He picked up the glass and held it out at arm’s length on the palm of his hand. The pistol slammed again and suddenly he wasn’t holding a glass any more.

Seven.

John drew his arm in slowly and his fingers were trembling. He looked at his forefinger and then put it to his lips and sucked it. Bette laughed.

‘Did poor old grandad cut himself?’

John walked over to her, still sucking his finger. ‘I have a name,’ he said, without a tremor in his voice. ‘It’s John.’

‘My God!’ she said. ‘The old guy has more guts than the lot of you. Okay, Johnny boy, go back and sit down.’

I cleared my throat and said, ‘You shoot well. What’s the gun?’

‘Smith and Wesson nine-millimetre parabellum,’ she said concisely. ‘Not many women can handle this much gun.’ So she had a streak of vanity.

My lips tightened. That pistol held a magazine load of eight, so she had at least another up the spout. And she might have put one in the breech, which meant she would have two shots. The odds still weren’t good enough, not when she could use the weapon like that. She had already proved she would shoot to kill.

Suddenly, with a metallic click, she slipped the magazine from the pistol and inserted another that she pulled deftly from her jacket pocket, driving it home with the heel of her hand. ‘I saw you counting, Kemp,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m not that much of a goddamn fool, you know.’

Nine, I thought glumly.

Leotta no longer looked as though she was ready to leap into action. Her hands lay limply on her thighs and she had sunk deeper on to the settee instead of sitting on the edge. Jill still had her eyes closed and was muttering something to herself.

‘All right, Mrs Haslam,’ I said. ‘What’s your bloody game? You’ve proved you can use a gun. Now tell me what you’re using it for.’

‘To scare you shitless,’ she said sweetly, and added with a touch of malice, ‘It seems to have worked on prissy Mrs Salton.’

This couldn’t be about politics, I thought. It had nothing to do with any struggle for power in Campanilla. This was something else entirely.

I began to count again. Haslam, his wife, Philips: that was three. Plus Steve and Terry – whoever they were – made five. If there was a Steve and a Terry there was the possibility of a Tom, a Dick and a Harry. Certainly five, possibly more, precise number unknown. Tackle it some other way.

‘It’s a pity you broke the glasses,’ I said. ‘I could use a drink.’

‘Well, why not?’ said Bette. ‘Johnny, are there any more glasses – in this room?’

‘In that cupboard,’ said John.

‘Go get them. And bring that bottle of rum.’