‘I’m really sorry, city mouse,’ he said, shaking his head lightly. ‘I can’t. I just can’t let this shit get out.’

Manolis swallowed hard, his throat dry, working noisily. His breath quickened, pulse surged, heat radiated from his cheeks. Should he rush at Fyfe? His muscles twitched at the thought, began to prime themselves. He would likely overpower him, push him backwards, crash to the floor. But the gun would flash, fire, the chamber would empty, smoke, hot lead. Was he prepared for a bullet tearing his skin, burrowing through arteries and veins, and embedding itself deep inside his internal organs? Or it might sever his spine, exit his back, drag viscera in its wake, and leave him paralysed. That was, of course, if he didn’t first slowly haemorrhage to death.

Manolis hadn’t been shot before. Cops who had said the pain was unimaginable.

‘Can’t,’ Fyfe repeated. ‘Just can’t…’

The hollow in his voice, his repetition were unconvincing. Manolis sensed he was trying to persuade himself.

‘Then don’t,’ Manolis said calmly. ‘Don’t. Don’t make this any worse.’

Their eyes locked, debated, wrestled. This was how animals solved conflicts, through imperceptible adjustments and complex micro-movements. Psychological warfare, more with self than with other, the physical act secondary, less important.

Fyfe’s eyes were full of blood, his stare weak. He looked weary, like he wanted no further part in this, but also unhinged. The gun trembled in his hand.

‘Don’t,’ Manolis repeated. ‘Give it to me. We’ll go arrest Rex.’

Fyfe blinked. ‘And then what? He goes down, I follow. This isn’t some pissy traffic offence.’

He was right, of course. But Manolis couldn’t admit that. He sat up, bent forward, prepared to deliver his sales pitch.

Fyfe thrust the gun, met his advance. ‘Back. Get back.’

Manolis got back. The gun seemed to hover between them, growing in size. He felt himself falling, losing what may have been simply the illusion of control.

‘Okay,’ he breathed. ‘Relax. We’re just talking here.’

Standing up, Fyfe shunted his chair back. It tipped onto its cheap plastic side. ‘Enough talk. You’re fucking with me.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m trying to find a solution, a way —’

‘There is no solution, and only one way out. You die, I disappear, this all gets forgotten.’ He extended his arm a final time.

Manolis tightened his hamstrings, tensed his calves and prepared to charge headlong into certain death. The air in the room was as tight as a held breath.

And then, from the near distance, over Fyfe’s shoulder, came a sound. Barely audible at first, it grew ever louder, tapping, moving swiftly across the linoleum floor. Distracted, Manolis glanced. Not wanting to fall for that old trick, Fyfe didn’t, until it was too late.