In the kitchen I take the letter off the table and stuff it into an envelope whilst trying to avoid looking at my signature. I spend a few moments puzzling over why the kettle won’t fire up before I remember about the electricity. My body’s aching a bit from the fall, the wound in my arm feels hot, and I really need some coffee. The electrician said he’d be round at ten, and, checking the time, I see I’ve got enough time to get out to the lock-up and finally finish the work I’d started months ago. But first I need to medicate.

I collect the prescription every month at the pharmacy on Spuistraat. The paroxetine is blue and was the first one prescribed. Unfortunately it comes with side effects; it gave me the runs. And really, Uncomplicated PTSD is bad enough without the feeling that you’re going to shit yourself the whole time. In addition, it never seemed to do anything for the flashbacks and it only improves the hyper-real dreams by about five per cent, which is hardly a stellar job. So I was then given another, a pink pill to try and negate the bowel issues. Only there were side effects to that as well, and on and on, until one morning I was staring at a pyramid of pill bottles on my kitchen table towering over me ominously. At which point I claimed to be side effect free because I couldn’t face any more. So, all told, there’s a rainbow of them: blue, pink, yellow, white, round, lozenge-shaped, ones that need to be cut in half, others that need to be taken in multiples, some with enteric coatings, some that dissolve right on your tongue.

I prep them all, opening each one in turn until I have the required daily dose, and put the bottles back. Next I take the pills themselves, cradled in the palm of my hand, to the bathroom, lift the toilet seat and drop them in. They look pretty in the bowl, and when I flush they bob and swirl around and disappear in a most therapeutic manner.

There, much better already.

I gather up my stuff: vape, rolling paper and, a last-minute decision, my old glass pipe. Just in case. To get to Rashid’s I need to walk south-west along the canal, cross at the Lijnbaansgracht bridge, and then double back up the other side. The movement seems to shake loose the thoughts that I’ve been doing my best to ignore since I woke; Inspector Vermeer thinks I might have sent an innocent man to prison where he ended up with permanent brain damage. Worse, if Klaasen was innocent then I let the real killer walk free to kill again. On the bridge the breeze rolls a can towards me. I stomp on it until it’s completely flat. A couple of tourists, wary of me, cross to the other side.