“Money?” he repeated. “How much money?” Celie hesitated. He would know before long so she might as well tell him.

“Three million pounds.”

Fresby huddled down into his chair. The sum stunned him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Don’t sit there staring at me. If you know where the body is, we must hurry. Rollo may find it at any moment.”

Fresby thought this was unlikely, but he didn’t say so. “If you take me to where you have hidden it, I’ll share the money with you,” Celie went on after a pause. Already an idea was taking shape in Fresby’s mind. Three million pounds! A staggering, unheard of sum of money. Share it with her? Why should he? He knew where the body was—she didn’t. All he had to do was to go to Ted Whitby’s place, collect the money and leave London. In a few days he could be out of the country.

Celie was watching him uneasily. She knew it was dangerous to tell him about the money, but what else could she do?

“What are you thinking about?” she said sharply.

He got to his feet and pushed the chair back. “All right,” he said. “It isn’t far.”

He was in two minds what to do. Whether he should do it now or wait until they were at Whitby’s. He’d better do it now, he decided. It might not be so easy in that cramped space full of wax figures. Here, at least, he had more room.

He glanced round. The table was in the way. It would have to be moved. He mustn’t give her any warning. The thing to do was to get his hands on her throat. Once he had her by the throat, he knew she wouldn’t last long.

“I’ll change my boots, if you don’t mind,” he said, smirking at her. “My feet ache. I won’t keep you long.”

Before she could say anything, he stepped to the door. As he did so, he purposely lurched against the table.

“Why can’t she leave it in its proper place?” he murmured, as if he were talking to himself. He pushed the table against the wall and then he went out, closing the door behind him.

Celie looked at the empty space he had cleared by moving the table. Why had he done that? Her mind was alert with alarm. Was he planning something?

After waiting several minutes, she opened her bag and took out a gun. It was a tiny, toy-like thing with a mother o’ pearl handle, so small that she could easily conceal it in her hand. As she moved towards the door, she heard him coming back and she quickly took up her position again before the empty fireplace.

He came into the room and closed the door. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright and watery. He didn’t look at her directly, but out of the corners of his eyes.

Celie’s uneasiness increased. He was up to something, she thought. She still didn’t realize that she was in danger. She just thought that he was thinking of a way to leave her and get to Cornelius’ body on his own.

“Now,” he said, “I think we’re ready. Shall we go?” His voice was thick as if he had something in his mouth. He had to get her away from the fireplace. After the way Vera Small had struggled, he knew he would have to seize her throat from behind and ram his knee into the small of her back.

“Yes,” Celie said, watching him suspiciously. “Where is the place?”

“Not far,” he returned. He was now standing quite close to her and she could feel the heat from his body.

As she moved to cross the room, she suddenly realized what he was going to do. In the second of time that her brain refused to work, his hands closed round her throat.

She felt his bony knee drive into the small of her back and she could no longer breathe.

Celie did not lose her head. She knew that she had little chance of saving her life, but there was still a chance. Fresby’s grip was terrifying. It was as if a steel band had been clamped round her throat and had been twisted tight by a spanner*. Perhaps she had some sixty seconds before she lost consciousness.

It was futile to struggle while he held her like this. Futile and a waste of precious time. She did the only thing possible.

She let herself go completely limp and Fresby, unable to hold her up, lost his balance. Together they sprawled on the floor.

Even then the grip did not loosen. Celie felt her mouth opening. Her tongue seemed to be swelling. Blood drummed in her ears.

Muttering to himself, Fresby sprawled across Celie’s body. His fingers ached with the pressure he was. exerting and he had a vague feeling of disappointment that she wasn’t attempting to struggle.

This wasn’t half so exciting as the other time. He couldn’t even see the fear in Celie’s eyes. All he could see was the back of her head and her slim, straight, motionless shoulders.

Then quite suddenly there was a violent explosion and cordite fumes rose in his face. The unexpected noise startled him. He had no idea what it was or where it came from. He released his grip and as he did so, Celie’s body suddenly came alive. She rolled over and struck at him with her fingers like claws. Her long nails gashed his face and once again he heard the extraordinary explosion.

Something hit him violently in the body and he grunted, thinking that she had kicked him.

Celie, still pinned down under his body, pulled the trigger again, but the gun jammed. Sobbing for breath she struggled to fire the gun while Fresby stared down at her with a stupid expression on his face.

Then he looked down, saw the gun and understood. He snatched it from her and holding it by the barrel, he struck at her. Celie jerked her head to one side, but the butt of the gun caught her a glancing blow. She felt her senses reeling and before she could protect her head, he had struck again. A thought flashed through her mind that she was being murdered. There was nothing now that she could do about it. She thought of Gilroy. She could see him quite clearly, looking at her with surprised eyes. Then behind him, peering over his shoulder, was Doc Martin. His face was alight with jeering laughter.

Fresby knew now that he had been shot. He could feel a hot, burning sensation in his belly and his heavy, woollen underwear felt damp. He struck at Celie again and the gun butt smashed the bone above her nose.

She ceased to straggle, but he continued to strike at her forehead with the butt of the gun. Then someone shouted and a hand seized his wrist and he felt himself pulled backwards: It was odd how tired and weak he felt. He couldn’t see anything. Blood from the wounds that Celie had torn in his face ran into his eyes. He rolled over and lay quiet. The pain in his belly kept him in a curled-up position.

It seemed a long time before hands touched him.

“Be careful,” he said irritably. “She’s shot me.”

Hands pulled him over on his back. A handkerchief wiped his eyes. He looked up into young, alarmed eyes, overshadowed by a policeman’s helmet.

“You’re a bit late,” he said, tasting blood in his mouth. “I tried to kill her, but she had a gun.”

“She’s dead,” the constable said briefly as he opened Fresby’s waistcoat and looked with distaste at the large bloodstain on his shirt.

“She did it,” Fresby whispered. “Get an ambulance. I’m not going to die, am I?”

The constable thought it was likely, but he didn’t say so. He satisfied himself that Fresby couldn’t move; then he stood up.

“I won’t be long,” he said.

“Tell ‘em to go to Whitby’s,” Fresby urged. He couldn’t bear to think that Rollo would succeed where he had failed.

“Three million pounds is a lot of money.”

The policeman glanced at Celie and felt a little sick. He pulled Celie’s skirt down. The coffee-coloured thighs seemed indecent to him.

Fresby closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel cold. “Hurry,” he said.

Detective Sergeant Adams watched Rollo climb the stairs with slow, cautious steps. Adams waited before he moved until Rollo had rounded the bend of the stairs.