Delano repeats what she hears, and she heard Kee-rist. Faber was here, and he trashed my place.

I’m on my feet, pacing around the room, punching a fist into my palm, which I stop doing when I realise how drama queen it feels. There’s no sitting this out even if I wanted to. Faber knows where I lay my head and he’s obviously got backup. A runt like him didn’t do this damage on his own. That arsehole couldn’t even lift the microwave.

This is not about Zeb, this is about Connie. Faber killed her and he’s looking for me.

That’s it. It must be. Christ, surely nobody kills anybody over an arse-licking? I witnessed Faber’s beef with Connie and I broke it up. Could it be that straightforward?

Everyone wants to kill me lately; it’s enough to make a fellow paranoid. As Dr Moriarty often quipped, You know something, Dan. Just because everyone really is out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not insane. I always thought that sentence had a couple too many negatives.

Three hours later, I’m still awake, thinking. The old grey cells keep churning out the theories, which I hammer out with Ghost Zeb.

Faber killed Connie.

Possibly.

And you know this how?

Because a crazy lady used his pet phrase.

That is pretty fucking thin, as Riggs and Murtaugh have been known to say.

The world is built on thin. Ask George W.

So, assuming it was the guy Faber. Why?

Because Connie slapped him. Because he’s a psycho.

Pretty harsh revenge for a slap. And Faber did not seem like a weapons guy.

What about his help? You don’t know who’s carrying steel for him.

Good point.

Thank you.

So, we’re going to the police.

There’s no we, just me. And I do not want the police poking around in my business.

Because of the whole killing-a-gangster thing.

Exactly. So what should we do next?

There’s a we now?

I flash on Tommy Fletcher. At this point he is back to being a corporal, following an incident where he doused a sheep with gasoline, set it on fire then actually ate a large portion. There was quite a lot of home-brewed hooch involved. Tommy is belly down on a bluff overlooking no-man’s-land, loosing rounds from his FN at rangy wild dogs.

‘You shooting mutts, Corporal?’ I ask him.

‘Nah,’ says Tommy, grinning. ‘I’m shooting close to the mutts, watching ’em jump.’

I close my eyes and feel sleep rolling over me like a wave of thick fog.

Shoot close and watch them jump. That’s more or less doing nothing. It’s aggressive passivity.

Simon would be so proud.