three yards or so and then right, into a small courtyard, surrounded by lush green plants. At the opposite side of the stone-flagged square was a small pool into which trickled water from the mouth of a stone lion set into the wall. Lily pads floated on the surface, moving gently around the dribble of water. Somewhere a frog croaked, but quietly, as if afraid to draw attention to itself. The pool was illuminated by three spotlights set into the wall and by a soft glow that came from large french windows that led into the house. Donaldson moved into the centre of the courtyard, sidestepping a brown-shelled snail that was meandering towards the water. From somewhere above his head a bird called into the night, a high-pitched whine that grew louder and deeper and then stopped, like incoming mortars in a war film. His right hand was tightly clenched around the strap of his shoulder bag, drenched in sweat. The heat, he told himself, ignoring the smell of fear that was pouring off him, the smell that dogs can scent and which raises their hackles and starts them growling and snarling. It was just the heat, thought Donaldson, just the heat. Christ, what are you doing here? asked a small voice inside, the voice of a threatened schoolboy. Howells is an animal . He ignored the whining voice and moved forward again, towards Pink Floyd and the window.
He could see into the room now, the french window framing a scene of domestic bliss, a man and two girls. The three were sitting at the far end of the room around a small table, the man with his back to the window, the girls to his right and left. The man’s hair was tied back in a short ponytail by a rubber band, and his head bobbed forward and back as he spooned in food from a small bowl. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing faded jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. The girls could have been twins, pretty in a boyish way, giggling to each other and with the man as they ate. They both had pageboy hair cuts and seemed achingly young, with smooth and unlined skins and bright, wide eyes with dark, fluttering lashes. Occasionally, one or the other would reach out to touch the man, or to ladle rice into his bowl or hand him a piece of meat. They were talking, Donaldson could see their mouths moving, but the music drowned out the words. The girls wore simple flowered print cotton dresses, open at the neck but covering their arms. One wore a thin gold chain around her neck, but other than that Donaldson wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. He found their boyishness over-poweringly provocative, but at the same time he was repelled by their obvious femininity. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow again. He replaced the wet square of linen and knocked gently against the glass with his knuckles.
Whatever the psychologists had done to Howells, they hadn’t affected his reactions. In one smooth, flowing movement he’d replaced his bowl on the table, uncurled his legs and moved three paces to the side, away from the girls, side on to Donaldson but looking straight at him. Donaldson knew with a tight feeling in his stomach that if Howells had had a gun in his hand he’d have been dead. It was Howells, he was sure of that, but he’d changed. The face was thinner, and the soft beard and moustache were new. He’d lost weight, too. Not that Howells had ever been anything other than hard muscle, but now he looked almost emaciated. Donaldson could see his stomach was dead flat, and he had a marathon runner’s backside and legs. Howells spoke quickly to the girls and they slowly moved away from the table, away from him, worried frowns on their faces. Howells seemed to be looking through Donaldson with impassive hazel eyes and for a moment Donaldson wondered whether reflections meant he couldn’t see through the window. No, that couldn’t be right, there were lights outside. He reached out and knocked again.
Howells walked forward slowly, balls