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“You’re Finn Donovan.”
“Finn Murrie. With an ie.” This should have been settled by now. That it apparently was not gave Finn a bad feeling.
“Do you have any identification? Because if you had a wallet, it must be crammed up your arse. That’s the only place we didn’t look.”
Finn actually reached for his back pocket before remembering.
“I left it at my girlfriend’s house. We were sitting on the couch…” Lying on it, actually, Ellie on top. “… and it was digging into my butt, so I took it out and put it on this little table, with our cans of lager. I must have forgotten it.”
“Forgot it,” said Mr. Weasel, grinning.
“Stands to reason,” said Mr. Droopy Eye. He was grinning, too.
“You see, we have a problem here already,” the white-haired man said.
Finn had another inspo. The unpleasant situation he was in—the unbelievable situation, really, although he had no choice but to believe it—seemed to be bringing inspirations on thick and fast. “I had my Odeon card in my pocket, I kept it separate in case Ellie wanted to go out to the Royale…”
He felt for the card. It wasn’t there.
The white-haired man opened his folder, riffled through the few papers inside, and brought out an orange card. “This card?”
“Yes, that’s it. See my name?” He reached for it. The white-haired man leaned back. Mr. Weasel and Mr. Droopy Eye unclasped their hands, ready to pounce should pouncing be called for.
The white-haired man held the card close to his face, as if he were nearsighted. “Finn Murray, it says here. With an ay.”
Finn felt heat rising in his cheeks, as if he had been caught in a lie. He hadn’t been, but that was how it felt. “People misspell names all the time. My father’s name was Stephen and people were always for spelling it with a v or even an f, like Stefan.”
The white-haired man slipped the Odeon card back into his folder. “Did you enjoy the music we had piped into your room?”
“I know why you do that. I’ve seen it on telly. It’s a tactic, like. To keep people on edge.”
“Ah, is that why we do it? Pando, did you know that’s why we do it?”
“Hard to say,” Mr. Weasel replied with a shrug. “I have heard it said that music soothes the savage beast, although I’m not sure that speaks to your question.”
“We can arrange some Nazareth, if you like,” said the white-haired man. “You being a fan and all.” And with what sounded grotesquely like pride: “We have Spotify!”
“I want to go home.” Finn didn’t like the tremble he heard in his voice but couldn’t help it. “You made a mistake and I want to go home. I won’t say nuffink.” He was sorry as soon as it came out. Kidnap victims were always saying it and it never worked. He’d seen that on telly, too.
“Going home might also be arranged, and very easily. But first you must answer one question. What did you do with the briefcase, Bobby? The one with the papers in it. For you surely didn’t have it when you were brought here.”
Finn felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes. “Sir—”
“Call me Mr. Ludlum, if you like. I used to call myself Mr. Deighton, but I got tired of it.”
“Mr. Ludlum, I’m not Bobby Feeney and I didn’t have any briefcase. I never did. I’m not who you’re looking for, and while you’re gassing at me the fella you are looking for is getting away.”
“So your name is Bobby Murrie. With an ie.”
“Yes. I mean no. I’m Finn Murrie. Finn.”
“Doc.” The white-haired man—Mr. Ludlum—nodded to the one with the droopy eye. “Help this fine young man to remember his name.”
Doc stepped forward. Pando, aka Mr. Weasel, grabbed Finn by the shoulders. Doc removed a heavy ring, put it in the pocket of his chinos, and slapped Finn across the face, good and hard. Then he went the other way, even harder. Spit flew from the side of Finn’s mouth. It hurt plenty, but what he felt most in that moment was astonishment. And shame. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but ashamed he was.
“Now,” Mr. Ludlum said, leaning back and clasping his hands on his midsection, “what is your name?”
“Finn! Finn Mur—”
