“Well, is that him?” asked Rollison.

“Yes!”

“Good. Do you like getting hurt, Waleski?”

The man leaned back in his chair, his face darker for the blood had run to his head, and his eyes flaming. He didn’t speak but clutched the arms of his chair.

“Because you’re going to get hurt if you don’t do what you’re told,” said Rollison. “Let me have that letter, Judith.”

She handed it to him and he read aloud, very slowly:

““Sorry I’ve messed things up, Judy. There’s nothing I can do now. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just felt I had to let you know that.””

As the last few words came out, Rollison lowered the letter and looked straight into Waleski’s eyes.

“Who wrote that?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You delivered it.”

Waleski said: “That’s what you think.”

Then Rollison moved again—a swift lunge, startling Waleski and the girl. His right hand shot out and the fingers spread over Waleski’s face. He pushed the square head back against the chair with a bump and struck Waleski on the nose with the flat of his hand. Tears of pain welled up.

Rollison leaned back, as if admiring his handiwork.

“Who wrote it, Waleski?”

Waleski gulped and swallowed hard as he tried to speak, pressed his hand against his nose, drew a finger across his eyes. The squat, powerful body seemed to be bunched up, as if he were preparing to spring from the chair. Rollison took the automatic from his pocket, squinted down the barrel then flicked the safety catch off and pointed the gun towards Waleski’s feet.

Waleski said: “I’ll kill you for that.”

He didn’t shout, didn’t put any emphasis into the words—just let them come out flatly, as if he meant exactly what he said.

Judith felt her own tension returning; something like fear ran through her.

“Yes, you’re fond of killing,” Rollison said and his voice hardened. “You killed Galloway; Mellor didn’t. If that note means what I think it means, it’s a prelude to the murder of Mellor.” He took no notice of the way Judith drew in her breath. “It’s the kind of note a man might write before killing himself—a confession note. But he didn’t write it; you made one fatal mistake, and—”