What a bloody state to get into, he thought, but he did not blame himself for the hangover. It was all Grenville’s fault, he thought. If Grenville wasn’t such a bastard he wouldn’t be here, alone, with drink as his only comfort.

He returned to the living room and opened the door to Vic Liddle, then stood, blinking in the sudden light. He still held the milk bottle in one hand.

‘Bloody hell, man,’ Vic Liddle said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘What do you think?’ Craven said. ‘ You’d better come in.’

He leaned against the door frame and realised he was still a little drunk. When he had finished in the hotel he had continued drinking at home. He could not remember much about it. He had never been able to take his drink. When they were teenagers his sister had been able to keep up with him pint for pint. He sensed Liddle staring at him and turned away, back into the house.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said.

‘What do you mean “suit yourself”?’ Liddle was so angry he could hardly speak. ‘This is Monday morning. You’ve a job to do.’

‘Look,’ Craven said. ‘I’m not doing anything until I’ve had some tea. You can come in and have some too or not, just as you like. It’s all the same to me.’

He left the door open and went back into the room. He drew back the curtains and carried an empty whisky bottle and glass into the kitchen. Liddle followed him, attracted despite himself by such depravity.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said again. ‘It stinks like a brewery in here.’ He opened the window wide and a cold breeze blew and made Craven shiver. ‘What set all this off, then?’ Liddle asked.

There was real interest in the question and for a moment Craven was tempted to tell him. He longed for sympathy. It’s the anniversary of my sister’s death, he wanted to say. It happened two years ago. But he had not come this far to give his plan away at the first kind word and he just shrugged.

‘You know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘Some days there doesn’t seem anything else to do.’

He filled the kettle from the tap and looked in the cupboard for something he could turn into breakfast. The effort was too much and he sat heavily on a stool by the plastic table.

‘It’s not worth it if you ask me,’ Liddle said. He looked disapprovingly, without comprehension, at the chaos in the house, the piles of dirty washing, the unwashed dishes. ‘You need to sort yourself out, lad.’