‘So are you gonna tell me why you’re here, son?’ Quilty finally asked, briefly pulling the mask away from his face and beating Dempsey to the first question. He was taking the lead, Dempsey realised. A show of seniority. The younger man respected it with a smile.

It’s not like he hasn’t earned it.

‘Sir, I’m—’

‘Tom, son. Like I told you.’

‘I’m sorry. Tom. I’m here because of what happened earlier today. The bombing of Flight PA16 and the death of Dale Victor.’

Quilty said nothing as he took another hit of oxygen.

‘Elizabeth Kirk’s worried about you. She thinks that after what happened to Victor, that you might have made yourself a target.’

‘She does, does she?’

‘She does, yeah. And judging from what you said on the intercom – about spooks – it doesn’t look like she’s alone in that, does it?’

‘You know the worst thing about getting old, son?’ The mention of a threat seemed to briefly energise Quilty. ‘About getting sick? It’s the underestimation. Sure, I’m . . . I’m no use to anyone in the field any more. And they . . . they want analysts who can . . . who can breathe for themselves. I get that. But putting those . . . those . . . those amateurs out there . . . and . . . and expecting me not . . . not . . . not to make them? Assholes who wouldn’t know covert . . . surveillance from a kick in . . . in the balls? Do that to a man with my history? That’s just . . . just . . . it’s a goddamned insult.’

Quilty’s anger was evident. It was also destructive. The short rant was too much for him; his words were increasingly pained as he spat them out, desperate to finish before his need for breath defeated him. Only sheer force of will saw him to the end.

He slumped backwards into his seat when he was done, exhausted and fumbling for the oxygen mask that had dropped from his hands as he spoke.

Dempsey rose from his seat, picked up the mask from where it had fallen and moved to place it over Quilty’s mouth and nose. Halfway there Dempsey rethought the instinctive action; from what Elizabeth Kirk had told him, Quilty might see it as an insult.

Instead he placed the mask in Quilty’s hand and turned his attention to the gas bottle, increasing the airflow by twenty per cent. Then, while Quilty recovered, he moved to the open-plan kitchen area behind Quilty’s seat, filled a chipped highball glass with water from the oversized but under-stocked refrigerator and brought it back to the older man’s lips.

Quilty drank painfully as Dempsey retook his seat. He barely managed two fingers of the cold liquid, but it seemed to do the trick.

Dempsey waited a few more seconds, but the time had come for him to take back control.

‘I need you to keep calm about all this,’ he said. ‘Getting worked up and your lungs giving out isn’t going to help either us, OK?’