‘You can’t hit a man of sixty.’
‘I’m not going to hit him. I’m going to half-murder him. The ethics of hitting or not hitting don’t enter into the matter at all.’
‘He may be worth hanging for but not worth being requested to resign for.’
‘“I found him delightful,” said he, kind and patronising. The bastard. The smooth vain murdering bastard. The—’
From the wells of his experience he dredged up words to serve his need. But his anger went on consuming him like a furnace.
He flung out of the house after two mouthfuls of toast and three gulps of coffee, and went round to the garage at the double. It was too early to hope for a taxi; the quickest way was to use his car.
Would Lloyd have read the papers yet?
If he did not normally leave the house before eleven o’clock, then surely breakfast could not be until nine. He would like very much to be at 5 Britt Lane before Lloyd opened his morning paper. It would be sweet, consoling sweet, satisfying sweet, to watch Lloyd take the news. He had murdered to keep that secret his own, to ensure that the glory should be his, and now the secret was front-page news and the glory belonged to his rival. Oh, Sweet Jesus, let him not have read about it yet.
He rang twice at 5 Britt Lane before his summons was answered, and then it was answered not by the amiable Mahmoud but by a large woman in felt slippers.
‘Mr Lloyd?’ he asked.