I felt more interested and asked again about the letters.

“I only have one to show you,” he said. “Susan tore up another five or six, she’s not sure how many.” He stood up, six feet of bony, moribund elegance and took a folded sheet of paper from his hip pocket. He handed it to me and reached down for his air pistol.

“Please don’t do that,” I said.

He sneered at me. “You mentioned your fee and your terms on the telephone. You didn’t say anything about your sensibilities.” He slid back a lever on the pistol and checked a pencil-thin magazine of lead pellets. “Have another drink, Mr Hardy, and turn your attention to what you’ll be paid for.” He rammed home the lever. “Or piss off!”

I shrugged. Big men were raping little girls, fanatics were torturing each other and people were going mad in cells all over the world. A protest here and now seemed a vain and futile thing.

“I’ll take the drink,” I said.

“I thought you might.” He moved along the deck to where it took a right-angle bend into what I supposed was the south balcony. His hand came up sharply and he squeezed the trigger six times. Fifty yards away the pellets rattled like hailstones against metal and glass.

“The drink’s on its way.” He weighed the pistol in his hand.

“This is the most fun I have,” he said. He waved the thing at me like a conductor’s baton, signalling me on. “Get on with it!”

I got on. The paper could have been hand-rolled or beaten out with steam hammers for all I knew. It was a bit smaller all round than quarto and the words on it were in red ballpoint ink, printed in capitals like things of this kind usually are:

SUSAN GUTTERIDGE YOU DESERVE TO DIE

Gutteridge hadn’t fired his pistol while I was studying the note. He moved back to where I was sitting. He was tense, stretched tight.