Waiting in that cool, quiet hinterland that lies beyond shock and violent emotion, he could watch the unraveling of his own predicament as if he watched on film the sequences of some other man’s life. He was thinking, in a distanced way, about the nature of heroism—in which quality he believed, although he knew that belief to be old-fashioned, and to most minds suspect. He admired courage, whether spiritual or physical. Perhaps it even required a certain small measure of courage on his own part now to acknowledge that since Gini was safe, he himself owed Pascal Lamartine a debt.

“They’ll be down in a few minutes.” Martigny had materialized at his elbow, stamping his feet in the cold and drawing on a cigarette. He exhaled, gave Rowland a sidelong glance.

“Women. They’re so unpredictable. You know—when we were listening, when we thought she wasn’t going to fire?”

“Yes.”

“Well, something must have got to her. She pumped twelve bullets into him. When they get him to the morgue—I wouldn’t like to do the autopsy.”

“I imagine not.”

“Skin, and inside…” He shrugged, and tossed the stub of his cigarette into the gutter. “And I thought it was all over. I wonder, was it fear, you think?”

“Or anger.”

“I guess.”

He moved off a few paces, then turned back.

“You look—You want a drink? I can get you something. Some cognac? A whiskey?”

“No thanks.”

“You can’t talk to her.” Martigny gave him a kind glance. “You do realize that? They both have to go for medical checks. Then debriefing. Lamartine’s a hospital case. Cracked ribs and his arm’s badly fractured. She—it depends how deeply she’s in shock. You won’t be seeing her before tomorrow morning at the earliest. You understand that?”

“I do. Yes.”

“Meantime, I owe you. So if you want to stick with me when we start going through that apartment…” Martigny jerked his thumb at the mob of reporters beyond the barriers. “I’d rather you got the full story. Those bastards have been getting in my way all day. They’re about to discover just how uncooperative my department can be. So, what d’you need? Six hours? Eight? Overnight? Let them chase their own tails until we hold a press conference tomorrow morning, because I certainly won’t be holding one tonight.”

They exchanged glances. Rowland gave a wintry smile.

“Overnight would be more than generous. I’d certainly like to see that apartment. I have to get on to my news desk, get copy through to them.”

“No problem. There’s a load of his papers up there. Notes, letters, some weird kind of diary he kept. Plus there’s your colleague’s tapes, of course. All evidence, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Not for release to the press until a much later stage. So, should any journalist happen on some of that evidence—in the melee, when my back was turned… I’d have to launch an inquiry, of course.”

“Without doubt.”

“Though the trouble with such inquiries is—they tend to get nowhere. Too much paperwork… You know how it is.”