Chapter 2

 Dazed and confused for the second time in a single day, I begin to surface from unconsciousness. A muffled voice reaches me first — Italian, irritated:

“Careful, Len, with that water. I told you not to use so much.”

My vision slowly steadies, the world swimming into focus after the blow to my head. I take stock of my surroundings.

I am in a stylish room — the sort of gentleman’s study one might find in an old country house. Bookcases line the walls, each shelf filled with aged volumes in cracked leather bindings. In the centre lies a vast oriental rug, and upon it sits a green leather Chesterfield chair with a small table beside it.

A man occupies the chair.

He appears to be in his early sixties, impeccably dressed, composed, and carrying himself with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to obedience. Something about him feels familiar, though I cannot place it.

“Welcome, Dave,” he says smoothly. “I must apologise for the manner of your arrival. It makes for bad business.” He gestures without looking. “Len, be so kind as to make Dave more comfortable.”

Len — the same thug who struck me earlier — fusses around me with heavy‑handed attempts at assistance. When Mr Anderson speaks again, his tone sharpens:

“Both of you may leave.”

Len and Roger obey immediately, slipping out and closing the door behind them.

I clear my throat. “Mr Anderson, I take it?”

He remains seated, watching me with a faint, unreadable smile. “Yes, Dave. I am ‘Mr Anderson’. My full name is Alberto Abategiovanni. I am from Tuscany, Italy. Naturally, I simplified my name for my business.”

He rises, walks to a polished drinks cabinet, and pours himself a whisky — a deep amber liquid from a bottle he handles with reverence. Ice clicks into the glass.

“I couldn’t tempt you with a 1984 Karuizawa?” he asks.

I decline. He returns to the chair, settles, and places the glass on the table.

“You look at me with a puzzled eye, Dave. Why is that?”

I attempt humour. “You remind me of someone I can’t quite place.”

He laughs. “Yes, I hear it all the time. People say I look like Marlon Brando — The Godfather.”

I smile. “That would be it.”

His expression shifts — business returning.

“Joking aside, Dave, you have been brought to my study by my ‘learned friends’, Len and Roger, who state that you didn’t have the stuff when they arrived earlier today.”

A knot tightens in my stomach. His demeanour has changed; the air feels heavier.

“There’s been a terrible mistake, Mr Anderson,” I say. “I woke up this morning in someone else’s bed. There was a woman — Susie — and then your men arrived, demanding ‘Dave’. They didn’t give me time to explain. I’m mystified.”

Mr Anderson opens a drawer, retrieves a wallet, and begins searching through it.

“We have a problem, Dave. Susie took this before you woke, when she slipped into your room.” He finds what he wants — an ID card — and tosses it to me. “Explain yourself. I am a patient man.”

I look down.

A club membership card. My photograph. The name: Dave Green — Diamond Expert.

Cold dread washes through me.

“I can explain,” I say, voice unsteady. He waits.

“My name is not Dave Green, nor am I a diamond expert. My name is Archibald Winterbottom. I’m a genealogist. I’m from—”

He raises a hand. “I am not interested in where you are from. I am interested in where my diamonds have gone. So you see, we have a problem. Do you remember last night?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I went to a pub to meet a client about a family history commission. A woman in her early fifties — she found my reviews, contacted me, and we met to discuss details. Drinks were had… and then things became hazy. Even this suit isn’t mine. If you check my wallet, you’ll find my professional cards.”

“We have checked,” Mr Anderson says. “Only a hundred pounds in cash. No bank cards. No business cards. Only the one you have.”

A phone rings. Anderson retrieves it, glances at the screen.

“Excuse me, Dave. My son.”

He answers, becoming animated. “Ciao… He says he isn’t Dave Green… Yes, that could be an answer… Arrivederci.”

He pockets the phone and regards me thoughtfully.

“My son, Roman, suggests that if you insist you are not Dave Green, then you will work for us. You will use your skills as a researcher to find this man — and uncover his background. Is this something you can do, Archibald?”

Eagerly — perhaps too eagerly — I nod. “Yes. I can do that. I won’t let you down.”

“Good.” He stands. “The first place you must go is the bar from last night. Find out who that woman was. But first — we eat. Are you hungry?”

I nod.