He closed the door, turned and moved slowly to the centre of the room. There was a dull ache just to one side of the crown of his skull and as he touched the spot briefly, feeling the indentation of the scar, a slight nervous tic developed in the right cheek. He stood there examining the statues for a moment, then went to the cigarette box on the coffee table. It was empty. He cursed softly and quickly searched his pockets without success.

A search behind the bar proved equally fruitless and he pulled on his raincoat and hat quickly. As he passed the bar, he noticed a pair of gloves on the floor beside one of the stools and picked them up. The girl had obviously dropped them in the final hurried departure. Still, with any luck he would catch up with her before she reached the square. He stuffed them into his pocket and went out quickly.

Beyond, through the great window, the wind moaned in the night, driving the rain across the city in a dark curtain.

4

When they carried Sean Doyle into the General Infirmary escape couldn’t have been further from his mind. He was sweating buckets, had a temperature of 104 and his stomach seemed to bulge with pieces of broken glass that ground themselves into his flesh and organs ferociously.

He surfaced twenty-four hours later, weak and curiously light-headed, but free from pain. The room was in half-darkness, the only light a small lamp which stood on the bedside locker. One of the screws from the prison, an ex-Welsh Guardsman called Jones, nodded on a chair against the wall as per regulations.

Doyle moistened cracked lips and tried to whistle, but at that moment the door opened and a staff nurse entered, a towel over her arm. She was West Indian, dark and supple. To Doyle after two and a half years on the wrong side of the wall, the Queen of Sheba herself couldn’t have looked more desirable.

As she moved across to the bed, he closed his eyes quickly. He was aware of her closeness, warm and perfumed with lilac, the rustle of her skirt as she turned and tiptoed across to Jones. Doyle watched her from beneath lowered eyelids as the Welshman came awake with a start.

‘Here, what’s going on?’ he said in some alarm. ‘Is the Gunner all right?’

She put out a hand to restrain him. ‘He’s still asleep. Would you like to go down to the canteen?’

‘Well, I shouldn’t really, you know,’ Jones told her in his high Welsh voice.

‘You’ll be all right, I’ll stay,’ she said. ‘Nothing can possibly happen – he’s still asleep. After what he’s been through he must be as weak as a kitten.’

‘All right then,’ Jones whispered. ‘A cup of tea and a smoke. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’