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with black steel frames. He opened the imitation jacaranda door and went in.
    It looked pretty deserted, but nevertheless inviting. He had never set foot in the place before: he assumed it was probably a favourite haunt of golfers, and that it could hardly be high season, given the chilly late-autumn weather. The bar was on the left as you entered: a lone woman in her forties sat smoking in the company of an evening newspaper and a green drink. She looked up when he came in, but decided that the newspaper was more interesting.
    Before sitting down he peered into the restaurant section. It branched off at right-angles to the bar, and most of the tables he could see were empty. An unaccompanied man was busy eating a pasta dish. A fire was crackling away in the hearth. The furniture and fittings were a mixture of dark brown, red and green, and a piano sonata was struggling to find its way out of hidden speakers. He put the carrier bag down at his feet and ordered a beer from the bartender, a young man with a ponytail and a ring in one ear.
    ‘Still windy, is it?’ asked the barman.
    ‘It certainly is,’ he replied. ‘You’re not exactly jam-packed this evening, it seems.’
    ‘You can say that again,’ said the barman.
    His beer was served in a tapered effeminate-looking glass. He paid, drank about half of it and asked where the gents was. The bartender pointed towards the open fire, he thanked him, picked up the bag and made his way there.
    It smelled of pine forests and was strikingly empty. And clean. The bin between the two washbasins was only a third full of used paper towels. He put the Boodwick carrier bag into the bin and covered it over with new paper towels that he pulled out of the holder one by one, crumpling them up slightly. All in accordance with the instructions. The whole procedure took ten seconds. He remained standing there for another ten, contemplating with some surprise his reflection in the slightly scratched mirror over the washbasin. Then he left the room. Nodded to the barman as he made his way to the door and continued to his car. There was a tang of frozen iron in the air.
    So far so good, he thought as he sat down again behind the wheel. A piece of cake, dammit.
    Then he opened the glove box and took out the metal pipe.
    He only needed to wait for exactly six-and-a-half minutes.
    The man who emerged from the restaurant seemed to be in his thirties. He was tall and lanky, carrying the bag with his right hand and dangling a set of car keys from his left. He was obviously heading for an old Peugeot about twenty metres away from his own car. One of the total of five vehicles standing in the large car park.
    Before the man opened the car door, he had time to reflect on how amateurish the procedure was. Waiting for such a short time and then marching out into the car park with the bag in full view – surely that indicated pretty poor judgement? It seemed obvious that his opponent was easy game, despite what he had thought previously – and most importantly, that the man had seriously underestimated his own calibre.
    He caught up with him just as he was about to insert the keys into the lock.
    ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I think you dropped something.’
    He held up his cupped hand half a metre in front of the man’s face.
    ‘What is it?’
    He glanced quickly around the car park and beyond. It was growing darker by the second now. There was not a soul in sight. He hit the man on the head with the pipe, using all his strength. Caught him just over his left ear. He fell to the ground without a sound. Flat on his stomach with his arms underneath him. This time he aimed at the back of the man’s head, and hit him with full force once again. There was a short crackling sound, and he knew the man was dead. If he hadn’t already died from the first blow. Blood was pouring profusely from the man’s head. He carefully detached the casualty from the carrier bag and the car keys, stood up straight and