Tony shifted awkwardly from one buttock to the other. If he hadn’t let Carol down so badly, he’d never have found himself in this position. She simply wouldn’t have allowed it to happen. No matter what cards might have been stacked against him, she would have taken his part, because she understood the limits of his capabilities.

He permitted himself a wry smile. Nobody knew his limits better than Carol. He’d always thought she could do better than him, that there must be other men out there who could give her more of what she needed than he had. But either she wasn’t looking or she wasn’t meeting the right men. Until her brother’s death, she’d been happy to settle for their incomplete and inconclusive relationship. And then they’d found something that divided them so deeply nothing could bridge the gap. Not a shared history, not a mutual understanding. Not even love.

Impatient with himself, Tony jumped to his feet. If sitting or lying was torture, then he would pace. Six strides one way, ninety-degree turn then eight strides the other way. Six, eight. Six, eight. Stop brooding about Carol. She was gone. She wouldn’t be there to pull him out of this particular pile of shit. It was over. He was on his own. Perhaps with a little help from his friend. Six, eight.

So. He had to explain the bloodstain. Others could find the verification of his story once he’d reached deep inside and accessed the truth. The thumbprint, too. That wasn’t ringing any bells. ‘I know I live in my head half the time, but you’d think I’d remember picking up somebody else’s phone,’ he shouted in exasperation.

Tony stopped pacing and leaned his forehead on the cool cement wall. He closed his eyes and dropped his shoulders. He deliberately relaxed his muscles from his scalp through his neck and arms. ‘Think about blood. Your blood. About bleeding. Bleeding enough to stain somebody else,’ he said out loud. There was the knee. The time when a crazed patient had gone on the rampage with a fire axe and had taken a swipe at Tony when he tried to talk him down. But that had been years ago, long before Nadia Wilkowa had ever come to Bradfield. A couple of times, he’d cut himself in the galley, unaccustomed to the occasional sudden movement of the boat. But there had never been anybody else there and besides, there hadn’t been much blood. It had to be something that happened at work. In Bradfield Moor. He summoned up the hospital, as if he was offering someone a guided tour. The reception area. The locked doors, the faceless corridors. His office, the therapy rooms.