‘I expect he’s dead.’ Her father’s voice came from the far side of the room at the same time as Itchy bounded in and flicked on the light switch. ‘I went for a killing shot and I’d be surprised if I missed.’

Silva looked at the body. She put a hand out to feel for a pulse at the man’s neck then realised it would be a wasted effort. His jacket lay open and blood inked out in a circle across his shirt. She raised her head. Her father sat on the floor half hidden behind an armchair. There was a pistol in his lap.

‘Dad,’ Silva said.

‘Browning HP,’ her father said. ‘Nice to see it still does the job. Better than the German crap he’s using.’

Silva turned back to the man on the floor. His right hand clutched a Glock pistol. ‘Austrian, Dad, not German.’

‘Same difference.’

‘Silvi!’ Itchy tapped her on the shoulder. He made a jabbing motion into the corridor at the same time as there was a clatter from the far end. ‘The other one’s out there.’

She reached for the Glock and then spun into the corridor. At the end, on the right, a door stood open. She nodded at Itchy and then crept down towards the door, both hands holding the weapon. Itchy kept to the right and when he reached the door he looked back at Silva. Then he reached in for the light switch.

The room was her father’s study. A leather-topped desk with a high-backed chair. Bookcases. At the floor-to-ceiling window, heavy velvet curtains that rippled in the non-existent breeze.

Silva fired at the same time as something cracked into the wall beside her head. She threw herself across the corridor and fired through the opening again. After the sharp retorts came the smashing of glass, and she moved forward and into the room, covering the window. As she edged in she felt a waft of cold air from outside. She inched towards the window. The glass was gone and the window had been opened onto the small balcony. She took another step and then Itchy shoved her to one side as a shot echoed from the garden below.

‘The light,’ Itchy said. ‘You’re silhouetted like a cut-out on the range.’

He moved back across the room and turned the switch off. Silva peered through the window again. A swathe of white illuminated the lawn for a moment and then there was the sound of wheels spitting gravel and an engine revving hard before fading into the still night.

‘They’re gone,’ Silva said.

‘Whoever they are.’