The crone’s next whispered communication confirmed that this was indeed Clooney. The cool, slightly sardonic tones coloured even the barely audible hiss of his words.

‘Still taking the tablets, Doctor?’

Flugelpik tried to ease away from the stench, surprised that Clooney was still heeding the outmoded advice of Henry Cooper to ‘splash it all over’.

‘You know I have to,’ he replied. ‘Without a regular intake of … Well, you know very well what might happen.’

Clooney smiled.

‘Good,’ he whispered. ‘Because I have the Engine. Anna-Frid emailed me. She’s ready to trade. The Young Pretender is on the boat waiting, the proclamation has been signed and rolled in cling film.’

‘Cling film? What the hell for?’ asked Flugelpik.

‘To get it through customs. We had to hide it in a haggis.’

‘Shit,’ muttered Flugelpik. ‘You know the effect of oatmeal on contractual refinements.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Clooney. ‘That’s why Anna-Frid needs the Engine.’