There was a boardroom table with seating for ten—nothing on it but a slim manila folder and a business card that read M CASEY FREEMAN—PA TO EUGENE LAMAR. Vincent took the chair opposite the paperwork and asked for water. There was a dry bar in the corner, but eleven am was probably too early to make use of it. He wondered if the question was a test—check he’d make a responsible decision.

‘Ice? Sparkling?’

‘No ice. Tap water’s fine. Thanks.’

Freeman came back a minute later with his drink and a napkin, placed them down carefully—napkin as coaster, the glass centred—and then took his seat.

They waited, looking at each other across the table, and Vincent got the feeling he’d need to take a sip to get things moving.

He did so, and Freeman said, ‘Your résumé looked good.’

‘Thank you.’

He wasn’t quite sure how to go from there. The way Freeman was looking at him, expression neutral and holding his eye, Vincent figured he was supposed to come in with some exposition and self-reverence, run through his background and explain how he was just the man for the job. He guessed Freeman was about fifty: even tan, thin grey hair trimmed and gelled into uniform compliance, the bearing and posture of a yoga adherent. The combined effect was an unspoken imperative that said, Impress me.

Problem was, Vincent hadn’t worked for six months, and there was a big part of him quite happy to extend the holiday. Only reason he was here was because of a drink he’d had last week with Beauden Ash in LA. Beauden was a senior partner now at Bluesmoke. He’d told Vincent they needed a contractor for a gig in Santa Barbara, just a temporary thing for a couple of months. High pay, low stress, and Vincent would be doing them a massive favour.

Okay, fine.

He agreed to an interview. But now he was actually sitting here doing the thing, he realised he didn’t have a lot to say. He didn’t want to get into the finer details of his past employment, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about the crash. Beauden had asked about it, obviously, and Vincent had given him the basics: the helicopter taking fire and then spinning, the rotations cranking up until the whole craft was in a fairground twirl, and Vincent was the only one to make it out when it hit the ground. By luck or prescience, he’d been out of his harness and on his feet, and therefore took the impact through his knees, which meant two broken legs and a dislocated shoulder from falling sideways. Everyone else got a broken spine on touchdown—or so he was informed afterward. Nothing they could do but sit there, even if they were still breathing.