Should've just gone looking under "Pest Control".

Saturday morning was spent wondering how one contacted an assassin, for, to the best of Peter's knowledge, none were employed by Clamages (the department store that employed all three of the members of our eternal triangle, and, incidentally, furnished the ring), and he was wary of asking anyone outright for fear of attracting attention to himself.

Thus it was that Saturday afternoon found him hunting through the Yellow Pages.

ASSASSINS, he found, was not between ASPHALT CONTRACTORS and ASSESSORS (QUANTITY); KILLERS was not between KENNELS and KINDERGARTENS; MURDERERS was not between MOWERS and MUSEUMS. PEST CONTROL looked promising; however closer investigation of the pest control advertisements showed them to be almost solely concerned with 'rats, mice, fleas, cockroaches, rabbits, moles and rats' (to quote from one that Peter felt was rather hard on rats) and not really what he had in mind. Even so, being of a careful nature, he dutifully inspected the entries in that category, and at the bottom of the second page, in small print, he found a firm that looked promising.

Complete discreet disposal of irksome and unwanted mammals, etc.'went the entry, 'Ketch, Hare, Burke and Ketch. The Old Firm.' It went on to give no address, but only a telephone number.

Peter dialled the number, surprising himself by so doing. His heart pounded in his chest, and he tried to look nonchalant. The telephone rang once, twice, three times. Peter was just starting to hope that it would not be answered and he could forget the whole thing when there was a click and a brisk young female voice said, 'Ketch Hare Burke and Ketch. Can I help you?'

Carefully not giving his name, Peter said, 'Er, how big - I mean, what size mammals do you go up to? To, uh, dispose of?'

'Well, that would all depend on what size sir requires.'

He plucked up all his courage. 'A person?'

Her voice remained brisk and unruffled. Of course, sir. Do you have a pen and paper handy? Good. Be at the Dirty Donkey pub, off Little Courtney Street, E3, tonight at eight o'clock. Carry a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times - that's the pink one, sir - and our operative will approach you there.' Then she put down the phone.