Rising from behind her desk she shook her head as she came towards him. “No, I mean charged. He was standing over the body in the hospital when they arrested him. He’s confessed… signed a statement and everything.”

The colour drained from Nick’s face and he slumped into a chair. “I don’t understand…Dan would never…it doesn’t make any sense. Who the hell did he kill? Where is he… is he here… can I see him?”

Sandra was standing over him her hand on his shoulder. “I think you need to go home. Yes, he’s here but they won’t let anybody see him, especially you of all people.

Come back in the morning when the seniors are around. They’ll be able to get you in to see him.”

“Is he alright? Does he need anything? A… a lawyer, has he seen a lawyer?”

“He’s fine, as far as I know. And no, there’s been no lawyer, he hasn’t asked for one, says there’s no need.”

Nick sat there white as a ghost, he didn’t stand up… he didn’t think he could. Sandra was on the verge of offering him a stiff drink when she remembered he didn’t drink any more, or couldn’t, to be more precise.

The room fell silent. All of a sudden Nick felt tired and sick. Shakily, he rose to his feet, holding the back of the chair for support.

Sandra said, “Let me get the duty car to take you home! Get some rest, start again in the morning. Honestly, there’s nothing you can do tonight.”

Her words were barely penetrating his brain. It sounded as if his hands were over his ears; he heard the buzz of a phone and he felt her arm gently supporting him. She led him towards a door that mysteriously looked both open and closed at the same time. The door moved and took on the shape of a big burly policeman. He heard muffled words, “Take him home… get him to bed… stay with him if necessary….”

The mist closed in and the voices stopped…..

The next morning Nick awoke with a start. He was lying face down on a bed but had little recollection as to whose bed it might be or where. His first thought was that it must still be the middle of the night, given the darkness of the room. He lay there, quite still, trying to gather his thoughts, listening for any telltale clue as to where he was. He had no memory of going home, in fact, as far as he could recall his last clear memory was talking to Sandra Goodwood… but exactly how long ago that had been he couldn’t tell.

It was no good; he could hear nothing and his head ached. He needed to get up, he fumbled around in the dark until his hand struck something hard at the bedside. Gently he felt for the edge and moved his fingers over the surface until he touched something that felt like the base of a lamp. Running his fingers up the side he found the little switch just below the bulb itself. He pressed it and the room lit up before him.

It was his bedroom. He was lying on the wrong side of the bed, still in his street clothes with a loose blanket thrown over him. He thought of Sandra. Nah! Probably one of her men, the total lack of finesse as to his present state suggested the delicate touch of a beat bobby. “