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again. But now you’re headed somewhere safe.”
    He sped off in reverse toward the beaten-earth street that was a sea of mud. The car spun round like a top then leaped forward. I did up my seat belt.
    â€œIf we overturn and the car catches fire, you’ll be burned to a cinder with that belt on,” he said. “I trust to fate.”
    I did not say it, but thought that what in fact he put his trust in werethe layers of fat that would act as an air-bag if we hit anything. He groped for a cigarette from the packet on the dashboard. It was only when he had lit it and stuck it between his lips that he thought to offer me one.
    â€œHomeopathy. Two or three fags a day are the best way of preventing lung cancer.”
    I accepted his advice and was soon breathing in the therapeutic smoke.
    â€œWhy do you trust me?” I asked him.
    â€œWhat about you? It can’t be because of my looks.”
    He had two days’ stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot either from lack of sleep or because he was some kind of addict. No, it was definitely not because of the way he looked.
    Nor did the aggressive way in which he drove inspire confidence. Or his agitated breathing, which suggested he had just killed someone and he was the one on the run.
    â€œThis is the third murder in similar circumstances” he said. “I doubt whether you could have committed all three.”
    He said it so matter-of-factly I was not sure if he was arguing his belief in my innocence or if he did not think me capable of anything quite so sophisticated. He sped off down a long, deserted avenue arched over with chinaberry trees. Eventually the road turned into an asphalted track, potholed by heavy farm vehicles.
    â€œRustlers,” the doctor explained. “It’s their trucks that make all these holes. They come out here and steal cattle. They butcher them at night, in conditions even Dr. Mengele would have balked at, then sell the meat directly to the shops at half price. That way everyone wins: the rustlers, the butchers, and the customers—they get the best steak for the price of scrag-ends.”
    â€œWhat about hygiene?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. “Look at those mad cows in England. It’s all very hygienic, but they feed themartificial muck. We all have to die sometime, and I’d rather it were from eating a nice, tender, juicy steak.”
    We turned off down another track that was nothing but mud. The V.W. might no longer be sky-blue, but behind the wheel the doctor was shouting as enthusiastically as if he were piloting a speedboat.
    â€œMy little cottage in the country,” he said when we finally arrived, switching off the car’s straining engine.
    From the outside it was nothing more than an adobe shack with a thatched roof. But once inside, I found myself in a large room that was anything but ascetic.
    â€œI like luxury as much as the next man,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to show it.”
    I could scarcely believe the contrast. More than a cottage, it was like an outlaw’s hideaway. It had everything to withstand a siege or a period of exile: freezer, microwave, T.V., mobile phone, shelves full of books, a video player, racks of wine, and a barrel-shaped bar stacked with bottles of spirits. There were two reclining chairs and a bed, with a small kitchen at the far end.
    â€œThis is my refuge. Nobody knows where it is. They know I have a lair, but you’re the first person who has been here: you’re not from around here, and this is an emergency.”
    â€œIt can’t be easy being a police doctor,” I said.
    â€œIt’s far worse being a policeman, believe me. This society of asslickers is always sacrificing them on the altar of their hypocritical so-called morality. But for now, just try to relax—you’re going to have more than enough opportunity to be stressed