21.45 Winter was asleep when the buzzer rang. He struggled upright on the sofa, gazed at the television, fumbled for the remote to mute the volume. He’d had a bath earlier and the belt on Maddox’s dressing gown had somehow loosened. Parcelling himself up again, he padded into the hall, peering at the videophone. Bazza again. Second time in one day. He buzzed the entry, unlocked his own front door and returned to the lounge. On screen a pair of mangy lions were disembowelling an antelope. The animal’s eyes were wide open, its long neck arched back, and Winter was trying to work out whether it was still alive when he heard a footfall behind him. Reflected in the big picture window was Bazza’s short, squat silhouette. Winter was about to suggest a nightcap when another figure, much bigger, stepped in from the hall. Brett West was wearing a light raincoat, beautifully cut, ankle length, unbelted. The sight of Winter in a woman’s dressing gown failed to put a smile on his face. Bazza studied Winter a moment, then gave West a nod.
