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‘Date,’ he gasped. ‘November second.’ He let himself relax. Not yet, then. A little while longer. Nothing to be done about it. He drifted away. Something she did hurt. It brought a groan gusting from his throat and lifted him out of the fog he had floated in. Her voice, murmuring behind him, sounded tight and fussy. ‘…must be crazy,’ she was saying, ‘and my father ought to have his head examined, as well! Did he know about this? I’m sorry, but this is going to be bad.’ She was right. It couldn’t have been worse if she’d shoved a hot poker into his back, there below the shoulder blade. He pushed his face into the blankets and clenched his fingers on air. He didn’t move while she finished cleaning the wound and bathed it with something that smelled like wintergreen. Her fingers felt warm and steady. They blotted the wound with a cloth, then gently patted him for a moment, as if in apology for the torment. It was oddly comforting. ‘I think it ought to dry a little before I do anything. ’ There were six cars. Two at the front entrance. Two at the service entrance at the rear of the building and there was also a car at either end of the street. The cars were unmarked, but it was unmistakeable as to what they were: Special Police Force. SPF. The door of the car closest to the bar’s entrance opened. A uniformed man got out of the car. He was dressed in black. He was part of their elite apprehension squad. He walked over to the other car on the opposite side of the entrance and tapped on the rear window. The window noiselessly slid down. The man inside the car was dressed in black. His silver hair was a sharp contrast to the black of his uniform and his small cap. ‘Yes?’ said the man inside the car. ‘Sir,’ said the man standing outside. ‘We’ve had a tip-off that Emma Hopson is in the bar.’ He stood there, his black helmet concealing his features. The rain continued to drizzle and the water ran in rivulets down his helmet and some down the back of his neck and under his.
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