What there wouldn’t be anywhere in the vicinity of his home were people. With luck he wouldn’t hear a human voice from one month’s end to another. The human race, its ugly face, would be excluded for ever. In those hills with Monty and the Chief he’d forget how for forty years they’d pressed around him with their cruelty and their baseness, his drunken savage father, his mother who’d cared only for men and having a good time. Then, later, the foster home, the reform school, the factory girls sniggering at his shyness and his pimply face, the employers who wouldn’t take him because he had a record instead of an education. At last he’d have peace.

So he had to kill a man to get it? It wouldn’t be the first time. He would kill him without passion or interest, as easily as the slaughterer kills the lamb and with as little mercy. A light blow to the head first, just enough to stun him – Dick wasn’t worried about giving pain but about getting blood on his clothes – and then that decisive pressure just here, on the hyoid . . .

Fingering his own neck to site the spot, Dick parked the car and went into a pub for another small gin and water and a sandwich. The licensee’s cat came and sat on his knee. Animals were drawn to him as by a magnet. They knew who their friends were. Pity really that the Chief had such a hatred of cats, otherwise he might have thought of adding a couple to his Scottish menagerie. Half-past seven. Dick always allowed himself plenty of time to do a job, take it slowly, that was the way. He put the cat gently on the floor.

By eight he’d driven up through Hampstead village, along Branch Hill by the Whitestone Pond, and parked the car in West Heath Road. A fine starry night, frosty too, like that old fool had said it would be. For a few minutes he sat in the car, turning over in his mind whether there was anything at all to connect him with the woman he’d spoken to. No, there was nothing. His contact was as reliable and trustworthy as any human being could be and the method of handing over the money was foolproof. As for associating him with the man he was going to kill – Dick knew well that the only safe murder is the murder of a complete stranger. Fortunately for him and his clients, he was a stranger to the whole world of men.

Better go up and look at the path now. He put the car in Temple-wood Avenue as near as he could to the point where the path left it to wind across West Heath. This was to be on the safe side. There weren’t any real risks, but it was always as well to ensure a quick getaway. He strolled into the path. It led between the fences of gardens, a steep lane about five feet wide, with steps here and there where the incline grew too sharp. At the summit was a street lamp and another about fifty yards further on where the path became walled. Between the lights was a broader sandy space, dotted about with trees and shrubs. He’d do it here, Dick decided. He’d stand among the trees until the man appeared from the walled end, wait until he left the first pool of light but hadn’t yet reached the second, and catch him in the darkest part. No roofs were visible, only the backs of vast gardens, jungly and black, and though the stars were bright, the moon was a thin white curve that gave little light.