The man had no sign of a head injury. He looked so sleek, so well-groomed it was hard to think he might have had an accident. But if it was an act, he was convincing. The tears, the shaking. Surely that would be hard to fake. And how would Sandy know him? How would he persuade this man to set up the stunt?

‘Why don’t you empty out your pockets?’ Perez said. ‘There’ll be a driving licence, credit cards. We can give you a name at least, track down some relatives, some explanation of what might have happened.’

The Englishman stood up, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘That’s where I always keep my wallet.’

‘You remember that, then?’

The man faltered. ‘I thought I did. How can I be sure of anything?’ He began in a slow, meticulous way to search the other pockets. There was nothing. He took his jacket off and handed it to Perez. ‘You check.’

Perez did, knowing as he did that there would be nothing to find. ‘What about your trousers?’

The man pulled out the pocket linings, stood there looking terrified and faintly ridiculous, the white cloth hanging against the black trousers.

‘You had nothing with you?’ Perez asked. ‘A bag? A briefcase?’ He realized he was sounding desperate. His fantasy of a night spent with Fran was fast disappearing.

‘How would I know?’ It came out almost as a scream.

‘I’ll go and look.’

‘No,’ the man said. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘Has someone hurt you? What are you frightened of?’

He thought for a moment. Had some trace of memory returned? ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Come with me if you like.’

‘No. I can’t face those people.’

‘You remember seeing them?’

‘I told you. I remember everything after the painting.’