Mrs Ross-Needham left them to celebrate Campbell’s catch, and went through to the kitchen to supervise the supper: tomato soup, braised beef with new potatoes and peas, and a choice of custard pie or fresh fruit.
At exactly 7.30 one of the boys rang the gong at the foot of the stairs. A moment later the guests — men in sports jackets and ties, the women in printed frocks and sensible shoes — gathered in the dining-room where the waiters stood in pressed white uniforms round the walls. One of the last to enter was an elderly man with dilapidated good looks and tired eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles, who took his place alone at a table in the corner. This was the reticent Mr Fielding, distinguished by the fact that he was the one guest who drank wine with his meals.
Only John Campbell did not go in with the gong. He finished his second drink with Ross-Needham and his friend, then stood at the foot of the stairs and waited for his wife. She came down a couple of minutes later: a honey-skinned beige-blonde who looked no more than twenty, in a white miniskirt and high-heeled sandals. Campbell watched her long legs moving down towards him and felt a luxurious contentment as he took her round the waist and kissed her mouth. It was the last time he ever did so.
The sound of the gong, carrying clearly through the dusk, was the signal for the boy by the pool to put down his net and return to the hotel. As he did so, a second sound reached him. It came from the valley, muffled by the trees but still recognizable: the grating of gears on a steep turn in the road below. As he started up the lawn, he expected the car to appear a moment later from behind the trees that grew up to the hotel forecourt.
But no car appeared. This was odd, because the nearest habitation was eight miles away — a sprawling house called ‘Nirvana Heights’, belonging to an industrialist who lived alone but for four servants and a couple of wolfhounds. The boy wondered if the car had broken down and whether he should report the fact to Mrs Ross-Needham. But he did not think long. It was none of his business. He quickened his walk round the back of the hotel, through the shifting pools of mist and darkness and the shrilling of grasshoppers.
The Ross-Needhams always made a point of being the last to enter the dining-room. They did so with an air of calculated informality, smiles all round, a word to this table and that, accompanied by a second synchronized bow from the waiters. Even the isolated Mr Fielding merited a nod.
This evening Jack Ross-Needham was about to close the bar when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel outside. His face showed mild impatience; it was annoying to have guests arrive just after the gong had sounded, especially if they only wanted a drink. At the same moment his wife appeared, frowning. ‘Jack, the phone’s dead.’
‘What, dear? Dead?’
‘I can’t get through. I’ve been trying the Carters for the last five minutes — about Saturday night — and I can’t even get a dialling tone.’ As she spoke the door of the porch slammed shut.
Ross-Needham lifted the hatch in the bar and came through. ‘That’s odd,’ he said, ‘there hasn’t been a storm. And the lights are all working.’ He broke off with a forced grin, as two men entered. ‘Evening, gentlemen! The bar’s officially closed. Dinner, y’know. But if you could make it a quick one…’ He did not finish. At the same moment each man pulled an automatic pistol from inside his hunting-jacket and shot Mr and Mrs Ross-Needham in the stomach. The explosions were simultaneous, and in the enclosed space of the bar they sounded like a small bomb.
The silence that followed only emphasized what happened next. Mrs Ross-Needham collapsed first. Her husband stepped back, struck the open bar hatch, slid under it and sat down with a thump. Then his wife began to scream. It was an animal sound — not of fear or outrage or even a cry for help, but of pure pain. Her husband lay next to her, and together they rolled about on the floor, hunched, gripping, dragging at their bellies — two respectable middle-aged people who had hardly raised their voices in anger since adolescence — now howling and writhing obscenely, impossible to distinguish the man’s voice from his wife’s.
It continued for five seconds; then both men stepped forward, took aim, and carefully shot the Ross-Needhams through the head. No word was exchanged. They turned and, still holding their guns, walked out of the bar.
When the shots were fired, there were sixteen people in the dining-room, including four women, two boys aged twelve and nine, and three waiters who were removing the soup course.
The first reaction was silence, as every head turned to the door; and when the screaming started most of them sat rigid, gaping. The two children looked puzzled. Then a couple of men nearest the door — John Campbell and his trout-fishing friend — sprang to their feet. As they did so, the door swung open and three men entered. They spread out along the wall and each lifted a skeleton-handled machine pistol. The trout-fishers hesitated a fraction of a second; and in that moment the two final shots rang out from the bar and the screaming stopped. Both men flung themselves forward, diving low in a concerted rugby tackle, as two bursts of bullets hit each of them in the shoulder, swinging them round and slamming them sideways in opposite directions. Then all three
