Hepton rose from his chair and placed one foot on the seat, using it as a springboard to launch himself over the desk, the computer, the monitor screen, landing heavily on Harry. His left hand still clutched her gun arm, while his right flexed and sent a clenched fist hard into her face. The contact was satisfying. She gasped, writhing beneath his weight. He could feel blood trickling down his cheek from where the pistol barrel had hit him. Then Harry’s knee connected with his groin, and he felt searing pain. He retched, but held fast to her arm, and punched her again, in the mouth this time. But she was wrenching free of him, kicking out, and scrabbling with her free hand towards his face, his hair, his eyes …

Her nails were like tools as they raked down his already bloodied cheek, digging into flesh. He cried out and pulled away from her hand. She used the moment to kick again with her full weight, sending him flying into a desk. People were pouring from the room, not about to lend a hand. Even Nick Christopher seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes on the pistol. The pistol she was raising again, aiming. Blood dripped from Hepton’s face onto the stone floor. His skin felt on fire. He prepared himself for a final assault, while four feet away Harry stood, blood flowing from nose and mouth, her trigger finger squeezing …

‘Bastard,’ she screeched. ‘No more!’

‘Harry!’

She froze at the sound of the voice. Her gun still trained on Hepton, her eyes peered towards the far door, where another gun was trained on her.

‘Parfit!’ she spat, arcing the pistol towards the door. But too late: Parfit’s bullet hit home with a wet sound like an overripe peach hitting a wall. An inky pink spray covered Hepton as Harry fell back, her head crashing against a computer screen, cracking it, then her body sliding floorwards in a clumsy, ungainly mess. And there she lay, the gun still in her hand, but like nothing so much as a toy now, a rag doll with too little stuffing. Inelegant, and not at all tidy.

There were shouts, panic, pandemonium. Parfit didn’t care, didn’t bother identifying himself. He walked over to Hepton.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked. His eyes strayed momentarily to the corpse.

‘What?’ Hepton was still in shock, still reeling from a great feeling of being alive.

‘Whatever it is that you’re doing here.’

‘Oh.’ He was jolted back to the present. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not quite.’

‘Then get on with it.’ Parfit looked around. ‘Where’s Dreyfuss?’

‘He’s gone off to look for Jilly.’

‘Right.’ Parfit handed him a clean handkerchief. ‘Here, mop some of that blood off your face.’ As he stalked off, Nick Christopher slumped weeping into a swivel chair, covering sticky red face with sticky red hands. Hepton looked towards Parfit’s retreating figure.