‘I couldn’t care less,’ said Dick.

‘It’ll be best for you to wait in one of the lonelier bits of the path, as far from the houses as you can.’

‘You can leave all that to me. I know the area. How’ll I know it’s him?’

‘He’s fifty, well-built, middle height, silver hair, small moustache. He won’t be wearing a hat. He’ll have on a black overcoat with a black fur collar over a grey tweed suit. He ought to get to the middle of the West Heath path by ten to nine.’ The voice wavered slightly. ‘It won’t be too messy, will it? How will you do it?’

‘D’you expect me to tell you that on the phone?’

‘No, perhaps not. You’ve had the first thousand?’

‘For six weeks,’ said Dick.

‘I couldn’t help the delay. It wasn’t my fault. You’ll get the rest within a week, in the way you got the first . . .’

‘Through the usual channel. Is that all? Is that all I have to know?’

‘I think so,’ she said. ‘There’s one other thing – no it doesn’t matter.’ She hesitated. ‘You won’t fail me, will you? Tonight’s the last chance. If it doesn’t happen tonight there’s no point in its happening at all. The whole situation changes tomorrow and I shan’t . . .’

‘Good-bye,’ said Dick, slamming down the receiver to cut short the voice that was growing hysterical. He didn’t want to know any of the circumstances or be involved in her sick emotions. Bloody – woman. Not that he had any qualms. He’d have killed a hundred men for what she was paying him to kill one, and he was interested only in the money. What did it matter to him who he was or she was or why she wanted him out of the way? She might be his wife or his mistress. So what? Such relationships were alien to Dick and the thought of what they implied nauseated him, kissing, embracing, the filthy act they did like – no, not like animals. Animals were decent, decorous – like people. He spat into the corner of the kiosk and came out into the cold evening air.

As he drove up towards Hampstead, he thought of the money. It would be just enough to bring his accumulated savings to his target. For years, ever since he’d got Monty from the pet shop, he’d been working to this end. Confidence tricks, a couple of revenge killings, the odd beating up, casing places for robbery, they’d all been lucrative, and by living modestly – the dog’s food was his biggest expense – he’d got nearly enough to buy the house he’d got his eye on. It was to be in Scotland, on the north-west coast and miles from a village, a granite croft with enough grounds round it for Monty and the Chief to run free all day. He liked to think of the way they’d look when they saw their own bit of moorland, their own rabbits to chase. He’d have sufficient left over to live on without working for the rest of his life, and maybe he’d get more animals, a horse perhaps, a couple of goats. But no more dogs while Monty was alive. That wouldn’t be fair, and it seemed wrong, the height of treachery, to make plans for after Monty was dead . . .