Then to Vincent: ‘You can’t be here. You can’t … we’re closed for business. I want you out, now.’

Vincent said, ‘I told you I can help. I think we should sit down for a minute.’

‘I don’t believe it, I honestly don’t believe it.’ Page sat in the chair behind the counter, dragged a hand down his face.

The phone on the desk rang.

Vincent leaned across and picked it up. He said, ‘Page Swanson.’

‘Good morning, sir. I have a Ms Jones here to see Mr Page.’

‘Send her up.’

‘Is your sewage issue resolved, sir?’

Vincent said, ‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’

He put the phone down, and Page said, ‘Well, she can come up, and then you can both ride down together. Perfect.’

Natasha said, ‘Terry, give him a chance.’

‘He was in our house with a gun last night.’ Talking at her through his teeth.

She crouched beside him. ‘At this rate, it’s not going to be a gun that gets you. It’s going to be a stroke or a heart attack. So can you please calm down?’

Page shut his eyes. Deep breathing ensued. Outside reception, an elevator dinged, and Erin stepped out. Vincent pushed the button on the wall to open the glass doors, and she came into the room.

Terry Page looked up and said, ‘Huh. It’s you.’

Erin took her shades off and put them in her handbag. She glanced around, and Vincent saw her clock the luggage behind the counter.

She said, ‘My father was murdered yesterday, and I understand you might know something about it.’

No reproach or judgement in the line—not that Vincent heard, anyway—but it seemed to cut through Page’s indignation. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Natasha Page said, ‘Why don’t we talk in the office? We’re out of coffee, but I think there’s some herbal tea.’

The place felt eerie with no staff. The cubicles beyond reception were partitioned by white frosted glass, and the furniture was visible as lumps of shadow, like an X-ray of something imminently fatal.

Page led them to his office and sat behind the desk. Erin and Vincent took the visitor chairs opposite. A window to their left overlooked Wilshire Boulevard. A chair in the corner held a paper shredder, presiding over a two-foot-high mound of debris.

Vincent said, ‘You need cross-cut blades. They can reconstitute stuff from the strips, otherwise.’

Silence.

Then Natasha Page asked if anyone would like tea.

Erin said she was okay.

Page didn’t answer.

Vincent asked for water. It had taken twenty-five hours for the retrieval team to find him after the helicopter went down, and his thirst had got so acute he’d told himself if he made it out he would never turn down a drink.

The three of them sat quietly for a minute, and then Natasha came back with a bottle of Evian.