.’

‘What happened to you? I mean, back at the base?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure. One minute I was fine, the next I was in hospital.’

‘And what did the hospital say?’

‘You know what they’re like. The patient always gets to know the least.’

‘Who was your doctor?’ Hepton had asked the question in a rush. It seemed almost to catch Vincent out; he stared at Hepton before replying.

‘McGill, I think. Yes, a Dr McGill.’

Hepton sat back in the chair and looked around. A few elderly men were seated in wicker chairs. Two were playing a game of chess so delicately they looked to be moving in slow motion. The heat was prickling Hepton’s neck and back. He rubbed a finger beneath his shirt collar and glanced towards the doorway, where two muscular male orderlies stood, their jaws fixed. Like soldiers on parade, he thought, rather than nurses caring for the sick.

‘So what’s it like here?’ he asked.

‘The food’s good,’ said Vincent. ‘Mind you, the sex isn’t up to much.’

They laughed, but Hepton was beginning to catch something behind his friend’s eyes, something trapped behind that dead, unfocused look.

‘Are they giving you any drugs, Paul?’