He held the shotgun one-handed like a pistol, and answered the phone. ‘I’m quite busy.’

Delroy Clemons said, ‘One way to put it. Damn.’

In his ear, Beauden said, ‘Yeah, listen: they’ve called it in. You’ve got about three minutes.’

‘All right—’

‘No, wait: someone—’

Vincent ended the call.

He said, ‘Five people are dead. You need to tell me exactly what you’re part of.’ Giving Delroy the line, not liking how relaxed he was: the guy sitting there with his hands behind his head, like he knew with total certainty that Vincent’s threats were empty. Motion in his periphery, and he turned to face Page, saw him drawing back his fist for a punch—no, a throw—and Vincent ducked as Page hurled the tumbler at him. It missed by ten inches, humming straight past and smashing against a wall, and then Page was charging at him, lining up a tackle. Vincent held the crouch and then dropped lower—half height—caught Page in the stomach with his shoulder and jerked upright with the impact, using the guy’s own momentum to jack-knife him forward. Page somersaulted and landed on the floor on his back, and Vincent trapped him with a foot on his chest and aimed the shotgun at his head.

Delroy said, ‘Terry, oof. That’s not how you do it.’

Vincent said, ‘People are dead. You’re going to join them if you don’t tell me what’s going on.’

‘You ain’t, Terry. Just stay cool. S’ain’t a man wants to go to prison.’

Page was breathing through gritted teeth, eyes brimming from the impact.

Vincent said, ‘Casey Freeman got a call from your office this morning, and then an hour later he was dead. Why did you call him?’

Page looked toadish from this angle, chin lost in his neck and staring up at Vincent through watery eyes, focus shifting slightly, constantly, like trying to keep track of the world as it dissolved.

‘Why did you call him? Page!’ Shouting his name now. He pushed down harder with his foot, and Page’s eyes bulged. ‘Why did you call him? Freeman told me about the thirty million. Those were his last words: thirty million, and he can’t pay. So what was the deal? Who made the deal? Page? What was the deal?’

Delroy Clemons said, ‘Just be cool, Terry. He ain’t shooting no one.’

Page didn’t look convinced.

Vincent said, ‘Either you tell me who’s involved, or I have to assume this is all your doing.’

‘Just stay cool, Terry. Gun’s gonna fix nothing, and he knows it. Not going to solve puzzles, killing people. Be ashamed of yourself, man.’

Page was shaking his head. ‘I can’t, I can’t …’

‘Let him go.’