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of the castle and sipped his coffee as he watched the world go by.
    After fifteen minutes, Richards pulled out a chair and sat at the table with his own coffee. ‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re back home and not up in the hills.’
    â€˜I was planning to head up to Skye tomorrow,’ replied the assassin, ‘but there’s a particular painting being auctioned by Sotherby’s on Saturday that I’m keen to try and get before heading up North.’
    Richards smiled. The assassin was without doubt the most proficient killer that Richards had ever met. Cold, efficient and utterly professional, it seemed odd that such a man would have a passion for nineteenth century Scottish landscapes. But it takes all kinds thought Richards as he contemplated his own passion for the exquisite young Bolivian woman he had recently met. She was about half his age and was married to a junior diplomat at the Bolivian Embassy. The unfortunate man clearly believed his job was more important than appeasing his sexually insatiable wife. Richards didn’t care. She was young, pretty and extremely adventurous in bed. Married women always appealed to him. They were less likely to develop an emotional attachment to him and this suited him just fine. Indeed, it had been one such relationship that had led to him having to leave the British Army.
    Richards spoke softly but quickly, explaining who Peter Fairweather was and briefing the assassin on the additional research he had been able to do since he’d seen Charles Highworth earlier in the week. He explained about the need for urgency and that Fairweather’s death had to look like an accident.
    â€˜He lives in St James’ Square, near Piccadilly Circus,’ said Richards. ‘This Saturday, he’s supposed to be watching his team take part in a polo tournament at the Guards Polo Club in Windsor Great Park. I’m not sure what time it will finish but he usually goes out for supper after these sorts of events, normally somewhere in London near his home.’
    â€˜Go on,’ encouraged the assassin, listening intently.
    â€˜The only event he’s got in his diary for Sunday is an invitation to a private viewing of a new collection at the National Portrait Gallery. He’ll be with people all weekend and I suspect it will be difficult to get him alone. He hasn’t got a regular girlfriend at the moment but, if his usual form is anything to go by, he’ll spend Saturday night with someone he meets during the course of the day. Whether she stays over Sunday night depends, I suspect, on how she performs on Saturday night.’ Richards handed over a thick manila envelope containing the detail he’d been able to amass. Though time had been short, his extensive network of contacts had served him well and the product was impressive. ‘In terms of the price, I was thinking of something like eighty K,’ said Richards.
    The assassin smiled. Whilst he wouldn’t describe Richards as a friend, he had known him a long time and he knew that the first price, which was rarely generous, was always subject to negotiation. ‘What worries me about this,’ said the assassin, ‘is that I have no time to watch Fairweather before making the kill. Even if I leave for London this afternoon, I’ll only have a few days to observe him before I have to finish him. As you know, this increases the risk significantly, particularly if it has to look like an accident.’
    It was Richards’ turn to smile. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ he said. They discussed the price for a further ten minutes and eventually agreed on a figure of a hundred thousand pounds, fifty percent payable now, fifty after the event. This suited the assassin. The first fifty thousand would allow him to buy the picture he wanted, even if the bidding went to twice what was expected. The assassin gave Richards the number of the