Still half asleep she turned over to face him and murmured, ‘You’re an asshole, you know that?’

‘Yeah,’ he said again. He didn’t know whether she meant for lying beside her all night with a hard-on, for jerking off in the bathroom, or just in general, but right now he thought she was probably right on all counts.

Even so, Lucia fell asleep again with her head on his chest and her right hand curled loosely on his hip.

Tom sighed and decided to write off the night’s sleep.

If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have heard the front door open.

Just as the sky started to turn cobalt from navy, the soft metallic click made him hold his breath, his ears straining. The smallest squeak of hinges would have gone unnoticed, except that he was already quivering like a pointer, all senses alert.

He rolled over and put his hand on Lucia’s mouth and his lips next to her ear, barely whispering, ‘Lucia. Wake up.’

She tensed against him.

‘Somebody’s here. Is there another way out?’

She shook her head.

‘Stay here. Don’t move.’

She nodded. He let go of her mouth, slid silently out of bed and behind the bedroom door. He felt naked and vulnerable in just his shorts. His eyes darted around, in search of a weapon, but there was nothing. He winced as the tender back of his head nudged a picture frame.

Now he could hear the tiny creaks that told him someone was moving across the living room. He put his eye to a crack in the door and saw the shadowy figure of a man rounding the couch. Just one man.

He glanced at Lucia. She was still in the position he’d left her in, but he could see the dawn light reflected in her open eyes as she watched him, watched the door.

Carefully, Tom turned to the wall and lifted the large picture off its hook. Close up, he could see it was a psychedelic print of John Lennon wearing little round glasses and a T-shirt reading ‘Give Peace A Chance’.

As the intruder entered the bedroom, Tom shifted his feet so he was firmly braced. Then, as the man cleared the edge of the door, he swung the glass-fronted print into his face.

The glass shattered loudly and the man dropped with a cry of pain and surprise, but only to one knee. Tom tried to raise the print and hit him again, but the man grabbed one edge of the frame and held it down, over his own head, so Tom couldn’t even punch him satisfactorily. Even as his right fist tried to circumvent John Lennon, the man grabbed him round the knee and toppled him backwards onto the wooden floor, the air jerking out of his lungs in a painful jolt.

This is going badly wrong, thought Tom.

Then Lucia stepped on his arm as she jumped off the bed and tried to grab the man round the neck. ‘Get out of my house!’

The intruder lashed out at her and she crashed against something with a squeal of pain. The man had his knee in Tom’s stomach, a surprisingly effective anchor. It left his hands free to shove Lucia away again as she came back for more. This time he twisted her arm first and she screamed, which gave Tom the impetus to buck the man off him.

They wrestled messily on the floor, each trying to get on top of the other, snatching hair, wrists, ears. Tom grabbed at the man’s clothing; the man grabbed at his skin, which was infinitely more painful. The man got on top of him; Tom found a stubbled cheek against his clenched teeth and bit hard, tasting blood, feeling sick that he’d done it, less than human. The yowl that came from his opponent was just as animal.

And suddenly a gun was pressed against his face – cold and hard and frightening. Tom stopped fighting and let go of the man, who turned out to be Mr Stanley.

Of course it did. Who else would it be?

The man with the gun was the Weasel. He smiled down at Tom. ‘Mr Patrick. How are you?’

Tom spat Stanley’s blood out of his mouth. ‘Not great,’ he panted.

The Weasel’s smile widened.

‘Bastard bit me!’ said Stanley, clutching his cheek. He drew his arm back but the Weasel put up a hand.

‘Not yet,’ he said.

Tom twisted his head to look around the room. ‘Where’s Lucia?’

Stanley sat back on his haunches so Tom could see her lying on the floor beside her dressing-table, apparently out cold.

‘Is she okay?’

‘Why don’t you worry about how you are? And how you’re gonna be?’ said Stanley, as he stood up.

‘How did you find me?’

Stanley grinned. ‘It’s always easy to follow a man who’s following his dick.’

Tom said nothing.

‘Where’s the money?’ asked the Weasel.

Still Tom said nothing.

This time the Weasel stepped on Tom’s face and pressed it sideways against the wooden floor so he was staring at Lucia’s bare, still foot. He dug the barrel of his pistol into Tom’s ear. He flinched more in anticipation than in pain.

‘Where’s the money?’ the Weasel said again, calmly.

‘And the bolt,’ Stanley reminded him.

‘Yeah. The money and the bolt.’

Tom felt helpless. Helpless and stupid. He couldn’t lie, much though he wanted to. He knew that anyone else he accused of having the bolt would be in mortal danger.

‘I’ve got the money. I don’t have the bolt.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the Weasel, sounding amused. ‘We were watching the hotel. We saw you fall out of Mrs Munro’s window. Smooth technique, by the way.’

These were the men who’d shot Lenny Munro.

Stanley kicked him in the ribs to speed things along, and when Tom got his breath back, he said, ‘In my jeans.’

Stanley snorted in derision and picked them up. The Weasel took the gun out of his ear but kept up the pressure on the side of his face. Tom watched Stanley pat down the pockets and pull out slabs of cash. Then he did the same with his leather jacket. ‘Is it all here?’

Tom decided they wouldn’t miss the cost of a KFC bargain bucket, so he nodded with difficulty under the Weasel’s shoe.

Stanley dipped his hand into the jeans pocket again and drew out the bolt. He squatted down and waggled it in front of Tom’s squashed face. ‘You don’t even have the sense to hide it.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘You’re such an asshole.’

‘So I’ve been told.’