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It was a perfect night to die.

A huge silver moon had elbowed the clouds aside to cast its light on the water. Some would call it a fisherman's moon, others a bomber's moon. He supposed it depended if you planned to catch supper or blow someone to smithereens.

He wasn't about to do either but he still appreciated the moonlight. He wondered how many other people were gazing at the same moon. Someone, somewhere, would probably see it and write a song about it. Songwriters were obsessed with the moon.

"Moonlight Becomes You." They were the only words he could remember of that particular song.

There were hundreds more.

"Fly Me to the Moon." What a shit song that was. Almost as shit as his singing.

"Moon River" was another. Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" was a good one. He liked that. "Harvest Moon," "Walking on the Moon," "Moonshadow," "Blue Moon," "Bad Moon Rising"—there were hundreds and most of them were rubbish.

He checked his watch. Just under five hours to go.

Funny to think that, in less than five hours, someone would be dead. Of course, they couldn't know that. They wouldn't want to know that.

Four hours forty-seven minutes, to be precise.

"Death by Moonlight" would be a good song title. Perhaps he should write it.

A bank of cloud rolled in. For a few moments it was possible to see the outline of the moon but even that was quickly swallowed up. All was in complete darkness.

It was still a perfect night to die though.