‘You don’t need to hide this time,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

He stopped, and it was as if, finally, he wanted them to know who he was. He took his gloved hand from his wound and grabbed a fistful of nylon above his forehead and slid the hood off his face. His red hair was flat and wet. His skin flickered with dark shadows from the candles. He was handsome and rugged, the kind of man who drew second looks wherever he went. To Tarla, he was so, so young – not even thirty – which meant that ten years earlier he had truly been no more than a boy. An eighteen-year-old, slaying his brother, like Cain killing Abel. Tarla realized that it was youth she had sensed behind the hood back then. Youth, that foolish time when emotion means everything, and consequences don’t exist.

Diane said: ‘Deacon?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Deacon Piper said to her.

Tarla was close enough to see his face clearly. He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t necessarily a killer in his heart, but he wasn’t sorry. He was a man with a mission, who wouldn’t stop until he was done.

‘Why?’ Diane murmured. As if it were nothing but idle curiosity. As if she were talking about the choice of paint on a wall. ‘Why do this?’

‘I have no choice,’ Deacon replied.

‘Don’t tell me you’re some kind of closet Nazi,’ Tarla interrupted loudly. Somewhere in her mother-of-a-policeman brain, she thought: Play for time. Time made all things possible. Even rescue. ‘One of those awful Alliance members out to make the world safe for fascism? That would be very disappointing.’

‘I can do this, or I can go to prison for the rest of my life. That was my choice then. It still is.’ He added: ‘I don’t take any pleasure in it.’

‘Well, that makes me feel so much better,’ Tarla said.

‘Don’t toy with us!’ Caprice hissed, speaking for the first time. ‘If this is who you are, then you have to live with yourself. If you think you can do this, then screw up your courage and do it.’

Deacon pointed the gun at Caprice. ‘Do you want me to kill you first?’

‘I don’t care what you do.’

Deacon stared at her and said, ‘Bang’ – but he didn’t fire. He swung the gun back to Diane, who showed no fear. She watched Deacon and the black barrel of the gun with a peculiar fascination. Deacon limped closer, arm outstretched, ready to shoot. No regrets or doubts. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Tarla stepped in front of him.

She blocked his way, a human shield between him and Diane. She wasn’t going to let him kill her friend, not then, not now. ‘I think we’ve been in this position before,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, we have,’ Deacon replied.