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The cramped, spiral staircase was the next obstacle to surmount, one guard in front of him, another behind. He didn’t know why they bothered. After nine days in solitary, he wouldn’t have been a match for a couple of girl guides.

When he reached the top step, he was shoved along a narrow corridor lined with cells on either side, filled with protesting prisoners who were locked up for crimes theyhadcommitted. The guards only paused when they reached the first of several heavy locked doors, each one requiring three keys to unlock. Once they were through, the doors were locked again, before they could progress to the next one. Finally, he saw an open door, from which a light shone as if it was beckoning him.

After Simon had been shoved into the room, the door was slammed behind him. Once he’d regained his balance, his eyes settled on a man he hadn’t met, but assumed could only be the Governor. He sat alone, notebook open, pen poised. As there wasn’t another chair, Simon had no choice but to remain standing.

‘Name,’ said the Governor, looking directly at him.

A slightly farcical question as he clearly knew the answer was Simon’s first thought.

‘Simon Winchcombe Henry Howard Hartley,’ he responded, suddenly alert, adrenalin shooting through his exhausted body. But then he’d spent days preparing for this encounter.

The Governor bent down, picked up a briefcase and placed it on the table. He opened it, extracted a single sheet of paper and pushed it across the table.

Simon took some time reading the confession, only wanting to correct the English.

‘Mr Hartley, if you feel able to sign that document, we will send you home later today as an illegal alien.’ He smiled, leaned forward, and offered Simon his pen.

Simon would have returned his smile, but the Governor had played his get-out-of-jail card far too early. He wouldn’t have lasted a week at Harvard Business School.

‘Yes, I can see that would be a convenient solution for all concerned,’ said Simon, ‘but as I didn’t kill Mr Conti, I think I’ll decline your generous offer.’

‘But if you didn’t kill him,’ asked the Governor, ‘who did?’

Simon didn’t fall into his trap, aware that if he named Prince Ahmed, he might not be going home for a very long time, if ever. ‘I think you’re only too aware of the answer to that question,’ he responded.

‘Do you know a man called Hani Khalil?’ asked theGovernor, moving on down a list of prepared questions he had hoped not to have to ask.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Simon. ‘He wanted to represent the British bid for the important arms deal, which is why I was a guest at his club on the night of the murder.’

‘But Mr Khalil claims,’ said the Governor, looking at a separate piece of paper, ‘that the first time he saw you was when he was seated at the other end of the bar and you were having a heated argument with a Mr Paolo Conti, a rival for the arms contract.’

‘Interesting,’ said Simon, ‘because Mr Khalil was also seated at that end of the bar, when he pointed out Mr Conti and told me that the Italians have no chance of getting the arms contract, but then I suspect you already knew that.’

The Governor didn’t comment, but leaned forward and once again lifted the top of his briefcase, this time producing a small, serrated dagger. He placed it on the centre of the table.

‘And where do you think the police found this, Mr Hartley?’ said the Governor, pointing at the knife.

This was the first question Simon had failed to anticipate as he had assumed the murder weapon would have been disposed of.

‘On the table by the door of my hotel room, with an arrow pointing towards it,’ suggested Simon, not attempting to disguise any sarcasm.

‘Hidden under your bed,’ said the Governor, not sounding quite so confident.

‘Then DNA will show you that someone else must have put it there,’ said Simon. ‘And no doubt you’ve checked the clothes I was wearing on the night of the murder, because if I had killed him, they would have been covered in his blood, not to mention his DNA.’

‘You could have disposed of them before the police arrived,’ said the Governor.

‘Funny that,’ said Simon. ‘Why would I get rid of my suit, shirt, tie, socks and shoes, but leave the murder weapon under my bed?’

‘Criminals always make mistakes,’ snapped the Governor.

‘As do the police, when they are attempting to frame an innocent person,’ said Simon, confident he had his opponent on the back foot. Simon had his next question well prepared. ‘Why don’t you have a word with the driver who took me back to the hotel that night and ask him if it looked as if I’d been involved in a fight, or if I was carrying a knife, or if my clothes were covered in blood?’

‘Your driver has already been interviewed,’ said the Governor. ‘He says that you came running out of the club in an agitated state, leapt into your car and ordered him to get moving.’

‘Another simple mistake, Governor – it was not my car but Mr Khalil’s, and the jury might find that piece of evidence quite compelling.’

‘We don’t bother with juries in Saudi,’ snarled the Governor.