Alan scans the room, bleary-eyed. Where is he?

Why is he in a single bed without his beloved wife, Eileen? As his vision clears, he sees a young woman standing over him, two pills glistening in the palm of her hand.

“Morning, Mr Clarke,” she says. ‘Your pills.”

He must have been kidnapped, his spy network infiltrated. Yes, that must be it. He has to get out of here and fast before he’s tortured for his secrets.

He pretends to swallow the pills. When the woman leaves, he stuffs them into his pyjama pocket. A rustling sound alerts him to a piece of paper nestling there.