Here is how The Lion Hunter starts:

He did have the look of a killer, now he’d alluded to it.

Jim Paterson was a tall man with close-cropped hair. His physique was lean and wiry as opposed to muscular. He still wore his green hunting vest; round the waist were little loops for cartridges. He’d said he was from Houston, but there was no drawl, no Texas swagger. A neurologist, he’d mentioned.

Clearly he had money.

‘You’re here to hunt a lion,’ Andrew Riley confirmed.

Paterson smiled. ‘Was,’ he corrected Andrew. The fine wrinkles round his eyes remained immobile. ‘I leave tomorrow.’ His voice was deep, soft and laconic.

Andrew’s wife patted him wearily on the shoulder. ‘Darling, we leave tomorrow, too,’ Lavinia said. ‘I’m off to bed.’

‘Wise words,’ Paterson remarked, his gaze lifting to her face. His eyes warmed, or maybe it was the reflected amber of his whisky catching the flecks in his irises. The safari lodge was candlelit.

Andrew turned to smile at Lavinia but she’d already left, her shapely rear retreating.

‘Fine creature,’ Paterson said as his mouth disappeared into his cut-glass tumbler.

Andrew bristled at his word choice. ‘We’re on our honeymoon,’ he said.

‘Yeah, you mentioned.’

He pretended to ignore Paterson.

It was their last night at the world-renowned Three Trees Lodge. He was savouring the experience, just as he savoured the aftertaste of the whisky. It was a good, distinctive single malt. A Lagavulin, if he wasn’t mistaken.

The stars above were brilliant. Before them, trees massed darkly. Three Trees Lodge was famous for the tree- climbing leopards that inhabited this end of the park.

‘All legal, of course.’

For a moment, Andrew wondered what Paterson was talking about. His wife was a lawyer. It’s funny, he was still getting used to calling her that. Wife. The word felt odd, blunt. But Paterson wasn’t talking about Lavinia.

‘All the permits and paperwork are in order, in case you’re curious,’ Paterson was saying.

Andrew recalled that he’d told the Texan he wrote for The Times.

‘You know that lion stocks have fallen eighty per cent across Africa in the last couple of decades?’ Andrew said.

‘Well . . .’ Paterson was swirling his whisky, dissolving the remaining ice, which tinkled. ‘Tens of thousands remain, so I doubt you can attribute much of the decline to lil’ old me.’ He made as though to leave, and smiled again. His eyes almost did, too.

‘Did you . . . find one?’ Andrew asked.

Paterson was halfway out of his chair.

‘Yes,’ he said, sighing contentedly. ‘She really was magnificent.’

He stood and gathered up his sunglasses and the book that he was reading: a collection of Hemingway’s short stories, of course. No doubt a valuable edition.

‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘All the best for your onward journey.’

‘Night.’

Andrew sat for a few more moments, taking in the cool night air. There was a hum of insects, and the sound of swishing in the undergrowth. Strange woofing noises as well.

He could have sworn there was another man present, but he couldn’t see anybody. Perhaps it was one of the guides, standing guard in case one of those leopards became adventurous or just plain hungry.

Andrew drained his whisky and returned to his room and his wife.