He could hear the two voices, raised now. They seemed to be arguing. Kale could not make sense of it. Money, it seemed, was the issue. But that was none of his concern. He tightened his hand around the handle and eased the door open about two inches, screwing his eyes up against the sudden glare of light, holding himself absolutely still until his pupils had contracted and the light no longer pained him. Gryffe was standing behind his desk, his back to Kale. Beyond him the other moved into Kale’s line of vision; a thin, pale, frightened-looking man. Ginger hair and beard. Perfect, Kale thought, with an almost inhuman detachment from what he was about.

He had no thought for the men he was about to kill, their pains, their loves, all the years they had lived until now; years that he would rub out, so that only the faintest impression of their existence would remain on the pages of history. So it was with most men. What did it matter that they had ever lived? They all died, sooner or later. All the futile years. He took a single step back and levelled the Colt through the opening of the door.

‘Don’t be a fool, Gryffe,’ he heard the ginger-haired man saying. ‘I can ruin you.’ Gryffe stooped and opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and stared blankly into its emptiness. Kale squeezed the trigger, gently, fondly, almost as though he were stroking it, and then recoiled from the blast in the confined space of the cupboard. The bullet punched a hole in the centre of Slater’s chest and threw him back against the wall, blood spewing from the wound. He was dead even before he fell forward on to his face.

Gryffe spun around, fingers of fear closing around his beating heart, in time to see a small, mean figure in a dark, shabby coat slip out from the walk-in cupboard behind him. The man’s face betrayed nothing. He held Gryffe’s Colt .32 and was pointing it at him.

‘Don’t move,’ Kale said quietly, almost in a whisper. He slipped out from behind the desk and crossed quickly to where Slater lay crumpled in on himself, blood spreading rich and dark on the carpet. The gun still pointed at Gryffe, Kale bent to check the dead man’s jugular, just to be sure. He stood again, taking out the second gun with his left hand.

Gryffe was paralysed by a cocktail of fear and confusion. He could not believe that he was about to die. There was no need for this. Not now. Slater was dead. He clutched at straws, struggling to find his voice.

‘Lamb fixed it, didn’t he? It was Lamb. To get me off the hook.’ Kale nodded and lowered the Colt. Gryffe felt an enormous surge of relief and almost buckled at the knees. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Thank God.’