After breakfast Gavin left them to it while they got to work. Silva set the rifle up in the centre of the room a couple of strides in from the balcony. The barrel rested on a small bipod, while the stock sat nestled in a gel bag. A camping mat provided some cushioning from the hardwood floor. Out on the balcony, Itchy rigged the video camera. Ostensibly he’d be filming the fireworks, but in reality the camera was zoomed in on the Hopes’ villa. A feed from the camera was displayed on a monitor inside the room. A pair of drapes hung over the doors to the balcony, a narrow slit giving Silva enough field of view so she could see the villa. Itchy poked his spotting scopes beneath the drapes. They loaded cartridges into spare magazines and placed them within easy reach. There was a water bottle, a towel for drying Silva’s hands, a foil strip of painkillers, some snacks, tools for making adjustments to the rifle, a first aid kit, binoculars, lens wipes for the optics.

‘We’re done,’ Itchy said. He walked across to Silva and gave her a fist bump. ‘If this doesn’t work out it’s not for lack of planning, right?’

Silva nodded. Itchy hadn’t meant it that way, but his words implied that if it didn’t work out it was down to her.

They packed all the other kit away and stowed the bags near the front door; when they left it would be in a hurry. Gavin prepared a cold meal for dinner that evening. He began to wipe down the surfaces in the bedrooms to remove any fingerprints.

‘There’s a family of five arriving the day after tomorrow. Beforehand a cleaner will be coming in. If the police ever do manage to work out this place was where the shot originated from, any traces will be obscured by the holidaymakers who stay here in the next few weeks.’

‘Logistics?’ Silva said. ‘I can see why Fairchild employed you.’

The rest of the day ticked away with a slow inevitability and eventually the sun disappeared behind the cliffs leaving a shifting sea of orange behind. The orange faded and white light flared from the boats lying offshore. During the day they’d arrived one after the other, each finding their own little spot to anchor. Now it was dusk the parties on board were in full swing.

‘It’s another world out there, Silvi,’ Itchy said as he panned his binoculars from boat to boat. ‘Where do these folk get all their money and why haven’t we got any of it?’

Once it was dusk, Silva lay prone and checked the rifle. Itchy stared through his spotting scope, looked at the DOPE book and calculated the numbers for the umpteenth time. He suggested some adjustments, but the time for any last-minute changes was slipping away.