“That’s right, old boy,” he said in a plummy public school voice. Not for him the attempt to tone down the upper-crust accent and give in to the increasingly common Estuary English pronunciation. It told me a lot about him-arrogant, proud, the Harrow tie not a joke but a reminder of a birthright. A wanker, more than likely.

“I suppose you’re from the embassy,” I said. “I’m completely innocent, you know. I wasn’t involved in anything. I was on holiday. First bloody holiday in years.” “Beastly piece of luck, I’m sure. But the Spanish don’t care, you will be tried, you will be found guilty, you’ll get five to ten years, I suppose. The new prime minister, Mr. Blair, has said that he supports fully the Spanish government’s intention of making an example out of the soccer hooligans who once again have blighted the good name of England,” he said breezily.

“I’m not English,” I told him.

“It doesn’t matter,” the man replied quickly.

“It matters to me.”

“Well, it won’t make any difference. You will be convicted,” he said.

“Listen, mate, if you came here to give me a lecture you can piss off,” I said, lifting up my trouser leg and scratching under the straps that held the artificial foot to my calf. I’d lost the foot five years before in a lovely piece of jungle surgery in Mexico. It had saved my life and I was thoroughly unselfconscious about it now.

The man smiled, picked at a piece of fluff on his shirt, looked behind him at the secretary, cleared his throat.

“I imagine, Brian, that you do not want to spend the next ten years in some ghastly prison on the mainland,” he said softly.

“No, I bloody don’t,” I said, trying to conceal my surprise with passion.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Do you smoke?”

I shook my head. He lit himself a cigarette, offered one to the woman, who also declined. But he had me now. It was an interesting situation and I had to admit that I was intrigued. No guard had accompanied the two Brits. They did not appear flustered, angry. There was no pompous talk. Something was going on. Were they releasing me? Maybe Dan Connolly from the FBI had heard about my predicament and pulled a few strings.