Forsyth thought about that. ‘Are you going to tell his daughter?’

Vincent looked at him. ‘Depends on your answer.’

Forsyth shrugged. ‘Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe he was in the dark, and this was Freeman’s thing. Or maybe he just wanted to keep his hands clean. I don’t know.’

‘So you never asked Freeman?’

Forsyth dropped the can back into its slot. ‘Eugene wanted to make money. He didn’t care how it happened.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s worse in a way. I mean, morally it’s like carte blanche, isn’t it? His main thing was that the bottom line ended up in the black.’

Vincent nodded at the truck. ‘Someone’s bottom line is out by thirty million dollars. So you need to be very, very careful.’

Forsyth shrugged again, apparently unbothered. ‘You should stay a while. We’ve got food that’ll waste, we might as well finish it. Leo picked up some lettuce yesterday, it’s not going to last much longer.’

Vincent said, ‘Nothing like a salad to make everything better.’

He left the barn and walked back to the house and went in via the kitchen door. Erin was in the hallway with her back to him, and in the living room beyond her he could see Leo, still shirtless, a towel wrapped around his waist, bending over the old man in the wheelchair. He was speaking to him in Spanish, brisk and soothing, and when he straightened and turned, Vincent saw the hypodermic syringe he was holding. The old man’s eyes were closed, and his head was to one side. Leo released the tourniquet around the old man’s upper arm, and placed it with the syringe in a zippered leather bag.

Footsteps came behind Vincent, and then Forsyth entered the kitchen. He clapped his hands. ‘So is that a yes? Shame to come all this way and then turn around again.’

Vincent looked at Erin. He said, ‘You want lunch?’

She shrugged, glanced down at the old man, mumbling in Spanish, miles away. She said, ‘All right. What the hell.’

*

The sun was past its zenith, and the rear yard was slightly shaded by the house. Vincent and Erin sat on chairs with their backs to the kitchen wall while Forsyth stood tending to beef steaks on a barbecue hotplate. Leo was under the pine tree in the corner of the yard, feet in the pool.

Forsyth said, ‘There’s a fire ban, but I don’t think we’re going to get caught around here. You can smell the smoke as it is. Everyone up this road’s evacuated. The fire’s ten, twelve miles off, but it was bad enough last year no one’s taking chances.’

He was overdoing it—nervous maybe—talking too much. He said, ‘You probably think this is pretty strange.’

They both waited for him to elaborate.