Nikolaos Megalos is no longer wearing his science fiction hat. That was town and this is the country, so he has on a white fisherman’s shirt and linen trousers. Perhaps it’s just the kidnapping context, but I find him a great deal less amusing than I did. He’s big: muscular and formidable, as if he’s spent his life hauling nets or ploughing rather than arguing about things that don’t exist in rooms full of imported wine. Bearded and with the neck of his shirt open across a white burst of aged, hirsute pectorals, he looks less like Father Brown’s Greek stablemate and more like a walking portrait of Hades.