Chapter Thirty-Three - 14.45–15.35
Chapter Thirty-Four - 15.50–16.15
Chapter Thirty-Five - 13.35–17.30
Chapter Thirty-Six - 16.35–16.41
Chapter Thirty-Seven - 16.35–17.05
Chapter Thirty-Eight - 16.00–16.30
Chapter Thirty-Nine - 16.30–18.05
Chapter Forty - 16.41–17.15
Chapter Forty-One - 16.42–18.05
Chapter Forty-Two - 17.35–17.55
Chapter Forty-Three - 17.40–17.55
Chapter Forty-Four - 17.10–17.55
Chapter Forty-Five - 17.00–18.00
Part Four Furioso
Prelude
Chapter Forty-Six - 17.55–18.15
Chapter Forty-Seven - 18.10–18.15
Chapter Forty-Eight - 18.15–18.30
Chapter Forty-Nine - 18.05–18.15
Chapter Fifty - 18.33–18.35
Chapter Fifty-One - 18.35–18.50
Chapter Fifty-Two - 18.20–18.48
Chapter Fifty-Three - 18.45–18.52
Chapter Fifty-Four - 18.57–19.22
Chapter Fifty-Five - 18.52–19.23
Chapter Fifty-Six - 19.22–19.30
Chapter Fifty-Seven - 23.15–23.59
Part Five Con Fuoco Poi Smorzando
Postlude
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Reginald Hill
About the Publisher
The raindrops play their midnight fugue Against my window pane. Could I once more fold you in my arms You should not leave again.
Richard Morland: Night Music
PRELUDE
Midnight.
Splintered woodwork, bedroom door flung open, feet pounding across the floor, duvet ripped off, grim faces looking down at him, his wife screaming as she’s dragged naked from his side…
He sits upright and cries, ‘NO!’
The duvet is in place, the room empty, the door closed. And through the thin curtains seeps the grey light of dawn.
As for Gina, she hasn’t been by his side for…days?…weeks?…could be months.
The digital bedside clock reads 5.55. He’s not surprised.
Always some form of Nelson whenever he wakes these days: 1.11 2.22 3.33…
Meaning something bad.
Things go on like this, one morning soon he’s going to wake and the clock will read 6.66…
He is still shaking, his body soaked with sweat, his heart pounding.
He gets out of bed and goes on to the landing.
Even the sight of the front door securely in place can’t slow his pulse, even the shower jets cooling and cleaning his flesh can’t wash away his fear.
He tries to analyse his dream, to get it under control by working out its meaning.
He conjures up the men. Some in uniform, some masked; some familiar, some strangers; some wielding police batons, some swinging hammers…
He gives it up, not because the meaning is too elusive but because it’s too clear.
There is no one to turn to, nowhere to hide.
He looks out of the window into the quiet street, familiar from childhood, whenever that was. Now it seems strange, the houses skewed, the perspectives warped, all colour washed out, like a sepia still from some old horror movie.
He realizes he no longer knows where it leads.
Maybe that’s where salvation lies.
If he doesn’t know, how can they know?
All he has to do is walk away down that street. Once round the corner he’ll be somewhere nobody knows about. He will be free.
Part of his mind is asking, Does this make sense? Are you thinking straight? Is this the only way?
He makes one last effort at coherent thought, trying to find an answer by looking at the past, the trail that has brought him here, but the view is blocked by a small white box. For some reason it’s got a silver ribbon around it, making it look like a wedding present.
Maybe it was.
He tries to look beyond it, but it’s like staring into fog rolling off the ocean at dusk. The harder you look, the darker it gets.
Time to turn his back on that box, that fog, that darkness.
Time to walk away.
08.10–08.12
‘Shit,’ said Andy Dalziel as the phone rang.
