‘Usually these devil’s advocated internal conversations happen when I want them to. They’re kinda vague and in the background. But this guy, Zeb, is here all the time, distracting me, poking his nose in. Then, when I actually need some advice he disappears.’

‘Is he there now?’

‘No, Zeb doesn’t trust doctors.’

‘I see. And what does the real Zeb do for a living?’

‘He’s a doctor,’ I say, smiling.

I hear Simon’s pen clicking half a dozen times, then: ‘You’re not a dummy, Dan, even if you pretend to be. You know this guy Zeb is just a part of you.’

‘I guessed as much. So no need for a straitjacket yet.’

‘Not so long as you’re in control. Lot of your murderers swear the voices told them to do it.’

‘Don’t worry, Zeb has been urging me to kill people for years. I’ve ignored him so far.’

‘So far. Maybe I should write you a prescription. A couple of gentle antipsychotics could do you the world of good.’

I know some vets who took antipsychotics. Every one of those guys thought Tweety and Sylvester were hilarious.

‘No thanks, Doc. I think I’ll pass on the meds. I need my wits about me right now.’

‘Whatever you say, Sergeant. Keep tabs on yourself then, if such a thing is possible, and if you find yourself sawing bodies into pieces on the suggestion of this Zeb voice, then drink a fifth of whiskey, put yourself to sleep for eight hours and call me in the morning.’

‘So I’m your patient now. Should I send you a cheque?’

It’s Moriarty’s turn to snort. ‘Yes, that’s it, Dan. You send me a cheque.’

I hear another voice in my ear. A bed-rumpled female.

‘Come on, Sim-o,’ says the woman, not a patient, I’m guessing. ‘You can’t stop in the middle.’

‘I better let you go,’ I say.

‘One of you better,’ says Simon, and hangs up.

Ghost Zeb comes out from beneath the synapse bridge he was hiding under.

Shrinks, he says, and I can feel his shrug like a cool bottle of beer rolled across my forehead. Witch doctors, every one of them.

Cloisters’ seedy street isn’t too obvious as these places go. On New York’s 8th Avenue you know exactly what kind of street you’re walking. The flashing billboards and windows stacked high with lingerie-clothed mannequins never let you forget it. The smell of lust rises from the pavement and the door handles are coated with grease and guilt.