The man in the dark tie said, ‘Here, let me help,’ and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. ‘Jean-Philippe Leclerc, inspector of the Geneva Police Department.’

One of the paramedics took Hoffmann’s other arm and together he and the inspector raised him carefully to his feet. On the creamy paintwork of the wall where his head had rested was a feathery patch of blood. More blood was on the floor – smeared into streaks, as if someone had skidded in it. Hoffmann’s knees sagged. ‘I have you,’ Leclerc reassured him. ‘Breathe deeply. Take a moment.’

Gabrielle said anxiously, ‘He needs to go to a hospital.’

‘The ambulance will be here in ten minutes,’ said the paramedic. ‘They’ve been delayed.’

‘Why don’t we wait in here?’ suggested Leclerc. He opened the door on to the chilly drawing room.

Once Hoffmann had been lowered into a sitting position on the sofa – he refused to lie flat – the paramedic squatted in front of him.

‘Can you tell me the number of fingers I’m holding up?’

Hoffmann said, ‘Can I have my…’ What was the word? He raised his hand to his eyes.

‘He needs his glasses,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Here you are, darling.’ She slipped them over his nose and kissed his forehead. ‘Take it easy, all right?’

The medic said, ‘Can you see my fingers now?’

Hoffmann counted carefully. He ran his tongue over his lips before replying. ‘Three.’

‘And now?’

‘Four.’

‘We need to take your blood pressure, monsieur.’

Hoffmann sat placidly as the sleeve of his pyjama jacket was rolled up and the plastic cuff was fastened around his bicep and inflated. The end of the stethoscope was cold on his skin. His mind seemed to be switching itself back on now, section by section.