Turning a corner, he found himself on the palm-tree-lined sidewalk outside the Pantages movie theatre.

He looked up at the powerful spotlights shining into the thick city air, and at the clean white pillars of the faux-Roman facade that covered the front of the theatre. Was he far enough away from the cops to hide out here? Could he risk it?

The rain continued to beat down, and Chate hoped that the weather would slow down the police searching for him. He smiled, then planted fifty cents on the ticket counter, startling a clerk who had been too engrossed in a pulp romance novel to notice the arrival of yet another rain-soaked customer.

'When's the next performance?' he asked, trying hard not to look over his shoulder as he spoke.

'Main feature starts in ten,' the girl said with a smile. 'It's Magic Town Magic Town, the new James Stewart picture.'

Chate sighed. 'I've already seen that.'

The girl shrugged. 'Nothing I can do about that I'm afraid.'

'I know,' Chate said. 'Anyway, I don't really care what's on, I just need to get out of this rain, so I think I'll see it again anyway.'

The girl forced a grin, took his money, handed him his ticket and change, then wished him a nice day.

Chate sat down inside the auditorium as the movie began.

He removed his jacket, easing the pressure on his shoulder, and for the first time since running from the restaurant was able to relax. The womb-like darkness that surrounded him was comforting and made him feel safe and secure. In here, no one could see him, no one cared about what he'd done. Everyone was here for one reason only, to escape to another world. As the film began he found it difficult to concentrate on what was going on, but it didn't matter. He loved going to the movies more than anything else, because in here, in the strange, erratic darkness of the movie theatre, nothing in the outside world mattered.

The only illumination was the flickering light reflecting off the screen, bouncing across faces and seats and popcorn sellers and the writhing, classical architecture that had been placed in the building to give it a feeling of history. It was in this state of near darkness that Chate was most content.

Images of dead bodies, small children and scarred policemen flashed through Chate's mind. A woman shouting in the film woke him from the dream, and he hoped he had not missed too much of the story.

He was using the film as a chance to relax, to catch his breath, to work out what to do next. Once it finished he would be thrown cruelly back into the real world. He knew the streets would be crawling with cops looking for him, and there was no point risking going back to his apartment. There was only one thing he could do. He would have to ask Revere for help.

The last thing he wanted to do was speak to his boss again before sorting out the Maria problem, but then this hadn't really been a day for getting what he wanted.

The whore in the restaurant had given him an address, but he was damned if he was going to give it to Revere and let him send his thugs over to ice Maria. No, he'd find her himself, but doing so was going to involve some pretty fast talking.

Frustration burned away in Chate's mind. Maybe he'd catch Revere in a good mood, maybe he could ask for more time to sort the situation out. Maybe Revere would kill him... Whatever happened, he knew his one great chance had been blown by someone framing him for a murder.

He couldn't help laughing at the tragedy of the situation. If he couldn't sort something out, he'd be condemned to a life as Revere's slave. Still, it was better than the gas chamber he might end up in if the cops pinned that murder on him, and you never know, maybe a lucky break could still present itself. Maybe a miracle could still happen.

The film soon ended and Chate crept out of the auditorium, half expecting a battalion of cops to be waiting for him, the ticket girl pointing a finger to say, 'He's the one'.

There was no one waiting. Maybe the cops had stopped the chase, maybe they had been delayed. At any rate, it looked like he wasn't dead quite yet.

He casually asked to use the theatre's telephone, made a call to Luis, Revere's message boy, and was told that a car would be on its way to pick him up in five minutes.

Chate waited just inside the lobby, hiding his face as best he could. At 11.19 p.m. one of Revere's trademark jet-black limos pulled up outside the theatre and Chate got in, taking care to avoid sitting too heavily on the upholstery in his still-damp clothes.

'It's only water,' Revere sneered from the seat next to him, smoking cigar burning away in one hand. 'I heard about what happened at the restaurant, Robby. They say you iced some producer. You didn't kill him, did you Robby?'

'No... No sir,' Chate stammered.

'Cause if I found out you did, killing on my patch, on my time... well, you know the rest.'

Chate nodded. 'It wasn't me, I swear. It's a frame job.

Someone in the LAPD's idea, has to be. I don't know. I just need your help Martin. I know I wasn't supposed to see you yet but... things change, you know?'

Revere nodded, his face expressionless. 'I know,' he said.

Chate glanced out of the window. They were heading on to the highway. 'Aren't we going in the wrong direction for your place?'

'Relax, I don't think it's safe for you to stay around here tonight. We're going to my villa in Venice.' Revere pointed his thumb towards the limo driver. 'It's a little more private there, so we'll talk more once we arrive. For now, get some sleep. You look as if you need it.'

Chate agreed, muttered something about it having been a long day then closed his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight.

It was almost 1.30 a.m. when they got to the villa, a modest affair facing right on to the beach, a nice distance away from all the shops and restaurants. Revere told the limo driver to return home and to expect a call from him tomorrow, asking to be picked up. They walked up to the house, past an old convertible that Chate assumed was part of Revere's half-baked attempt at being seen as an everyday Joe, even though chauffeur-driven limos were his preferred mode of transport most of the time.

Inside, the house had been painted a distasteful green while antique furniture appeared to have been randomly scattered around the living room. Chate guessed his boss didn't go a bundle on aesthetics.

Revere sat down in a large, comfortable-looking leather chair and beckoned for Chate to sit on the sofa next to it. A few moments of silence passed, during which Chate could feel the distant thunder of Revere's wrath getting closer.

'So,' Revere eventually said, 'first thing on the agenda. You got the jack from Maria yet?'

Chate paused, took a deep breath, then began his apology. 'I haven't found her. I've got a couple of leads, but with this murder business. . I haven't been able to finish the job. Just give me a few more days. Please.'

'I'm sorry, Robby,' Revere said, shaking his head mournfully, 'I know I said I'd give you more time but... well, if you haven't even found her by now... Come on kid, you're screwed, you know that. I trust you when you tell me you didn't kill that guy, but the police won't and you can't afford to get caught. By tomorrow every cop in the county will be on the lookout for Robby Chate. You can't go anywhere, you can't see anyone, you can't do anything. I'm all you've got, Robby. Remember that.'

'I know,' said Chate, conceding reluctantly. He laughed at the futility of his situation. Not only would he have to forget his dreams of freedom, but he knew that Revere's goons would be out to find Maria and he was unable to do anything to stop them.

'So,' he said, trying to regain his composure, 'I guess we can forget the last few days and get back to business, huh?'

Revere's face was stony, unreadable. He stood up, walked over to an old drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. 'This is very hard for me, Robby,' he said solemnly.

'Hard for you? Why is it hard for you? I'm the one the hat squad's chasing all over '

'Close your head,' Revere snapped. 'Let me finish.'

Chate was silent.

'I'm all you've got, which is why this is going to be very clean.'

'Clean? What do you mean, "clean"?'

Revere reached into a drawer on the side of the drinks cabinet. 'You're a liability, Robby. You're not the man you used to be. You want out, we'll let you out. Permanently.'

Revere pulled his hand out of the drawer, revealing it to be holding a .45.

Chate's recurring nightmare flashed through his mind.

Seeing himself dying young, dying in agony. Dying before his time, before he had been able to accomplish anything in his life.

There was no way he was going to let Revere make his fear a reality.

He ducked down behind a table as Revere fired a silencer-muffled bullet from the gun. He slammed his body into a wheeled-chair that went spiralling backwards, forcing the gangster to jump out of the way. Then he reached down, picked up a glass decanter and threw it at Revere. He heard a crash as the decanter skimmed the side of the man's head and collided with a wall. Revere hadn't been injured, but Chate had bought a valuable couple of seconds. He ran over and kicked Revere hard between the legs then grabbed his gun arm, forcing it away.

'Drop the gun!' he barked. Revere did so, and Chate caught it in his right hand. The gangster lunged towards Chate, throwing his weight into the lighter man, knocking him to the ground. He tried to prise the gun from Chate's fingers, then another shot was fired.

Revere collapsed on top of Chate, motionless.

Chate threw the body off and stared at the hole in Revere's neck and at the pool of blood and brains dribbling their way out of the remains of Revere's skull and spreading thinly across the walls and carpet.

He stood for several moments looking at the body, trying to take in what he had just done. Had he intended to kill Revere, or was he just defending himself in a kill or be killed situation?

Killing another human being was against everything Chate believed in, and he didn't remember intentionally pulling the trigger. But in the heat of the moment maybe his subconscious had taken over?

He leapt away from the body, took off his jacket and trousers and ran into the hall to look for the bathroom. He soon found it and washed the blood off his hands, then found some antiseptic and a bandage and dealt properly with his shoulder wound.

This had been, without a doubt, the worst day of his life. He guessed he should feel glad that Revere was gone, but he didn't.

The man was a bastard, an evil, evil bastard, but over the years he'd been the closest thing Chate had to family. But there would be time to grieve later. Revere's associates would come looking for him sooner or later, and this time the evidence for Chate being the murderer was much stronger than anything the LAPD had cooked up. He walked back into the living room, wiping his forehead with a towel.

Chate took another look at the body. If it wasn't for the huge hole in his head, Revere could have been sleeping. He looked almost peaceful. Perhaps he truly was.

Revere had tried to kill him, but why? If Chate was kept in a safe house, away from the cops, then he couldn't be what was it Revere had called him? a liability.

The sun wouldn't be up for a few hours yet, and Chate knew he had time to sort something out. It shouldn't be too difficult to make it look like a suicide. But first...

He carefully reached over the body and (being careful to keep his hands wrapped in the towel so as not to leave prints) searched the pockets of Revere's jacket and trousers for anything helpful. He soon found a scrap of headed notepaper from Boulevard Heights, an estate everyone knew was controlled by an up-and-coming racketeer named Cohen. A note was scrawled on the paper in extravagant handwriting. 'Ice Chate. See to it within 24 hrs, or we'll see to you.' The note was signed with an illegible signature. Chate shoved the note back into the pocket.

Revere's associates will soon put the blame on me for bis death. The LAPD already think I killed that other guy. I can't go back home, can't LAPD already think I killed that other guy. I can't go back home, can't go anywhere where I might be recognised. They won't rest until they have me go anywhere where I might be recognised. They won't rest until they have me in custody, or in the morgue. Everyone wants to see Robert Chate dead. in custody, or in the morgue. Everyone wants to see Robert Chate dead.

Chate stared at Revere's body and tried to resist his revulsion as an idea started to build in his head.

The room was a blood-soaked mess. It would be a while before anyone would be able to work out exactly what had gone on that night. After shoving the towel in the wound to block the blood flow, Chate wrapped Revere's body in a large refuse sack he found in die villa's kitchen, then dragged it out on to the driveway. He had found a bunch of keys in Revere's pocket, and was relieved that one of them fitted in the convertible's ignition slot. He opened the car's trunk and bundled the body into it no easy task given Revere's weight and the pain in Chate's shoulder.

Chate went over the parts of the villa he'd touched and wiped them with a handkerchief, doing his best to remove any fingerprints he might have left, then walked out of the villa and locked the door with Revere's keys. He got into the car and pulled away, pleased that there seemed to be very little traffic on the roads at this time of night. As he made his way back to the city, he did his best not to break the speed limit despite the racing beat of his heart urging him to go faster. He had to appear calm, cool and collected. He knew he couldn't do anything that might attract attention.

At 4.35 a.m. Chate pulled the car into a side road off the street where his apartment a simple but spacious affair on the top floor of a three-storey former hotel was located.

From the corner of the street he could see that there were two cops standing on the porch in front of the building, and across the street from them another cop, obviously the backup, was dozing in his car. Chate guessed there would be at least one more, so he knew he'd have to make sure he didn't make too much noise.

He reached into the glove box of the car, took out the gangster's silenced .45 and checked it was loaded. He drove the car up to the front of the building to attract the cops' attention, stopped the engine, then got out and marched up to the front door so casually that he could have been delivering newspapers.

'Hey,' one of the cops shouted, 'stop right there.'

Chate smiled, raised his gun and brought it crashing down on the cop's skull. The other man shouted something as his partner collapsed, so Chate reached over and smashed the gun over his head too. Caught unawares, both cops lay groaning on the ground. Chate kicked them into unconsciousness before they could reach for their firearms, took their weapons, then ran back to the car.

He opened the trunk, threw the cops' guns inside, then pulled out the black bag that contained Revere's corpse and began to drag it across the street. He hoped the bag wouldn't split the last thing he wanted was a blood trail but luckily it remained intact. Only the best quality for Martin Revere. Chate glanced across the street to see if he'd attracted the backup cop's attention but the shape in the shadows was of someone asleep.

No give-away cigarette light. Backups were usually assigned to fat bastards, so it was highly likely that at this time of the morning he'd be out cold. Chate was glad about the silencer on Revere's gun as without it the cop would almost certainly have been woken by the shots.

He wasn't surprised to find that the lock on the front door of the building had already been kicked open, and after dragging the body up three flights of stairs something that felt like it took hours he finally managed to get the stiff into his apartment. He pushed the body inside and closed the door behind him. He reached for his gun, expecting to find a cop waiting for him, but there was no one around. He laughed at the LAPD's overconfidence, and guessed that somebody would be severely reprimanded for this little oversight.

The first thing Chate noticed was that the place had been completely ransacked. Drawers were open, their contents spilled out across the floor, furniture was overturned, even the contents of his liquor cabinet appeared to have been drunk.

He knew he didn't have much time before the cops outside regained consciousness. He ran into his bedroom, pulled a small travel case down from above his wardrobe and stuffed it with a few essential items of clothing. He went to his coat cupboard and took out a trilby which he placed neatly on his head before returning to the hallway. He dragged Revere's body into the bathroom, ripped off the refuse bag surrounding it then threw the stiff into the bathtub, retching once more at its gruesome appearance. Resisting the urge to throw up, he took Revere's gun out of his jacket, placed it against the corpse and shot a bullet through its eyeballs. The bathroom wall needed a new coat of paint anyway.

Chate took one last look around, picked up his travel case and went into the kitchen where he turned the gas taps on the cooker to their highest settings. He hurried to the other end of the apartment, pulled a candle out of a cupboard and lit it with a cigarette lighter, knowing that it would take a while for the gas to reach the flame. He left the apartment, closed the door behind him then moved as fast as he could down the stairs and out into the street, pleased to see that the cops were only just starting to regain consciousness.

As he walked down the street Chate was almost thrown off his feet as the deafening noise of an explosion ripped through his eardrums. He could feel the heat from the blast and hear the crackling noise of his apartment burning behind him, but he didn't look back once. He smiled as he realised that his mad plan might have succeeded. The cops would report Chate breaking into his flat, a body would be found charred beyond recognition in the debris, and it would take a few days at least for them to realise that the corpse was anyone else apart from the intruder.

Time in which to build a new life and get the hell away from here.

Chate walked to Revere's car then took the picture of Maria Coleman from inside his jacket pocket. He lifted his fingers up to his lips, kissed them, and placed them on the photograph. He then reached into the pocket again and took out the piece of paper on which the prostitute had scribbled the address. He knew he only had one possible ally in the world. Someone who had been the object of his desire for many years, someone who had never let him down.

Chapter Five.

'Move out of the way, people,' screamed a white-coated orderly as he raced down the corridor of the hospital with the gurneys that carried those most severely wounded in the Silent Gold gunfight. 'Let these people through!' he shouted, as hospital visitors, wandering patients and uninvited press photographers jumped out of the way. Directly behind the orderly the Doctor, Ben and Polly followed, desperately trying to keep up with him.

Suddenly a dark shadow crossed their paths as a large security guard stepped out to block their way. 'Excuse me, sir,'

he said, pointing at the Doctor, 'no members of the public are allowed here. If you'll kindly move to the waiting room, someone will be with you shortly.'

'But you don't understand,' the Doctor pleaded, pointing down the corridor at the disappearing gurneys. 'I'm related to one of the injured.'

The security guard was having none of it. 'As I said, go to the waiting room and someone will come to talk to you soon.

They'll let you know what's happening.'

The Doctor looked as if he was about to argue, but obviously realised this was a lost cause, so instead he turned round and walked away, his face like a sulky toddler's. 'Come on Polly, Ben,' he said. 'We'll have to do as the man says.'

Ben didn't care what they did. He had been about to get some sleep when the Doctor had sent an urgent message to the hotel insisting that he and Polly get to the hospital as quickly as they could. At first Ben thought the Doctor had been injured, but now realised that he just wanted them around to show off the exciting night he had been through. Ben's night had been peaceful, Polly's had been relaxing. The Doctor had got himself mixed up in a multiple shooting. Typical. It was almost 2 a.m.

and Ben just wanted to go to bed.