"Don't worry, I will," he said with a smile. "Quite an entertaining morning, I'd say. Much more exciting than the boring existence I have now found for myself."

"You miss running your company, then?" I asked.

"Miss it!" he said. "I grieve for my loss."

"But you have all that money."

"Yes," he said rather forlornly. "But what can I do every day? Count it? I started in business when I was straight out of school, aged sixteen. It wasn't plastics in those days, it was cardboard. Cardboard boxes for home-moving companies. They were all still using old tea chests then, and I reckoned that cardboard would be better. I started by collecting old cardboard boxes from shops and passing them on to the moving men. Then I started importing boxes, both cardboard and plastic."

He sighed.

"Where did the drainpipes come from?" I asked.

"The man who made the plastic boxes in Germany also made drainpipe, and I bought the UK rights from him. And it just took off. That was years ago."

"Why did you sell?"

"I'm sixty-eight, and neither of my children are interested in running any business, let alone a drainpipe business. Far too boring for them. But I loved it. I used to get to the factory in Swindon at seven in the morning, and often I'd not leave before ten at night. It was such fun."

"Didn't your wife object?" I asked.

"Oh, I expect so," he said, laughing. "But she does so enjoy shopping in Harrods."

"So what will you do in the future? Will you start something else?"

"No," he said, with another sigh. "I don't think so. I suppose I'll have to go to Harrods more often with my wife. We need to do something with all that money."

The prospect of more shopping with his wife clearly didn't make him happy. I obviously wasn't the only person viewing his future life with anxiety and trepidation.

"Shop for some racehorses," I said. "I hear that's a great way to spend loads of money, and it can be lots of fun too."

"What a great idea," he said. "I'll do just that."

"And," I said, "I know a way to save you all the VAT."

We both laughed out loud.

As I had hoped, Martin Toleron and I parted as friends, not foes.

Martin called my cell phone at a quarter past three as I was dozing on Ian's sofa, half watching the racing from Huntingdon on the television.

"Have you heard from the bank?" I asked, instantly wide awake.

"No, nothing from them," he said. "But I've just had a call from Jackson Warren."

"Wow," I said, clapping my hands together. "And what did he say?"

"He tried to tell me that the bank in Gibraltar had made an error and had inexplicably returned my two million dollars to my account. He asked if I would mind instructing my bank to send it again."

"And what did you say?" I asked.

"I expressed surprise that Jackson was calling me, as I had no idea that he was involved with the organization of the fund. I told him that I thought he was just another satisfied investor."

"And what did he say then?"

"He tried to tell me that he had only been called by the fund manager because he, the manager, knew that Jackson was a friend of mine."

He paused. "Yes?" I said. "Go on."

"I lost my rag a bit. I told him to get stuffed. I said that I would not be investing in anything to do with him, as he had purposely misled me. I also told him I'd be reporting the incident to the Financial Services Authority."

"I bet he didn't take kindly to that."

"No, he didn't," Martin said. "In fact, he threatened me."

"He what?"

"He told me straight-out that if I went to the FSA I'd regret it. I asked him what exactly he meant by that, but all he said was 'Work it out.' "

That was the same phrase that Alex had said to me.

"And," Martin went on, "he doesn't seem to be too pleased with you either."

"How so?" I asked.

"He point-blank accused me of conspiring with you to defraud him. I told him that was rich coming from him, and he could go and boil his brains, or words to that effect."

I wasn't altogether sure that insulting Jackson Warren was a sensible policy. Insults sometimes provoked extreme reactions, and some historians now believed that Saddam Hussein's cruel invasion of Kuwait in 1990 was the direct result of a personal insult to the Iraqi people from the Emir.

"Did he ask if you knew where I was?" I asked.

"Ask me?" He laughed. "He demanded that I tell him. I simply said that I had no idea where you were, and also that I wouldn't have told him if I did."

"How secure are your gates?" I asked.

"Why?" He sounded slightly worried for the first time.

"I think that Jackson Warren is a very dangerous man," I said seriously. "Martin, this is not a game. He has already tried to kill me once, and I am sure he would do it again without hesitation. So keep your gates locked and watch your back."

"I will," he said, and hung up, no doubt, to go outside rapidly and make sure his gates were closed and bolted.

Was it now time, I wondered, to involve the police and be damned about the tax consequences? But what could I say to them? "Well, officer, Mr. Jackson Warren tried to kill me by hanging me up to starve to death in a disused stable when I had to stand on only one leg for days, but I escaped by unscrewing the hay-net ring, climbing over the stable walls and breaking a window in the tack room, but I've only now decided to tell you about it, a week later, after I've been sneaking around Berkshire in camouflage cream, attacking and torturing one of Mr. Warren's associates using fake insulin and a hypodermic needle, and using the information I illegally obtained from him to transfer one million American dollars from Mr. Warren's company in Gibraltar into my mother's personal bank account in Hungerford."

Somehow, I didn't think it would bring the Thames Valley Constabulary rushing to Jackson's front door to make an immediate arrest. They would be far more likely to send me to a psychiatrist, and then Jackson would know exactly where I was.

It was much safer, I thought, to lie low for a while and let things blow over.

How mistaken could I be? The answer was badly.

The first sign that things had gone dangerously wrong was a hammering on the door of Ian's flat that woke me from a deep sleep.

It was pitch-black, and I struggled to find my way to the light switch. The hammering continued unabated. I turned on the light and looked at the clock. It was one-thirty in the morning. Who could be knocking at this ungodly hour?

I grabbed my shirt and went over to the door. I was about to unlock it when I suddenly stepped back. Could it be Jackson Warren outside? Or Alex Reece? Or Peter Garraway?

"Who is it?" I shouted.

"Derek Philips," came the reply. My stepfather.

Ian appeared from his bedroom, bleary-eyed and wearing blue-striped boxer shorts.

"What the hell's going on?" he said, squinting against the brightness.

"It's my stepfather," I said to him.

"Well, open the door, then."

But I wasn't sure enough. "Are you alone?" I shouted.

"What bloody difference does that make?" Ian said, striding towards me. "Open the bloody door. Here." He pushed past and unlocked it himself.

Derek almost fell into the room as the door opened, and he was alone.

"Thank God," he said. Then he saw me. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

I ignored his question. "Derek, what's wrong?" I asked.

"It's your mother," he said, clearly distressed.

Oh no, I thought. She must have decided to kill herself after all.

"What about her?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"She's been kidnapped."

"What?" I said in disbelief.

"She's been kidnapped," he repeated.

It sounded so unlikely.

"Who by?" I asked.