Gilda screamed, “Get it out of here! Get it out!”
“Gilda!” O’Brien exclaimed, shaken by her terror. “What is it?”
Adams left his chair, crossed the room with two strides, turned the door handle and threw the door open.
The dog darted into the kitchen.
Adams watched it run to where Sweeting lay face down on the floor. There was a puddle of blood at his side; an ice-pick was embedded
between his fat shoulder-blades.
The dog paused beside him, sniffed at his face, then backed away, whimpering, and crept under the kitchen table.
Adams looked swiftly at Ken, then towards the door leading into the hall. His eyes were expressive.
Ken got up, went over to the door and set his back against it. He was watching Gilda, who abruptly sat down, her face ashen.
“You might like to take a look,” Adams said to O’Brien.