Angryman shuts his mouth, and stares at me. His face is puce again. ‘The Vasiliev family had my brother killed, then they took his body. They were going to do something with it, but I think Tito saved it, sent me the note.’

‘Tito lived …’ It’s better not to tell. ‘What was your brother’s name?’

‘Greg.’

‘Don’t know any Gregs, sorry.’

‘Also known as Fatboy.’

‘Fatboy Cakestand?’

‘What? No! Fatboy Costello.’

As he says it, Marko walks over, the shotgun slung over his arm as though he were a pheasant hunter. ‘Were you here the other day?’

‘Me? No. Hard enough to find it today.’

Marko looks at him, suspicious. ‘Well, I hope you weren’t. And you won’t want to be coming back, either.’

The angry man looks at Marko and the shotgun without concern. Maybe everybody totes a shotgun in his world.

‘So where did Tito Slade live? Can you tell me that?’

‘I don’t know. I just heard he died. He’s certainly never lived here.’

Angryman’s frustration returns red and hot. ‘What am I supposed to fucking do now?’

Marko moves the shotgun to his other arm. ‘How about you stop harassing people, and bloody well piss off home?’

The angry man turns away, then turns back, as if he has something to add. After a couple of rapid steps in our direction, he leaps at Marko, his palms outstretched, reaching for Marko’s throat. They both go down, and the gun clatters across the floor. They roll, grabbing at each other, and I retrieve the shotgun, take a cartridge from my pocket, load the gun, click the barrel shut, and fire it into the back of the couch. The confined space makes the shot sound like a bazooka. The couch slips forward and blows stuffing out of its new hat-sized hole.

‘Let him go.’

Angryman has already let Marko go. He and Marko sit up and look at me like I might be the crazy one. I break the gun, and put it down. They refocus on each other.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Marko spits this at the man who has put red welts on his neck. They are both breathing heavily.

‘My brother was murdered. His body hasn’t been found. How the fuck would you feel?’ Frank is calming down, but slowly.

I tell him that I think he’s confused. There are no murderers here. He stands, brushes himself down, straightens his coat and tie, and says, ‘So you normally have a shotgun at the ready when people visit?’

We don’t have an answer, so I ask, ‘Who is the Vasiliev family?’

‘Crooks in the city. Real nasty. Professional killers. They take people out, and the body is never found.’