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questioningly, then finished his sentence for him. ‘Put him to sleep?’
    The two had looked at each other with eyes full of relief. They couldn’t believe they had found a way out: they could pass off as a suggestion from an authoritative source what they had in fact already decided.
    ‘I see you agree, doctor. Do it, then. He won’t suffer, will he?’
    ‘No, he won’t suffer,’ the vet replied. Her voice was icy, and so were her blue eyes. But the two were in too much of a hurry to leave to even notice.
    They had paid, and gone out the door with more haste than might have been considered necessary in the circumstances. Then the sound of a car starting up outside had confirmed that the final verdict had been pronounced on the poor animal.
    He had witnessed the whole scene. But when they had gone he put down the pail in which he was mixing plaster and approached Dr Peterson.
    ‘Don’t kill him, doctor. I’ll take him.’
    She had looked at him without speaking. Her eyes searched his for a long time before replying. Then she had said just two words.
    ‘All right.’
    She had turned and gone back into her clinic, leaving him alone as the new owner of a cat with three legs. That was what had given rise to its name. Growing up, its way of walking had reminded him of waltz time: one-two-three, one-two -three, one-two-three …
    And Waltz it had become.
    He was about to move the cat, which was continuing to purr blissfully beside him on the bed, when suddenly the door was kicked open. Waltz took fright, jumped down nimbly on his three paws and hid under the bed. A commanding voice filled the room.
    ‘Whoever you are, you’d better come out with your hands up. Don’t make any sudden movements. I have a shotgun and I’m prepared to use it.’
    For a moment, he did not move.
    Then, without saying a word, he stood up and walked calmly towards the door. Just before placing himself in the doorway, he raised his arms in the air. That was the only movement that still caused him a little pain.
    And a flood of memories.

CHAPTER 5
    Ben Shepard moved behind one of the cement mixers, trying to find the best position from which to keep the door in his sights. A bead of sweat running down the side of his face reminded him how hot and damp the building was. For a moment he was tempted to wipe it off, but he preferred not to take his hands off his Remington pump-action shotgun. Whoever was in that room, he didn’t know how he would react to the order to come out. Above all, he didn’t know if he was armed or not. Anyhow, the man had been warned. He was holding a shotgun, and he never said anything he didn’t mean. He had fought in Korea. If the guy or guys in there didn’t believe he was prepared to use it, they were making a big mistake.
    Nothing happened.
    He had preferred not to switch on any lights. In the semidarkness , time seemed like something personal between him and the beating of his heart. He waited for seconds that seemed an eternity.
    It was pure chance that he was here at this hour.
    He had been on his way back after an evening spent bowling with the team he played for. He was driving along Western Avenue and had just passed North Folk Village when the oil gauge had lit up on the dashboard of his old van.If he kept going, the engine might seize up. A few dozen yards up ahead was the track that led to the his construction company. Rather than be forced to brake, he had quickly done a wide turn onto the other lane and then onto the track, immediately afterwards switching off the engine and putting it in neutral to take advantage of the momentum and get as far as the gate.
    As he approached the building, hearing the loose stones under the tyres roll with an ever deeper sound as he lost speed, he’d had the fleeting impression that there was a dim light visible through the windows.
    He had immediately stopped the van, taken the Remington from behind the seats, and checked it was loaded. He had got out without