Ten past eight. Surely the bitch was safely out of the way? Donna went over the plan one more time. There were one or two weak points, and the weakest of all was the necessity for the man being in the bungalow on his own. If he was not there, Donna would wait for another night when Weston was out. Fortune favours the bold, remember that, Donna, and the stars in their courses fight for the steadfast of heart. And it’s a quarter past eight, so you’d better get on with things.
She put on thin cotton gloves and pulled on thick socks over the lightweight slip-on shoes she was wearing. She had picked up the idea about the socks from a crime book. If you put large-sized socks over your shoes, it gave you two advantages: it prevented telltale shoe prints being left anywhere, and if you trod in blood or glass all you had to do was step back out of it, slip the socks off, and walk away with them in your pocket and your shoes unmarked. Last of all, she pocketed the heavy glass paperweight, keeping it tied inside a clean handkerchief. Then she got out of the car, closed and locked the door, and walked along to the bungalow.
He was in! There was a light on in the room on the right. It was a fairly low light–it might be a table lamp–but the curtains were open and she could see Antonia’s dark-haired musician clearly. He was seated at the piano as he had been before, and this time he was playing without breaking off.
She watched him for a few moments, her heart racing, and then, taking several deep breaths and glancing up and down the road to make sure no one was watching, she pushed open the gate. It swung inwards and she went in, careful to keep to the grass edges so her footsteps would not crunch on the gravel drive.
The man was playing the piano quite loudly; Donna could hear it now. Although she did not recognize what he was playing–she was not very knowledgeable about music–it sounded complicated and rather showy. Trickles and trills of notes cascading up and down.
The paperweight broke the glass panel in the front door as easily as if it had been Cellophane, and the glass fell inwards onto a carpet. Practically soundless. Donna replaced the paperweight in her coat pocket, and waited to see if there was any reaction from inside. If there was, she would be back down the drive and vanishing into the shadows within seconds. But nothing stirred, and the piano-playing continued. So far so good. Could she reach inside the door and release the catch? Yes, she could. The door opened, and she stepped inside.
The warmth and scents of Antonia’s home folded around Donna, and her excitement spiralled upwards. This was it, the plan was gathering speed, and soon–perhaps in half an hour’s time–this bitch would get what she deserved.
The piano music was still going on so the man really had not heard her. She vaguely recognized the music now–it was used for the opening of one of those late-night arty-type programmes. The South Bank Show, was it? Standing in the darkened hall, Donna began to dislike the music very much; she began to feel that something inside it was watching her, and it was conjuring up jeering demons, red-eyed and sly.
We know what you’re going to do, said these slant-eyed demons. We know about the plan, and we approve, Donna…But if you get into trouble, don’t expect us to help you…We like murder but we’re the last people to ask for help if something goes wrong, in fact we’re more likely to grass on you to save our own skin.
This was utterly ridiculous. There were no voices inside the music, and this was stupid nerves, nothing more. Donna stood very still. The bungalow was in darkness, except for the soft low light spilling through the half-open door of the music room. She would have to do something about that light.