“We’ll use one of the barns at my place,” suggested Mike.

Pierre hadn’t visited Mike’s place yet but I agreed that it would be ideal.

“Pierre and I will come up on Friday evening. Can you put us up?”

Before Mike had a chance to open his mouth, Sophie jumped in “Sure, we can,” she said. Suddenly her hand went up to her mouth, she looked round at Mike, colouring slightly, “er . . . can’t we?”

This little byplay loosened off the tension completely. Mike leant over and put his hand on her thigh affectionately.

“Not much doubt about things now, is there? Of course they can.”

Mike agreed to give his instructions to Mac and Doug and organise their side of the plan.

It was stage managed to frighten him. I wanted him scared because I needed him to crack and own up to what he had done. We couldn’t prosecute. We couldn’t use the information we had but we could bluff him. If I couldn’t put this man behind bars then, at least I wanted him out of action and, if possible, the damage repaired.

We chose the scruffiest of the barns. The two small windows on one wall were filthy, covered with cobwebs, letting in very little light. From the beams of the roof hung a single sixty-watt light bulb giving off just enough light to illuminate the centre of the floor area, leaving the corners in shadow. Around the wall was a variety of old farm implements – old sacks, dusty boxes, an old wooden ladder, a wheel barrow, bits of wood.

I had arranged a big old table at the edge of the lit area behind which we three would sit and I placed a wormeaten, rickety old wooden chair right in the middle about twenty feet in front of it.

We took our places behind the table and indicated to Mac to bring Purdy in. He went out to return shortly with Doug. They had Purdy firmly clasped by the forearms and plumped him unceremoniously onto the chair facing us. Both Mac and Doug were dressed in army fatigues and had their heads covered in black woollen helmets, leaving only their eyes showing. Purdy’s head was enveloped in a dirty old pillow case. His clothes were grubby and disheveled and he was trembling – the antithesis of the smooth confident smiling executive I had first met at the business conference.

I glanced sideways at Mike who was sitting on my left. “Well you said you wanted him scared,” he whispered, with a wicked grin.

I nodded to Doug who whipped off the pillow case and a totally mystified Alan Purdy blinked, shook his head a couple of times and looked around him at the miserable décor in which he found himself.

He then looked at the three of us ranged behind the table in front of him and the pile of documents in front of me. He could see and recognize me clearly as I was within the circle of light. Mike and Pierre were sitting back in the shadow. He could see there were two people but couldn’t see who.

Mike told me afterwards how they had kidnapped him. Mac had an old van that he used for his painting jobs and they had simply parked it in the car park of the squash club. As luck would have it Purdy had left alone after his game and there had been nobody around. It had been very simple to grab him and throw him in the back of the van amongst the ladders and paints. Doug had sat with him keeping him quiet during the journey up to Forfar. Both had played their part perfectly. Not a word during the whole operation. Silence is a great frightener.

They had stashed him in the old cow byre, shackled to an iron ring in the wall with only the floor to sit on. He had had no idea where he was. Doug and Mac had guarded him from outside, peering occasionally in the window, which must have been exceedingly disconcerting to say the least. They had left him a couple of bottles of water and a Mars bar, but that was all.

Now here he was sitting in front of what could only be called a kangaroo court. I’d have been scared stiff.

Not perceiving any immediate physical danger, he visibly pulled himself together. He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short before he could utter any kind of protest.

“Mr Purdy, I think you know who I am. In fact I know you do, bearing in mind that we crossed swords at your conference a couple of weeks ago and last week you organized a burglary at my home.”

“I know who you are,” he spat at me. “But I don’t know by what right you think you can go snatching people off the street, keep them prisoner and then force them to sit through whatever farce it is you’re planning.”

He was angry and indignant – but still a long way from the point where I wanted him.

“I shall answer that question briefly but I will not enter into a debate on it. First, legally we have no right to do what we are doing. I will accord you that. However, we have decided to take the law into our own hands to correct a situation which the authorities have so far not been able or willing to do anything about.”

He blustered and spluttered, “I demand that you let me go immediately. I shall be contacting the police as soon as possible and I’ll make damned sure that you regret this. You’ll be behind bars before you know where you are. All three of you.”

He tried to get up but Mac and Doug thrust him, none too gently, back onto his chair.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think you would dare go near the police. Before you utter another word I would like to inform you that I have here in front of me documentation which, if the authorities had it in their possession, would very likely result in you spending a considerable part of the next years of your life at, as they say, Her Majesty’s pleasure. You won’t dare go to the police.”

A part of me was rather enjoying this. He glowered at me, his confidence still not yet deflated. “Bullshit.” I looked him straight in the eye, quietly picked up the first document, which consisted of three pages stapled together, and held it up in front of me. I pulled out my reading glasses and slowly put them on.

He didn’t utter a sound but his face started to show slight signs of concern.

“Do you know a Mrs Alice Rutherford?” “Never heard of her.” That’s strange. She told us she has met you several times.” “Never heard of her.” “I have a letter here on Ailsa Investment Management notepaper addressed to this lady. It refers to several meetings with her and is signed ‘yours sincerely, Alan Purdy, Chairman and Managing Director’.”

“I meet hundreds of people in my job. How do you expect me to remember them all?”

“And Mr James MacPhail?” I asked, picking up a second document.

“Who is he?” “You wrote to him on the fourth of September last year.”

He denied knowing any of the next three people I mentioned, each of whom had received letters personally signed by him.

I left a silence hanging in the air waiting until he was the one to break it. I didn’t have to wait long. He must have started to realise that he wasn’t in any physical danger and seemed to take hope from that. His voice almost took on its natural tone.

“Look, what’s all this about? What the hell do you think you’re doing kidnapping me and interrogating me as if I was a criminal?”

I didn’t vouch any reply. Mike and Pierre were still sitting in the shadow. Seen from Purdy’s position it must have been very unnerving. Two hooded men in battle fatigues on either side of him. Two men in the shadows whom he couldn’t make out. A stern interrogator in front of him whom he did know and who had clearly been intent on investigating his fraudulent operations. All of this in the dingiest of settings. I didn’t envy him one bit. And I didn’t have any sympathy for him either. When I thought of the money he had stolen and the types of people who were his prey I warmed to my task.

We sat and coldly watched a man who had systematically robbed a few hundred people just for pure financial gain. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the power his position gave him was the food that nourished the complete disregard he had exhibited towards his victims.