We follow the noise up towards the garage, pa.s.sing the Daimler parked to one side. The double doors gape open. Light spills into the drive, illuminating James bent over the Mercedes, fussing around in the boot, which is lined with heavy plastic.

Benoit motions for me to stay back. He slides up behind James, and as he startles and begins to turn, Benoit slams the boot lid down on him. James yells. Benoit slams it down again, then once more, then swoops down to grab James's legs, heaves him into the boot and slams it shut. The banging and shouting starts up almost immediately. "Get the keys," Benoit says. I have not seen this side of him before.

I run for the front of the car and pull the keys out of the ignition. My hands are shaking as I jam the key into the lock on the boot and turn it. The noise from inside becomes more aggressive. I step back and nearly trip over an extension cord. It runs to a surgical saw, the kind you'd use for amputations, laid out beside the car, along with three different hacksaws, an axe, a pair of pliers, neatly laid out, ready for use. There is a kist freezer at the back of the garage, its lid propped open.

"Who is this Odi Huron?" Benoit says. The Mongoose is frozen, one paw raised, sniffing the air, whiskers trembling.

"I don't think I know." I feel sick. I think of Vuyo's gun lying under my bed.

"Won't he suffocate?" I glance back at the Mercedes.

"Do you care?" Benoit says, drawing his baton from its holster. "The house?"

"If they're still alive." I shake myself. "We should go round the side."

We slip round the side of the house through the shrubbery. The scent of yesterday-today-and-tomorrow is sickeningly sweet. My heart plays out a frenetic drum'n'ba.s.s beat. My hands are numb and tingling. First thing to go in fight or flight: fine motor co-ordination. Way to go, evolution.

There are voices coming from the patio, but when we clear the shrubs, only Carmen is lying on a lounger in the dark with her sungla.s.ses on, facing the pool. The fountain is on, water spluttering through the maiden's vase. A pallid underwater light shines up through the skin of leaves on the surface, highlighting every striation, casting dancing reflections over the tiles.

Carmen is talking to the radio and half-heartedly flopping one hand around as if conducting a haphazard choir.

"It's not like they even serve ice cream at the movies," she says, her face inscrutable behind the shades.

Her sunshine-yellow satin robe is drenched in blood like bad tie-dye. There is a shivering bundle wrapped in a towel under her lounger.

There is a flick knife and an empty martini gla.s.s on the table next to her.

"Kittens and mittens and teeth and teeth and teeth," she sing-songs.

She sees us, sits up on her elbows and says brightly, "Oh. Are you here about the collection?" She takes off her sungla.s.ses. If eyes are the windows to the soul, these are looking onto Chern.o.byl. "Because it's all about fur this season."

The gla.s.s doors leading into the house open and the Maltese emerges carrying two martini gla.s.ses, his little Dog at his heels. The Dog snarls and the Maltese pulls a face. "Ah," he says. "I'm afraid I didn't know you were here. Otherwise I would have made extra."

"What happened to the no-interference policy?" I ask. Benoit is tense beside me, muscles bunched for action. I put a hand on his arm.

"That's only for the victims," says the Maltese, as he sets down the gla.s.ses and sits down beside Carmen, stroking her leg. "It's like bottled water: best from a pure source."

"What is wrong with her?" Benoit says, barely restraining himself. He is holding the baton so tight that the strain is making his arm shake.

"She did it to herself, mkwerekwere mkwerekwere. She's on a very potent dissociative drug."

"Midazolam?"

"Mixed with a bit of ketamine and the house special to keep her awake. We've been playing. Show them, Carmen."

"Again?" she whines.

"Again, baby." He caresses the side of her belly through the robe. "I think you missed a spot over here."

She sighs sulkily, picks up the flick knife from the table and simply jabs it into her side. She pulls it out again and looks down at the bloodied tip of the knife with interest, but no indication of feeling. The blood starts to well up.

"Not so terrible, hey?" the Maltese says.

"Good evening Pasadena," she agrees.

"What about here?" he circles the skin above her kneecap.

"Enough," Benoit says.

"We're only getting started. Have you met Carmen's Bunny?" He reaches underneath the lounger and hauls up the trembling Rabbit by its ears. It closes its eyes in terror, nose twitching frantically. "We all thought Carmen was going to be the next Slinger, our animalled breakthrough artist. Better than erotic dancing. Although it turns out Slinger wasn't really Slinger himself, if you know what I mean. This is your fault, you know. Odi and Carmen were so happy together until you got her all riled up with your crazy accusations. As if he would have risked tainting little Song. It was bad enough that idiot Jabulani was f.u.c.king her."

"Where are are Song and Sbu?" I say. Song and Sbu?" I say.

"Sailing away, sailing away, sailing away," Carmen

sings.

He ignores the question. "Did you like the present I left you? It's a very distinctive knife, you know. Leaves very distinctive wounds."

"Were you going to implicate me in the fire at Mayfields too?"

"You should be ashamed." He grins. "Three teenagers died in that fire. After you stabbed them to death, you sick psycho."

"I only counted two," I keep my voice carefully level.

"Don't worry, they'll find the other one when they eventually get inside. Burned to a crisp. Unidentifiable."

"But they're not Song and S'bu, are they?"

"Don't they wish! Couple of unlucky street kids who match the general physical description. Collateral damage, can't be helped. We picked them up this afternoon. Made them feel special for a couple of hours. Let them play Xbox, fed them McDonald's, doused them in petrol. Same kind as in the half-empty container under your sink. Did you find that already? Or just the knife?"

"No one's going to believe this."

"Won't they? A psychotic junkie zoo b.i.t.c.h who killed her brother? Who was so celebrity-obsessed she pretended to be from a bigshot music magazine so she could get close to the twins? Whose fingerprints were all over poor Mrs Luditsky's apartment, who took her little china cat home with her as some kind of trophy? Are you kidding me? Better start working on your soundbites. The media are going to love you."

My head is spinning. I lean on the table, trying to fight back the wave of nausea.

"In fact, what are you even doing here?" Mark swirls his martini. Takes a sip. "Shouldn't you be on the run?"

"Where are they?" Benoit says.

"The real twins? Oh they're downstairs, sweetie, getting ready. They might have started already."

At the prompt "start", Carmen replaces her sungla.s.ses and punches the knife into the flesh above her knee with cool reserve. It sticks there, trembling slightly as the muscle moves to accommodate her leaning back to take a sip of her martini.

Benoit can't stand it any more. He moves to pluck the knife out, but the Maltese is faster. He yanks it away and this time Carmen does flinch.

"You want to play too?" he says, tapping the flat of the blade against his cheek. "I have to tell you, this is my favourite game."