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attractive, he envied Fairweather. ‘Not a bad way to spend your last night,’ he thought to himself.
    An hour later, the sounds had stopped. He assumed that passion now spent, the lovers were sleeping soundly. But he took no chances and waited another hour before starting to prepare himself. Placing his silenced pistol down the back of his trousers and opening his backpack, he removed a bottle of chloroform and a pad of cotton wool. He placed these in his hoodie pocket, slipped on his balaclava and walked slowly out of the guestroom towards the master bedroom, stepping lightly on the outsides of his feet to minimise the sound of his movements. The bedroom door was open. Though the lights were off, there was enough light from the hall for him to see that both Fairweather and the blonde were fast asleep. Fairweather was lying on his back. He had pulled the white duvet up to his chest, leaving the blonde barely covered. She was lying on her side facing away from Fairweather. She was truly beautiful. The assassin stood for a few minutes, listening to their regular breathing. He took out the chloroform and cotton wool, opened the bottle and soaked the pad. He then moved quietly over to the blonde and held the pad over her mouth and nose for a few minutes. She stirred briefly but then her breathing slowed and her body relaxed. She was in a very deep sleep. Chloroform might be an ‘old fashioned’ drug but it still worked and its use was hard to detect afterwards. Satisfied that the blonde was now out for the count for at least the next hour, he replaced the chloroform and pad in his pocket and moved round to Fairweather’s side of the bed.
    He took out the pistol and slowly shook Fairweather awake. ‘Mr Fairweather,’ he said, ‘I need to talk to you urgently.’
    Fairweather’s eyes opened slowly. He blinked several times then, when he saw the gun and the balaclava clad face, his eyes widened in fear. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he shouted.
    â€˜Be quiet Mr Fairweather or I will kill you,’ said the assassin in a quiet and measured voice. ‘Get up, put your dressing gown on and come downstairs with me,’ the assassin ordered. Fairweather complied, stumbling out of bed and scrabbling for the gown on the back of the bedroom door. The assassin directed Fairweather down the stairs and into the sitting room.
    Although the lights were off, the assassin could see the Stubbs leaning against a sofa. ‘A beautiful painting, Mr Fairweather, it must have cost you a great deal.’
    â€˜What do you want?’ asked Fairweather. ‘I’ve got money upstairs.’
    â€˜I don’t want your money Mr Fairweather, I want to talk to you,’ replied the assassin.
    Fairweather was starting to regain his composure. He reasoned that if the intruder was wearing a balaclava to hide his face, then he wasn’t intending to kill him.
    â€˜Open the windows,’ ordered the assassin, waving his gun at the left of the two identical French windows. ‘Wider. Now step onto the balcony and stretch your arms above your head towards the building across the square. Then come and sit down here.’ Fairweather did as he was told, assuming that he was sending a signal of some sort to the intruder’s accomplice. Fairweather sat down and watched as the intruder took out a glass phial and laid a line of what Fairweather assumed was cocaine on the glass topped table. ‘It’s just coke, it won’t hurt you, take it,’ ordered the assassin.
    Fairweather looked at the intruder. ‘Fuck off. Why should I?’ he asked.
    â€˜Because it will make you more receptive to what I’m going to talk to you about and because I’ve got the gun and I’m telling you to,’ said the assassin. Though his voice was quiet, there was no mistaking the menace that it contained.
    Fairweather was no stranger to drugs. He dipped a finger into the powder and put it on