Belle Shawn lay in bed, the clothes drawn up to her neck, her face pale, her hair very tidy. Shawn was by the dressing-table, fully dressed, except for his coat and shoes, and was combing his thick, dark hair. He used Roger’s trick, looking at the door in the mirror.

“Lissa said a doctor’s coming,” he declared.

“He should be here,” said Roger. “Did Mrs Meredith tell you that I am —”

“The man from Scotland Yard.” Shawn finished combing his hair, and turned round. His expression was blank, his lips were tightly set, betraying the way his teeth clenched, and his eyes still seemed to burn. He took his coat off the back of a chair, and began to put it on. “The police are out,” he declared flatly. “This is a private matter.”

“Keep it that way,” Roger said.

Shawn stopped moving, in surprise.

“If you don’t care whether you see your son again or not,” Roger went on, “keep it private.”

Shawn finished adjusting his coat, then moved slowly towards Roger. He was like a bear, massively powerful, but there was no clumsiness in his movements. His shoulders were bent, but he was still inches taller than Roger. His features seemed to grow bigger as he drew nearer. He moved his arms slowly, his great hands settled on Roger’s shoulders. His fingers gripped, firmly, then gripped more tightly, as if he could crush the flesh and the bone. It hurt, but Roger didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“You mean well,” Shawn said with great deliberation. “But don’t get in the way. I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what anyone says. This is not official. It isn’t going to be official I sent the boy away, understand. I sent him away.

I know where he is. I drugged his mother and myself, so that she couldn’t prevent me, because I knew the boy was in danger. Understand that, Mr Scotland Yard? No one’s been kidnapped, everything is just fine.”