‘Paul? Paul, it’s Martin. Come on, Paul. You’re going to be fine. Paul?’

The opaque eyes seemed to clear, the mouth trying to form words. But the voice box was shattered, the windpipe raw. Hepton brought his own ear close to Vincent’s mouth. There were white threads of saliva at the edges, hanging from swollen lips. The word was hoarse, barely recognisable as speech. But Hepton heard it, where others might have thought it mere babble.

‘Arrus … Arrus … Arrosss …’

And then the breath seemed to rattle within, the eyes became filmy, and Hepton could only crouch there, staring at his friend. The doctor was rushing along the corridor now, and would do what he could. It was already too late, Hepton knew. His own ministrations had served only to extend the waning life by a moment. But in that precious moment, Paul Vincent had given him something. A word.

Argos.

He left the body, rising slowly to his feet. Then he remembered Harry, and turned on his heel. He ran along the corridor, swung round the corner, pushed open the door to the stairs. He didn’t mind now, didn’t care if he ran straight into her and her gun. All he held in his mind was burning rage. But a glance through the window showed him that the black Sierra had gone. He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.

‘Paul,’ he whispered. Then he began to cry.

14

They sat him on a sagging chesterfield sofa in the musty library, declared the room off-limits to the inquisitive patients and gave him sweet tea to drink. Meanwhile, Paul Vincent’s body was being laid out on the bed in his room, his possessions gathered together, his family informed. A tragic suicide: that was what it would become. But Hepton, sipping his tea, knew this was not the truth. A policeman came to see him, a detective in plain clothes. Hepton told him about Harry.

‘Yes,’ the detective said. ‘Mrs Collins on reception said Mr Vincent had had a visitor.’

‘She killed him.’

The detective raised one eyebrow. He had already been informed that Hepton was in shock.

‘She killed him,’ Hepton repeated. ‘She had a gun. I saw her.’

‘But Mr Vincent wasn’t killed with a gun,’ the detective said slowly, as though explaining something difficult to a child. ‘He hanged himself.’

‘No, she did it. She hung him up there.’

The detective decided to ignore all this. He referred to his notebook. ‘The name we have for the visitor is a Miss Victoria Simmons.’

Hepton shook his head. ‘Her name’s Harry.’

‘Harry?’ The detective sounded doubtful.

‘Short for Harriet.’

‘And her second name?’

Hepton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She’s something to do with the military. That’s what she told me, anyway. You can ask my boss, Mr Henry Fagin. I’ll give you his number …’