He looked over to the door and then walked to the window. His room faced the square, but he could see nothing. He squinted and fought with the sash window, which budged a little.

The knocking came again.

‘Sir, it’s the police. We don’t want a scene.’

The Colonel stopped fighting with the window and stared blankly out of the window. It had always been a dream; a stupid Boy’s Own dream. He realised at that moment that he’d made nothing of himself; all he’d managed was to do a few people’s dirty washing. He walked to the door and hissed, ‘Good God, man, I’m half naked. Give me a minute, will you!’

‘Of course, sir, but we don’t want any fuss. With respect, Colonel, you need to get dressed.’

He walked away from the door muttering to himself, close to oblivion. As he took the cork out of the bottle and swigged it back, he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror. He’d never really been vain, but one day he’d tried on an old dress uniform and hadn’t been able to fasten it. Now he looked at his gut and his shiny face and his dead eyes and it saddened him. He opened the bedside cabinet drawer and took out an old service revolver that he’d come across when he’d been in charge of logging kit back in after a tour to Iraq. It was easy to massage the figures before the age of barcodes and snotty upstarts who did everything by the book. The thing might not even still work. That would be the final insult, he thought as he opened the chamber. There were three bullets in there and he couldn’t remember for the life of him when he’d put them in. It was a weighty piece of kit. Some soldiers brought Afghan rugs back from tour, others broke marble off Saddam Hussein’s bathroom walls. He’d brought an old friend.

He lay on the bed and took the bottle in his other hand. Outside his room, he heard footsteps and conversation: they’d come back. A loud bang resonated around the room.

‘Colonel! They’re coming in now. It’s most unsatisfactory, sir, but we had no choice. Are you dressed?’

He closed his eyes and drained the bottle of wine, tipping it until the last drops trickled out: it was damn fine. Then he put the muzzle in his mouth and aimed it slightly upwards: not that he had much brain left now that it had been turned to liquid mush, thanks to some fine vintages.

He squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 52