'No, Ahmed,' Wexford said, 'I don't think you may because I don't want to hear what you have to say.'
'I have to tell you. I think you'll be pleased. You hated him too. When my mother was out of the room, I did –'
Wexford interrupted quietly but with firmness. 'I'm not hearing this,' he said, getting up. 'I'm hearing none of it. I haven't even seen you.' He went into the house by way of the French windows, closing them behind him.
Ahmed stood outside for a moment, mouthing something, holding up his hands, but the image of Targo, which had never really been visible, had gone. Was he going to say what I think he was? Wexford asked himself. What else could he have been about to confess? But I won't think of it. I will never think of it again but put the monster back in its box and throw the box onto the rubbish heap. The best place, the only place, for him.