‘Am I glad you’re here,’ said Bette. ‘Take care of this lot, will you? I’m tired of holding this gun.’

I had to make a fast decision and I’ll never know if it was the right one or the wrong one. But she was lowering her gun and he was pulling one out, and I judged him to be the greater danger, in spite of Bette’s demonstrable marksmanship. I could only hope that taking them by surprise would buy me vital moments.

In the instant that their guard was down I shot him, making sure by pumping three rounds into him.

Leotta, who had been poised like a hunting panther, was halfway across the room before the report of my first shot died away. Bette saw her coming and jerked up her pistol fast and it exploded with a stab of flame and a slam of sound. I got off the third shot at my boy and saw he was falling, and whirled around to see Leotta jerk like a marionette with a string suddenly cut. But she carried on and before Bette could pull the trigger again, her wrist was pushed aside and the next bullet went wide.

The athlete’s body I had first admired in Leotta was now revealing that it wasn’t just for show. She literally picked up Bette bodily, plucking her from the chair and holding her by her head, despite her kicks. Leotta threw Bette through the big picture window with a smash and a jangle of glass. And then she collapsed.

I ran outside. I wanted to make certain of the hellcat, but I needn’t have troubled. She had gone through the window frontally and a shard of glass had chopped through the side of her neck so that her carotid spouted blood. There was still comprehension in her eyes as I bent over her and she tried to say something, but all that came out of her was an empty, breathy sound. Then her eyes glazed as the blood supply to her brain failed and she looked up at me sightlessly.

ELEVEN

I

I went back into the house and found Leotta slumped in the low armchair. She was clutching her left arm with her right hand, and blood was seeping between the fingers. There was a pained look on her face.

‘She got you,’ I said stupidly.

‘Forget about me.’ She nodded across the room towards the settee. ‘It’s her you need to worry about.’

I turned and looked at Jill, who was lying on her side, curled into a foetal position. The second bullet from Bette Haslam’s gun must have found a lucky target. Or unlucky. John was bending over her and making sympathetic noises but not doing much else. He stepped aside as he saw me. ‘She’s hurt,’ he said. ‘Hurt bad.’