But however hard she tried, she just couldn’t remember, just couldn’t give him what he wanted. After hours of it, she’d break down and start sobbing, and he’d sit there staring impassively at her for a while, then leave without a word and lock the door behind him.

The third regular visitor was the doctor in the white coat. He looked in his late forties, overweight, balding, bearded. From his first visit, he’d been kind to her, though there was something nervous about his smile. He’d checked her temperature and blood pressure, listened to her heart, examined the fading bruise on her head. He seemed sympathetic and genuinely anxious for her to get her memory back. He spent a lot of time asking her questions too, but his were gentle. Some she could answer and some she couldn’t. He noted her responses on a pad.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Zoë Bradbury.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘What month are we in?’

‘June, I think.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

He never pushed harder than that, and never mentioned the things that Wolfman kept asking about. She wanted to open up to him. ‘I’m scared,’ she’d said to him again and again. ‘Where am I? What’s going to happen to me?’

He never replied to her questions. Just smiled and told her everything would be all right. Her memory would return in time.

But she could see behind the smile, and the look in his eyes was telling her that he wasn’t so sure everything would be all right.

From the doctor’s second visit, two days ago now, she’d been aware of some kind of tension between him and Wolfman. There’d been angry whispers outside her door, and once there’d been an argument some way down the corridor outside that she’d strained to hear but couldn’t make out.

Then, yesterday, the doctor had come to see her again. This time there’d been a woman with him. Not the woman from before. This one had dark red hair, not black. She was smiling, but when she leaned against the wall, Zoë saw the butt of the gun sticking out of the holster under her jacket.

The doctor had sat by the bed. His voice was soft. ‘I have some good news for you, Zoë.’

‘I’m going home?’

He’d smiled sadly and patted her arm. ‘Not just yet. But we’re moving you to a nicer room, where you’ll be more comfortable. I think you’ll like it there.’

‘I just want to get out of this place!’ Zoë had yelled.

He and the woman had left then. She’d waited all day for their return, and fallen asleep thinking it must have been some kind of cruel trick.

They’d finally come back that morning, along with two more men she didn’t recognise. The men acted like guards and said nothing. Zoë had been thankful that Wolfman wasn’t with them.

The doctor had led the way. The woman walked with her, and the guards followed quietly behind. Instead of turning left for the bathroom, they turned right and went all the way up the drab corridor to a doorway. Beyond it was another corridor, and then they’d come to a lift. The woman had pressed the button for the top floor.

They’d stepped out into a different world. The walls were white, with sun streaming in through big skylights. At the end of another corridor they’d shown Zoë to the room she was in now. It was twice the size of the old one, with its own little bathroom. The bed was comfortable, and at the foot of it some fresh clothes had been laid out for her. In one corner was a table with some magazines and a little personal DVD player and a stack of movies for her to watch. She remembered what movies were, though she couldn’t recall having ever seen one. It was a strange feeling.

‘You rest a while,’ the doctor had said as they left her. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to start your therapy sessions. We’ll get your memory back.’ Then he’d winked at her and locked the door.

Now, as she lay there waiting for tomorrow to dawn, she thought about what was in store. The doctor seemed kind, and her instinct told her she could trust him. But another voice in her head told her that the doctor wasn’t in charge of things here.

Sleep was impossible. Her heartbeat wouldn’t settle. She sat up in the bed, ran her hands through her hair and over her forehead. Somewhere inside here, buried deep inside her mind, was the information these people wanted.

And if it came back. What then?

Corfu

Ben left the cove and walked back towards Kérkyra, taking his time, deep in thought. He dumped the garbage sack with the remains of the duffel bag and his phone in a bin. In the centre of town he stopped to buy a couple of new shirts, a new pair of jeans and a canvas military-style shoulder bag. He stuffed the clothes in the bag, slung it round his neck and mingled with the crowds. In the aftermath of the bombing there was a subdued feeling in the air, a tingle of apprehension, shock and rage. The streets were noticeably emptier, and people looked tense. The carnage was on every newspaper front page. Police were everywhere.

Ben bought a prepaid mobile phone from a market stall. He had a call to make. He sat on a low wall in San Rocco Square and dialled the Bradburys’ number. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to them, but sooner or later they were going to hear about the bombing, and Charlie’s death. He couldn’t afford to have them freaking out on him.

The moment Jane Bradbury picked up the phone, he knew he was too late for that. There was a muted sobbing on the line, and then a rustle as she passed the phone to her husband.

‘Hello?’ Tom Bradbury’s voice sounded weary and strained. ‘Ben, where are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, all over College and in the library. I even went to your flat when you didn’t answer your phone.’

‘I’m on Corfu,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve heard what happened, then.’

‘Is she hurt? Was she involved?’ Bradbury asked urgently.

‘She wasn’t there,’ Ben said.

Bradbury sounded relieved. ‘Thank God. But your friend – It’s terrible. I’m so sorry. What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know.’

Bradbury was silent for a second. ‘Forgive me for saying this. I know it sounds terrible. But before he was killed – did your friend -’

‘Find Zoë? No, he didn’t. I don’t know where she is.’

‘But you’ll find her?’

‘Did she ever mention any connections in America?’ Ben asked.

Bradbury sounded surprised. ‘Yes, she has a friend there.’

‘A lawyer called McClusky?’

‘No, I’ve never heard that name. Her friend’s an elderly lady she met while teaching a summer school course here two years ago. Her name’s Miss Vale. Miss Augusta Vale. We’ve been out to dinner with her, and Zoë’s been to visit her a couple of times.’

‘In Georgia?’

‘Yes. Savannah, Georgia. What’s this about, Ben?’ Bradbury sounded more and more anxious and confused. ‘Has something terrible happened to our daughter?’

‘What about the name Cleaver?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Or someone called Rick?’

‘No.’

‘One last question,’ Ben said. ‘Did Zoë ever talk about a prophecy?’

Bradbury was quiet for a moment. ‘What?’

‘A prophecy that could make her rich.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Bradbury asked, anger rising in his voice. ‘What I need to know is if something’s happened to my daughter. I’m going to call the British Consulate in Athens. And the police. This could be a kidnapping, and all you’re doing is asking me about prophecies.’

‘I know it sounds crazy,’ Ben said. ‘I have reasons for asking. But if this is a kidnapping, and you start ringing alarm bells, it just raises the stakes and will put her in more danger.’

The anger in Bradbury’s voice died away. He sounded distraught. ‘What do I do?’