He fixes himself an espresso from the machine in his kitchen and sits at his desk. He opens the laptop and clicks on a document that is open but minimised. And he starts typing. Four pages before he even fidgets in his seat. Somewhere in the middle, his face screws up and he hits the keys a little harder. Angry about something.

Then he reads through, prints, and places the pages on top of a pile of other printed pages lying face down on his desk. He smiles to himself, lights a cigar and slouches back into his seat, watching the smoke rise towards the ceiling. He licks one of the fillings in his mouth, loving the way the toxic fumes make it taste.

Worth it.

It’s only 10:00. He has no appointments in his schedule until after noon. With the cigar finished, the doctor turns back to his work. He pulls up Detective Sergeant Pace’s file and adds a few lines to the bottom of the report based on their discussion the night before. He feels fairly certain the detective was lying about his relationship but Artaud’s brief was to determine his ability to function properly at work. And that was not in doubt. He hits print, folds the report, and seals it in an envelope marked for the police station.

Next he clicks on a shared ERMA file. There are files for each of the shrinks in the organisation. Artaud scrolls through the information he needs on Rossi, Erickson and Milton. He prints. He files. He shuts the laptop. That’s enough admin for one day.

He makes another coffee and moves to the lounge. He opens up the Wodehouse novel and settles in for the last couple of chapters.

Artaud needs something different. He doesn’t have long left. His last book should carry some weight.

He finishes the last page and sighs.

Not worth it.

And he coughs more blood into a handkerchief.

107

It’s not his case.

But he wants it.

By the afternoon, Pace has received the all-clear from his superiors. They explain that it was protocol, a formality. That the stress of such a high-profile case tends to have an effect on the lead detective and with health and safety the way it is now, they had to cover their backs. They have to be more aware of mental health than ever.

Detective Sergeant Pace doesn’t care what they say.

Detective Sergeant Pace does not buy their bullshit.

He wants the bridges. He wants The People of Choice. He wants back in.

But all he gets is a welcome back.

It’s still not his case.

There were three texts on his phone when he woke up, and now she is calling.

‘Hey,’ he says, as though he hasn’t been avoiding her.

‘Hey. I’ve been trying to get hold of you to see how it went.’ She sounds genuinely concerned. She wants to ask where the fuck he has been, hasn’t he seen her messages? But she bites her tongue.