"What sort of reply have you had?"

"What we'd have expected. Officially and unofficially our request has been ignored. I might add, Mr Curwen, that your father is only a British subject in technical terms. For the last dozen or so years he has chosen to make his home in the Republic."

"So you've washed your hands of him?"

Furneaux said evenly, "There's something you should understand. They execute a minimum of a hundred criminals a year there. There's no capital punishment debate in the Republic. From our viewpoint, your father received a fair trial although he declined to co-operate in any way with his defence advisors. The Supreme Court heard his appeal, at length."

"I'm not interested in what he did, I only care about saving his life."

"Your father was found guilty of murder. My view is that nothing more can be done to save his life."

"That's washing your hands."

"Wrong, that's accepting the reality that in South Africa people convicted of murder are hanged."

"He's my father," Jack said.

"His solicitors don't believe he has a chance of a reprieve.

I am sorry to have to tell you this."

"How soon?"

Furneaux scanned the papers in the file, flipped them over. He fastened on a single sheet, read it, then closed the file.

"It may have been discussed by the executive council last night, but it might be next week – they're more preoccupied with the unrest – three weeks, a month maximum."

Jack stood. He looked at the table, he looked at his hands.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Furneaux looked to the window. "Baldly put, Mr Curwen, there's nothing you can do."

"So you're just going to stand back while they hang my father?" Jack spat the question. He saw his spittle on Furneaux's tie, and on his chin.