‘Yeah, well – you never were much of a father to him, were you, Enver? I thought having the bat might be useful in this place, and with the work I do. People like you come up those stairs more often than I like. I need to have something by my side, to settle arguments.’

‘You can put it down, Hari.’

‘No – you’re here for an argument.’ He had not moved from his chair, but his hold on the baseball bat was steady. ‘Tell me what you want.’

‘I want to know why you killed Willer.’

‘You know exactly why. He murdered Lew, took the money. I was pissed with him.’

‘Five years later?’

‘I wanted to be sure. I thought for a while you might step in and do it yourself. Willer was also your son, your responsibility. But then my assignments were changed, and getting to Salay Sekonda became something I had to do while I could still travel. He knew too much, and I needed the money to buy this place. You were paid off too, so what’s your complaint?’

I said: ‘No complaint, Hari. But I didn’t want or need the money enough to have my only remaining son killed.’

‘Maybe now it’s different. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Cops aren’t paid too well, as we both know.’

‘I’m thinking ahead to retirement,’ I said. ‘The money counts, yes. Next year I’m going to want a bigger share of the deal.’

‘You won’t get it from me.’

Hari braced suddenly, and he stood up. I took an unguarded step back. I realized he was still strong, easy with his movements. I was younger than him, but his undercover work had clearly kept him fitter, more active. I had a stiff hip, a lower back I had strained too often. My right shoulder was weak. I could not raise myself out of a chair like that any more – I had to shift my weight, get my legs in the right position, lever myself up. The days when I ran in pursuit of wrongdoers were long over. I was an office cop now, working out the remaining years.

Hari was hefting the baseball bat in an aggressive way.

‘Keep your distance, Hari,’ I said, alarmed by the speed of his response.

At that moment there was a howling noise from the speakers, as someone downstairs grabbed the microphone. Holding it too close to his mouth, and speaking too loudly so that every breath was a harsh rasping noise, the man began some kind of heavily distorted announcement about the band who were about to play, which group would be coming to a later gig at the end of the week, a ticket-only event, something about where the tickets were available, then a list of the names who wanted songs dedicated to them tonight, mostly women’s names, on and on . . .