Then a quarter of an hour had passed. No lights had come on in Grosvenor House. How long does it take to find a bell-push? Hell, the silly bastard wasn't trying to burglarise the house, was he?

I got out of the car and stood listening and not getting anything new. Then, down the road to the west, a car's headlights, moving jerkily, like somebody looking for an address…

I started to run, then remembered not to. Just briskly across the road and up the rutted drive of stones, with the headlights creeping step by step in on my left.

It took me perhaps two seconds to find the bell and morse out a quick SOS on it. Nothing happened, but I'd pretty much expected that, by then. I started around the side, away from the headlights, my rubber soles crunching in the stones, and me wondering why I hadn't picked out a Colt for myself from the collection I'd sprinkled into the sea so freely. I could use the comforting feel of heavy metal in my hand, the sense that one trigger-pull could cause instant fire and noise and death. It's a helpful way to get around a dark corner, even if you're flattering yourself about causing 'instant death'.

I put one hand against the wall – flakes of old paint, wet with dew, pulled off on my fingers – then took a wide step around the back of the house. And almost fell over Ken.

He lay on his face on the concrete patio that stretched out flush with the drive and with a lot of stones spilled over on to it. For a moment I thought… well, a lot of things, but my fingers were already feeling for a pulse in his neck. Before I found it, he said: 'God bugger it. Thathurts'

'Sorry.' So he'd been put out with some neck grip, on the carotid arteries, I think it is. 'Howd'you feel? '

'That's a bloody stupid question,' he grumbled, lifting carefully to a sitting position against the house. 'Did you get him?'

'No. Who?'

'Idon't know.' He put both hands under his chin and lifted gently.'Jesus!'

A car revved in low gear and tyres bit into the driveway. I stepped close to the house. I whispered: 'That'll be Lazaros. D'you want to meet him?'

'Only one person I want to meet-'

'Then on the feet, hup.' I got him effectively upright and we staggered across the patio towards the sea, keeping the house between us and the glow of headlights brightening in the driveway. There was no garage, no outhouses, no cover bar a few scruffy ornamental bushes before the ground began to crumble towards what Papa had probably described as a 'deserted beach'. True, but the sand had deserted it, too.

I helped Ken collapse behind one bush, then found my own. We waited.

Lazarostook his time. He rang the front bell, and again, then walked slowly round the house and tried the french windows that led on to the patio. Then he poked at a few windows, and even gave a drain-pipe a shake. Then he lit a cigarette and stared out seawards and we stopped breathing.

But at least there weren't any other buildings to snoop into, and Lazaros wasn't actually expecting people to be parked behind bushes, so he stood there and puffed and probably wondered what the hell else he could do to justify an eighty-mile round trip. Eventually he must have thought of something, because he went back and the car door slammed and the engine started.

I said: 'Stay there,' and ran around the other side of the house. Lazaros's car – a small blue Mazda – hesitated at the bottom of the drive, then pulled away towards Kyrenia itself. I waited until the noise had faded.

When I turned back, Ken had reached the corner of the house by himself and was leaning on it for a breather. 'He's gone into town,' I reported. 'I was a bit scared he'd just sit and put a watch on the place. Now let's get weaving.'

He looked longingly at the house. "The letter might still be in there.'

'For God's sake. If it is, you'll never find it. And Lazaroshas probably gone to make his number with the local coppers. When Papa gets found, this place is going to get as lonely as Piccadilly on New Year. Let'sgo.'

So we went.

I didn't say anything until we were halfway along the coast road towards Lapithos. Then: 'How's it feel now?'

'Bloody sore.' He moved his head carefully.

'How did it happen?'

'I was just snooping around, trying doors and windows – he must've come up behind me. God! – I'm getting slow. I shouldn't have been caught like that.'

'You weren't expecting trouble-'

'Ishould have been-'

I over-rode him. 'So we're dealing with a man who's queer for necks,'

'Yes, it must've been the same man… but what did he come back for?'

'Something he hadn't found on Papa.'

'So the lettercould be still-'

'No. Look: we know Papa was travelling and it could only have been to Israel. There's plenty of boats go from Limassol to Haifa, and they sail at all sorts of times. So he'd either take the letter or burn it; left behind, it's just evidence he fiddles with the mail.'

He thought for a moment. 'He'd need passport, tickets, money, traveller's cheques… I suppose they got pinched, too.'

'I imagine. But he missed one thing: Papa had a hundred Israeli pounds in with his cash. That's the maximum you can take into Israel.'

'That'swhat you took. And I thought it was just your pension plan. So that's another bit of evidence we've concealed.'

They'll find out. It'll be routine to check with his bank, but they won't bother till Monday.'

The car hit a bump and Ken winced. I said: 'Sorry,' and slowed, but not much. If Papa had got found, they might just try a roadblock on the coast route; once we were round the corner of the mountains there were too many roads to make it worth while.

The road forked and I stayed with the coastline, passing the lights of Lapithos on the left.

Ken said: 'So whatdid he come back for? He can't have planned on coming or he'd have pinched Papa's keys.'

'Maybe he didn't have time. One thing I didn't mention: Papa had been tortured. Cigarette burns on the back of his neck.'

'Jesus! Sothat was the smell.' After a pause. 'So he wanted Papa to tell him something… d'you think he talked?"

'Not enough. I think he killed Papa because we stopped. That was the first shot.'

'So we got him killed.'

'Balls. He went up there to get killed. We just speeded things up, before the torture was finished, before he thought of taking the keys.'

There was suddenly a sign for Róndemenos, an early rough road over the end of the coastal range rather than around the end. But I took it, just to get off the coast road.

It was narrow and winding but now I didn't need to hurry. What I could see in the headlights was lonely moorland, and beyond, the black hills against the stars. A bit like the road where Papa had died.

For a long time, Ken said nothing. I knew that, absurdly but understandably, he felt worse about shooting a dead man than a live one. And the wrong man besides. And then getting jumped from behind… It had been a bad night, though how you balance those factors – but I don't think he was doing much balancing.

At last, he said calmly: 'Papa must've known this character. Thought he was a friend, or partner.'

'Likely enough. He wasn't fool enough to think he could do a million-dollar deal all on his own. He'd need help.'

We were over the top, weaving downhill; ahead, the flat central plain stretched away into the night, pinpncked with tiny lights.

Ken rubbed his neck carefully. 'I wonder why the bastard didn't kill me, too. He could've done by just pressing a bit longer.'

'Perhaps he's managed to cut it down to one a night.'