Slaughter music [antikvár]

T hat's the one: that house half-hidden through a tangle of trees and shrubbery behind a wall. Not as difficult as it looks. High brick wall; jagged glass at the top. Looks vicious, doesn't it? That's some wall - it has been there a while. But weather has softened the edges of those broken glass teeth: wind and rain, snow settling. The sharpness has gone. D'you remem-ber how it feels when you pick up a piece of bottle glass from the beach - all the edges worn down? Well, up on top of that old wall there, the glass will be like that. Won't hurt you at all.Tim Hawk reached down below the dash and switched off the music. He had taken this last mile slowly, waiting to hear the climax of the aria before he cut it to watch the house. A few moments ago, when he crawled round the corner of this respectable lane where Darren lived, the thrilling trumpets had peaked. Tim had braked, closed his eyes to concentrate on the finish. Only then did he move the van gendy to his spot, seventy yards from Darren's house. He braked again and cut the engine. Now he wound the window down three inches so he could listen. Breezes among the trees. Night stillness. As his ears absorbed the near silence he began to detect other sounds behind the breeze: an occasionai car in the distance; faint music from a distant radio; somebody's dog.Up here were the leafy suburbs. Even the name of the place - Woodside Park - underlined the leafy image. These houses were owner-occupied, respectable, set independendy apart in leafy gardens. Leafy trees and leafy shrubbery planted out in rows. House lights filtering through leafy branches.