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heel to get a better look as she passes and collide with Paz, who is running fast to catch up with me.
    ‘Did you see that?’
    Paz thrusts a Kevlar vest at me.
    ‘See what?’
    I decide the conversation about the Russian girl can wait.
    ‘What’s the point of this?’ I ask, fastening the protective vest around me. ‘Witt is an Olympic shooter. If he aims at us, a vest won’t help.’
    ‘Try not to annoy him, then.’
    Paz tries to raise a smile, but falters as the sound of gunfire cracks through the air. We scan the arena. The rows of blue seats in front of us are deserted. Coats, bags and food cartons are lying abandoned in the stands.
    ‘Why didn’t the other competitors shoot him?’ Paz asks. ‘They were all armed.’
    Down below, athletes have grabbed what equipment they could and have run. Piles of kit bags and tripods tell the story of a sharp retreat.
    ‘Because they were terrified, probably. They’re not cops, Vitoria. They’re not soldiers. They shoot at paper targets, and the targets don’t usually shoot back.’
    The air cracks again and we drop to the floor.
    ‘Where is he?’
    I can’t see, so I don’t answer. Instead, I stand up and call his name.
    ‘Oliver?’
    My voice echoes around the place. Time is pressing. The SWAT team won’t be much longer. Witt emerges from the shadow of a huge scoreboard. He is at the far end of the gallery, little more than a black dot walking along the green no-man’s-land between the shooting positions and the targets. He’s holding a long-barrelled pistol at his side and raises his arm towards me as he approaches. My blood runs cold, but I hold it together. There’s no point running now.
    ‘Oliver Witt?’
    He keeps walking, and as he comes closer, I can hear him muttering to himself. I remember what Jaffari said about drugs bringing on psychosis, and I wonder if it could explain Witt’s behaviour. He fires off a couple of rounds, smashing two giant TV monitors at the far end of the gallery. Then he aims the gun at me again. I remember reading about Olympic pistols. They have tiny magazines. Five bullets. Maybe six. I can’t remember. I start counting anyway. Two down. Three to go. Or maybe four.
    He’s moved close enough that I can make him out properly. He is not a handsome man. He’s carrying a little too much weight and his face looks podgy. His eyes look a little small and his lips are thin, compared to the roundness of his face. He hasn’t shaved and he looks as though he hasn’t slept.
    ‘I’m a policeman,’ I tell him. ‘We need to talk, because my colleagues are on the way. They’re armed and they’re itching to shoot you – you understand?’
    In front of us, he sinks to his knees, the way a footballer does when he scores a great goal. Except that he’s sobbing, and he turns the shaking barrel of the pistol towards his own temple.
    ‘Maybe I can save them the trouble.’
    A look in his eyes tells me he’s not bluffing. It’s a look of despair. Hopelessness. I sense Paz tensing up beside me, fearing the worst.
    ‘I was the policeman who shot Tim Gilmore,’ I say. I’m not sure why I tell him this, except that it feels like the right thing to do. Maybe it will change something up. Because what could be worse? ‘I don’t want to see another athlete die.’
    A momentary wash of interest floods into Witt’s previously lifeless eyes. It’s enough to make him pause, which is enough to encourage me to keep talking.
    ‘I had to make a choice,’ I say, freewheeling. ‘There was no other way to stop him, and I couldn’t let him carry on. He was out of control. Kind of feels like you’re out of control right now.’
    The more I talk, the more Witt listens. I step out from behind the row of chairs and move slowly down the concrete stairway towards where he is kneeling. I reach the bottom of the flight andsit down on a plastic seat in the front row. I don’t want to walk any closer because I don’t want him to feel threatened.