A shot rang out. Blanks, thought Detective Hunt, the thought proving to him twice over in a single instant that he was still alive. First in the realisation’s presence in his mind. His mind was still equipping itself for business. Second in the fact within the realisation. The blanks Espinosa had subbed into Griggs’ gun had rendered his execution stayed. And yet, when Hunt raised his gun with the ease of an Olympian sighting down his bow, it was aimed at Espinosa. Surprise registered on both faces in the broken gloom of the dockland night lighting, although only Hunt’s periphery could be devoted to Griggs. It may have been reapportioning onto Griggs’ face the gormless dismay Hunt saw on Espinosa, like a patch of wall that the eye convinces the brain is the same colour as the rest in order to mask its blind spot. He shot Espinosa twice in the chest, two in the ten ring, and as she began to fall put another through her brain, remembering that she often wore body armour under her squad jacket. The next shot went through Griggs’ kneecap. He doubted Griggs had anything to tell him but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.