Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. This girl whom he had met by chance and befriended had done both. In the middle there was a gate. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. . His technique had gained much subtlety over the years. But it was only six-thirty.
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