Standing up, even on one leg, had vastly improved the pain in my back and shoulders, and feeling was beginning to return to my hands with the onset of horrendous pins and needles. But that was a pain I could bear. It was a good sign. In fact, it was the only good sign I could think of at the moment.

My head went on throbbing, and I continued to feel sick.

I turned my head from side to side, which did nothing to improve my nausea. Not a chink of light was visible at any point through the hood. I heel-and-toed myself through half a revolution and looked again. Still nothing.

I was at home in darkness, but even so, I closed my eyes tight. I had discovered many years ago that with my eyes firmly held shut I could somehow switch off that part of my brain that dealt with visual images and increase the concentration on my other senses.

I listened but could hear nothing, save for my own breathing inside the hood.

I smelled the air, but the overpowering stench of vomit clouded out almost everything. There was, however, a faint sweet smell alongside it. Glue, perhaps, I thought, or something like an alcoholic solvent.

With my now recovered and responsive fingers, I searched the space above my head. My wrists were tightly bound together by some sort of thin plastic, which was in turn attached to a chain. I followed the chain along its short length until I came to a ring fixed into the solid wall. The ring was set just over my head height, six-feet-six or so from the floor, and was about two inches across. I could feel that the chain was secured to it by a padlock.

I leaned forwards against the wall. There was something running horizontally that was sticking into my elbows. I couldn't quite get my hands low enough to feel it, so I used my face through the cloth. The horizontal bar ran in both directions as far as I could feel, with a small ledge above it. I banged on the wall with my arms, and suddenly I knew where I was.

I was in a stable. The horizontal bar and ledge that I could feel was the top of the wooden boarding that runs around a stall to protect a horse from kicking out at the unforgiving brick or stone. And the ring in the wall was there to tie up the horse, or to hang a hay net.

But which stable was I in? Was it in my mother's stable yard? Was Ian Norland asleep upstairs?

I shouted. "Can anyone hear me? Help! Help!"

I went on shouting for ages, but no one came running. I don't think the hood helped. My voice sounded very loud to me inside it, but I wondered if the noise had even penetrated beyond the stable.

I was pretty sure I wasn't at Kauri House Stables. When I stopped shouting to listen, it was too quiet. Even if there had been an empty stall in my mother's yard, there would be horses nearby, and horses make noises, even at night, and especially if someone is shouting their head off next door.

I was beginning to be particularly irritated by the hood, not least by having to breathe vomit fumes, even if it was my own vomit. I tried to hold the material and pull it off, but it was tied too tightly around my neck and I couldn't reach down with my hands far enough to untie it. I would just have to stand the irritation. It was nothing compared to the previous pain in my shoulders.

I stood on my one leg for a long time. Occasionally I would lean back against the wall, but mostly I just stood.

I wondered how long I had been here before I woke, and how much longer I was to remain. But that decision wasn't mine.

Night turned into day. I found that I could tell because a very small amount of light did penetrate the dark cloth of the hood, and if I turned my head, I could just tell that there was a window to my left as I stood with the wall behind me.

The day brought nothing new.

I went on standing for hours.

I was hungry and thirsty, and my leg began to ache. And to make matters worse, I desperately needed to pee.

I tried to remember how I had come to be here. I could recall the inquest and speaking to Mr. Hoogland. What had happened after that?

I had walked back to my car in the multistory parking lot. I could remember being annoyed that someone had parked so close to my Jaguar on the driver's side. I had purposely parked it on a high level, well away from any other cars, and it was not just because I didn't want to get my paintwork scratched. The attaching system for my prosthetic leg meant I couldn't bend my right knee through more than about seventy degrees, so getting into my low sports car was not as easy now as it had once been.

My annoyance had stemmed from the fact that the particular level of the parking lot was still almost empty, but nevertheless, someone had parked within a foot of the off side of my car. I remembered wondering how on earth I was going to open the driver's door wide enough to get my arm in, let alone my whole body.

But I had never reached the door to try.

Something had knocked me down, and I remembered having a towel wrapped around my face. The towel had been soaked in ether. I had known immediately what it was. The boys from the transport pool had used ether in Norway when the battalion had been there on winter exercise. They'd injected it straight into the engine cylinders to get the army trucks started when the diesel fuel was too cold to ignite. All the troops, including me, had tried to sniff the stuff to get high. But ether was also an anesthetic.

And the next thing I'd known had been waking up in this predicament.

Who could have done such a thing?

And why had I been so careless as to let it happen? I'd been off my guard, thinking about the inquest and my conversation with the lawyer, Mr. Hoogland. I had stuck my head up over the parapet, but I hadn't been shot, I'd been kidnapped.

I wasn't sure which was worse.

As time passed, I became hungrier and the pain in my bladder grew to the extent that in the end, I had to let go, the urine briefly warming my leg as it ran down to the floor.

But it was the thirst and the fatigue that were becoming my greatest problems.

In the army, soldiers were used to standing for long periods, especially in the Guards regiments. Lengthy stints of ceremonial duty outside the royal palaces in London taught all guardsmen to stand completely still for hours, unmoved and unamused by the antics of camera-wielding tourists or little boys with water pistols.

I had done my time there as a young guardsman, but nothing had prepared me for the hours of standing on only one leg, unable to go for a march up and down to alleviate the pain, and especially the cramp that started to appear in my calf. I tried rocking back and forth from heel to toe, but my heel was still sore and it didn't do much good. I tried resting my elbows on the ledge at the top of the wooden paneling to relieve the pressure. But nothing helped for long.

I bent my knee and allowed some of my weight to hang once more from my hands, but soon the pain in my shoulders returned and my hands started to go numb once more.

I spent some more time shouting, but no one came, and it just made me even thirstier.

What did the people who did this want from me?

I would gladly give them everything I owned just to sit down with a glass of water.

Values and Standards of the British Army stated that prisoners must be treated with respect and in accordance with both British and international laws. International Law is based on the four Geneva Convention treaties and the three additional protocols that set the standards for the humanitarian treatment of victims of war.

I knew; I'd been taught it at Sandhurst.

In particular, the conventions prohibit the use of torture. Hooding, sleep deprivation and continuous standing had all been designated as torture by case law in the European Court of Human Rights. To say nothing of the withholding of food and water.