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where he slept. Moreover, when fleeing the bedroom he had reached unswervingly for the correct door. The door immediately to its right, also shut at the time, would have led him into the blind-alley of the bathroom. How had the Italian known which door to select? Surely a man in desperation would have tried both handles at the same time before making his choice. And how had he managed to negotiate the darkened corridors and staircases of the villa with such speed and confidence when making his escape?
    Maybe Tom was underestimating the aptitude of his would-be assassin, but he was left with the uneasy feeling that the Italian had come armed with more knowledge than was natural. It didn’t make sense, not unless he had somehow managed to scout the inside of the villa before making his move, or he had been briefed by someone who knew the internal layout of the building. The first seemed unlikely; Tom had always been a stickler for security, much to Paulette’s amusement and annoyance. The second possibility implied that a friend or close associate was a party to the attempt on his life.
    He shrugged this unwelcome thought aside, turning his mind to the larger issues. Who wanted him dead? And why? Unfortunately, there were a fair number of options. He had done some bad things in the name of King and Country over the years, and although that murky world was well behind him now, there was no reason why others should have been as eager as he to forget and move on with their lives.
    Whoever they were, he had to assume they still wanted him dead, and the moment they realized they’d failed in their mission they would gather themselves to strike again. This gave him a small window of opportunity, maybe half a day in which to steal the initiative.
    He hated them for leaving him no other choice. He hated them for the fear that had returned to his life. He hated them for what they had made him do. He had killed a man, not with his bare hands, admittedly, but as good as, driving him to his certain doom.
    This, he realized, was what he really despised them for – for showing him that he was still the same man.
    After more than five years, and despite his best efforts to improve on himself, he had barely changed.

Chapter Five
    Lucy woke with a start. She was lying on top of the covers, still in her clothes, and her face was damp against the pillow.
    Then she remembered. She remembered why she was dressed, why she had been crying.
    She reached for the travel clock on the bedside table. It was early, not yet seven o’clock, but someone was already moving around downstairs, clattering about in the kitchen. It couldn’t possibly be Mother; she rarely rose before nine, not even for guests.
    Mr Chittenden, most likely. He had announced over dinner that he was always up with the lark. These were some of the few words he had spoken all evening. For much of the time he had sat hunched in his chair, a look of benign befuddlement on his face, chortling every so often while his wife held forth.
    Barbara Chittenden liked to talk. She maundered on and on as if her life depended on it, as if the moment she fell silent someone would put a bullet in her head.
    Lucy had been tempted to do just that on a couple of occasions, especially when it had emerged that Barbara was a long-standing member of the Eugenics Society and held strong views on the sterilization of the unfit.
    â€˜Although we now prefer to call them the “social problem group”. The unfit is so very . . .’
    â€˜. . . offensive . . .?’ proffered Lucy, with studied innocence.
    This brought a little chuckle from Mr Chittenden and a warning scowl from Mother.
    â€˜Vague was the word I was searching for.’
    Apparently, the ‘social problem group’ covered a wide range of hereditary and moral sins, everything from lunatics, idiots and the feeble-minded, through deaf-mutes and the congenitally blind, to tramps, prostitutes, inebriates and