The fire extinguisher was a serious item, a red metal canister of at least twenty pounds, maybe ten inches in diameter. He held it by the nozzle and jiggled it to test the heft, set it down again and listened briefly. Still quiet. Dull building noises of uncertain origin. Soft thuds and booms and the sound of piped water. Vincent cradled the extinguisher like a battering ram and drove it base-first through the window, just above the handle.

The glass didn’t put up a fight, but the wires had some give, and it made them stubborn. It took him five more blows with the canister to open up a fist-size gap. He set the canister on the floor and reached through the opening, sharp and snaggle toothed, and turned the inside handle.

Success.

He kicked the broken glass as best he could back into the stairwell and closed the door behind him, went left and left again around the corner of the elevator shaft. The set-up was similar to level eighteen, and opposite the elevators were a pair of glass doors, frosted in a wide band through the centre, with a negative font pattern that read PAGE SWANSON.

Terry Page’s wife was standing alone on the other side, looking out at him. He was pleased she had no gun this time. He stepped forward, but the doors didn’t open. The lights in the office were off.

He said, ‘I think you better let me in.’

She looked out at him a moment longer, and then she stepped to one side and touched something on the wall, and the glass parted for him: a neat bisection between the PAGE and the SWANSON.

She said, ‘Terry’s closed the office for the day. He told the staff there’s a sewage leak.’

Vincent stepped into the reception area. A counter, chairs, a sofa. A glass coffee table with a spread of glossy magazines. He said, ‘Very sensible.’

‘I heard banging …’ Looking at his nametag now. ‘That’s right. You’re Vincent.’

He held out his hand, and she took it. What was it about her? Her manner was off, somehow. Calm, faultlessly composed. But maybe she was just resigned to what was coming. Maybe she could see her husband’s life reeling out of control, and there was nothing she could do except wait for him to hit the wall.

She said, ‘I’m Natasha Page. Terry’s in his office.’

Vincent saw duffel bags—a stack of three—peeking out from behind the reception counter. He took out his phone and called Erin.

‘Going okay?’

‘Yeah, come on up. Tell the desk guy you’ve got an appointment with Terry Page. And you might want to tell Gustavo we’ve been side-tracked.’

As he ended the call, a door behind the counter opened, and Page stepped into the room. His hands went straight to his head, pushing his hair out in tufts.

‘Why’d you let him in?’