After a long discussion at the toaster in our kitchen, it was clear that Genghis did indeed want me to help him kidnap Mrs Davison from her care home and Fionnuala, my wife, was so trusting of her mad uncle that she thought it was a good idea.

“It is a nice thing that he wants to do, Fabien,” she said.

“Fionnuala, this woman has nothing to do with us. She’s Genghis’s neighbour, not ours.”

“She needs help.”

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“Help? She’s perfectly happy in the care home. What the actual hell is going on?”

Actually, that thought had crossed my mind the last time I had popped in to see Mrs Davison.

Normally so vibrant and well turned out – any time I had run into her, she smelled beautiful, perfumed to perfection – the care home version of Mrs Davison was pale and wan, her dowdy pyjamas and sad slippers adding to the grey aura.

She was in a wheelchair and looked........

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