Vincent said, ‘I was going to call it in when I got back to the house, but I didn’t really get a chance.’

He explained how Lamar had kicked him out of the Lincoln—on account of his sanctimony, or however he’d put it—and Vincent had caught an Uber back up Mountain Drive. Saw the white Navigator follow Lamar into the driveway, and got there himself just in time to save Erin’s life.

Harris said, ‘That’s what she said, too.’

Vincent just nodded. He thought maybe he sounded a bit self-aggrandising, given the body count. He wasn’t sure he should look on the bright side, even if she was okay. When he told them Freeman’s last words—‘thirty million’, and ‘we can’t pay’—he thought they might have come to the end of the interview. The two detectives were quiet for about ten seconds, then Wentworth leaned back and stroked his moustache and looked up at the camera bolted to the wall. Like maybe he’d been told that one day he’d get a case like this, and now it was here he wasn’t quite sure where to go with it.

In the corner, the Marshal was still bouncing his toe.

He asked to see Erin, but they said she was still being interviewed.

Vincent said, ‘I had a backpack in the trunk of the Lincoln. I wouldn’t mind it back, if that’s okay.’

Harris said, ‘We’ll let you know.’

That didn’t sound promising. Vincent said, ‘Do I still get my phone call, even if I’m not under arrest?’

His cell was low on battery, but they took him out into the detective bureau and gave him an unoccupied desk. He called Beauden Ash but didn’t get an answer. Vincent tried the main line, and Beauden’s office manager, Susan, answered.

‘It’s Vincent. How you doing?’

She said, ‘I’m okay. It’s funny, when everyone else calls up, they just say something like: Is he there? Or: Put him on. So you’re way ahead in the manners department.’

Vincent said, ‘It’s part of the training now. They waterboard you for an hour, and then give you a phone. You have to call someone up and be polite.’

She laughed, and he felt guilty for it, given the circumstances.

He said, ‘Is he in?’ Over-correcting, seeming impatient now.

‘Yeah, that’s more like it: you sound like a real contractor. No, he’s out, but I can take a message.’

There was a window beside him, facing Figueroa Street. Vincent split the metal blinds with his fingers.

Two TV vans were parked kerbside, cameras on tripods aiming at the public entrance. Word was out: there was an Erin Jones story to be had. All the best news had blood and fame.