Locke gave a long blink, as if trying to hold on to his patience. He said, ‘No one’s pressing charges. I’m just trying to get the story clear for myself.’

‘And because you’re not wearing a tie, I’m supposed to accept this is all between friends?’

Locke seemed distracted, the way he kept looking off. Like he’d woken up to bad news, or he’d had some sort of existential revelation: forty years of his life squandered, and now he needed new meaning.

Vincent said, ‘All right, fine. I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out. Crow’s guy Lou hit his face on the back of the Lincoln. I gave him some help. In fact, it was all my idea.’

Locke had some coffee. He said, ‘Sylvester Crow is dead.’

Vincent gave that a second, wondering where Locke was taking him. He said, ‘That’s a shame. He seemed like a nice guy.’

Locke was looking at him.

Vincent said, ‘What happened?’

‘That’s yet to be determined. No cameras, of course. Even at the gatehouse. And the guard clocked off at six. But they found Sly in his swimming pool with a broken neck.’

Vincent said, ‘I heard they can get a bit slippery around the edge.’

‘Yeah. Your good friend Lou Cazaretti actually called it in—Santa Barbara Sheriffs showed up and found Sly in the water, Lou on one of the beds with an ice pack on his face, loaded on whiskey and painkillers. Said he’d got up to use the bathroom, looked out the window, there’s Sly floating face down. They put him in the car, breathalysed him—he blew a two–seven, I think it was, slept the whole way down to the station. This was about ten last night.’

Vincent’s coffee arrived.

‘What’d he say happened?’

‘He doesn’t know. He can’t remember much. But it’s not a great picture is it, from his point of view? When you consider the fact you got a guy with a broken neck, and another guy with a busted-up face and …’ He looked away. ‘How would you put it? Amply self-medicated, I guess, on Ibuprofen and Johnnie Walker.’ Allowing himself a smile.

Vincent said, ‘So what do they think happened? That he went a couple rounds with Sly, killed him and then poured a drink?’

‘Potentially. There was a glass of something on his bedside table that the crime-scene people think he’d dosed with pills. So yeah … maybe he killed Sly and then thought it was better to check out with a capital C than go to prison.’

‘Right. And then he decided to have a little sleep and call the police instead. Doesn’t sound right, does it?’

Locke sipped his coffee. Intricate vessels in his eyes, delicate and crimson. Like he’d looked too long at the bad side of the world, and it was taking its toll.