That night, Ross sat at the kitchen table of his rented cottage with the cigar box open in front of him like a treasure chest from a parable gone wrong. The money was spread out in loose piles, crumpled, mismatched, some of it still sticky from the envelopes, all of it whispering to him in the soft rustle of freedom. He’d counted it twice already and still didn’t believe the number. Enough to buy a house. Enough to buy a business. Enough, he realised slowly, to buy a new life.

He leaned back in the chair, the lamplight turning the smoke from his cigarette into a shimmering halo. The idea arrived the way a hymn does, quiet, then building, then suddenly everything. The Royal Hotel.