Martingale’s fingers played piano on the mouse pad, humming away to Nessun Dorma. He felt the beads of sweat gather at his brow and begin the descent down the side of his face. He could still see her in his mind. The bittersweet pain of love remembered from summer days and summer nights brought a smile to his lips and a sting to his eyes, brought him pleasure in the pain; but only for a few seconds; his eyes snapped open. He wiped them irritably. Nobody understood what he was trying to do. Nobody ever would, but it was him that history would remember, not the small insignificant people. Nicola was the only other human being he had ever loved. She had become part of him, like his right arm, like his beating heart. All those years he watched her grow, only to find that she had a fault in her. A fault that he had given her. It was unbearable. . but luckily for Nicola he could even mend that. He could make everything right for her. He gave her life. He made her into his angel.
He stood and went to the window. He had seen the car parked down the street. As if he wouldn’t know he was being watched! As he shielded his eyes from the low sun he saw another car pass and park and he recognised it as another detective’s pool car. The number plate not fixed, the colour blue, an insignificant little car. He saw it pull in front of the surveillance car.