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university. He drugged them and took them down there. And then he played with them.
    A dozen victims. Maybe more. I don’t suppose you want me to go into the details.
    FARQUHAR: You want to save them for your book?
    STYLER: Well, it was the usual thing. Sexual humiliation. Torture. Rape. For each one of them a long, drawn-out death. He cut up the bodies when he’d finished with them. Some of them he took home in pieces and buried in his mother’s garden. Of course he kept souvenirs. He also cannibalised some of the corpses. He liked to eat…
    FARQUHAR: The liver.
    STYLER: Yes. Things only came to a head when his neighbours started asking questions about the state of his lawn. It’s hard to imagine what took them so long. By the end his garden must have looked like an archaeological dig. Anyway, the neighbours must have asked one question too many because one night he attacked all of them, killing Mrs Barlow at number twenty-nine and mutilating the Bundies at thirty-three. Then he walked into York police station and gave himself up.
    FARQUHAR: But not out of remorse?
    STYLER: Remorse never came into it. He pleaded guilty. He was found unfit to stand trial and was sent here.
    FARQUHAR: All of which is accurate, more or less, but still doesn’t answer my original question.
    STYLER: Which was?
    FARQUHAR: Why did you choose him? For your book?
    But before STYLER can answer, the door opens and PLIMPTON comes back in carrying a tray with a single sandwich, a tea-pot, tea-cup and small jug of milk.
    It looks like your dinner’s finally arrived.
    STYLER: Thank you.
    FARQUHAR: ( To PLIMPTON .) What took you so long?
    PLIMPTON: There was no one in the kitchen.
    FARQUHAR: You didn’t see Cookie?
    PLIMPTON: I told you. Cookie’s gone home.
    FARQUHAR: Oh yes.
    PLIMPTON: I did the best I could. ( To STYLER .) I thought you might have gone.
    STYLER: No. I’m still here.
    PLIMPTON: I can see that. But I thought…
    FARQUHAR: Mr Styler decided to stay for dinner.
    STYLER: Yes.
    FARQUHAR: So you managed to rustle something up on your own?
    PLIMPTON: No. Borson did it.
    STYLER: Borson?
    PLIMPTON: Yes.
    STYLER: I thought he was on security.
    PLIMPTON: He is. But he came into the kitchen while I was there and when I told him what Dr Farquhar wanted, he insisted on making the sandwich.
    FARQUHAR: And what did Borson put in the sandwich?
    PLIMPTON: Liver.
    A long pause.
    STYLER: It’s very kind of you. But I’ll just have the tea.
    FARQUHAR: You don’t like liver?
    STYLER: Not especially.
    FARQUHAR: It must have been left over from lunch. Isn’t that right, Nurse Plimpton?
    PLIMPTON: I don’t know. I didn’t have lunch.
    FARQUHAR: ( Solicitous .) Why not?
    PLIMPTON: ( With a shudder .) I was in B-wing.
    FARQUHAR: And how was Borson?
    PLIMPTON: He didn’t say anything. I told him you wanted a sandwich for your guest and that was what he gave me.
    FARQUHAR: ( To STYLER .) Left-overs. You’ll have to forgive us.
    STYLER: I don’t mind left-overs, really I don’t. But I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t go back to my hotel. They’re expecting me for dinner.
    PLIMPTON: Did you tell them you were on the way? I mean, did they know you were coming here and that afterwards you’d be returning for the night?
    STYLER: Yes.
    FARQUHAR: Then we mustn’t disappoint them. ( To PLIMPTON .) You’d better ring them and tell them Mr Styler will be spending the night here with us.
    PLIMPTON: But he wants to leave. ( To STYLER .) Don’t you, Mr Styler?
    STYLER: Well, to be honest, I do feel a bit uncomfortable about spending the night in a place like this. Nothing personal…
    PLIMPTON: There you are.
    STYLER: I’m booked in overnight. I could come back tomorrow.
    FARQUHAR: I’m afraid I can’t see you tomorrow.
    STYLER: No?
    FARQUHAR: I’m busy tomorrow.
    PLIMPTON: No you’re not. All your morning appointments have been cancelled. (