Jake was tempted to turn on his lights and race through the somnolent streets of Dunton but resisted. There was literally no traffic to impede his route.

Pulling up to the kerb, he could see signs that O’Brien was at home.

The kitchen light was on and murmurs from a TV or radio echoed through the house’s thin walls. His first knock went unanswered.

O’Brien’s car was in the carport at the side of the house. All signs pointed to him being home. Jake knocked again.

After a third knock Jake decided to try the door handle. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door halfway open and called, ‘Mr O’Brien?’

No response.

Jake wasn’t within his rights to enter the home. He had no warrant or reason to believe O’Brien was in danger in the house. He searched the perimeter, looking in every window and listening for clues as to which room O’Brien was in.

Finally, through a crack in the curtains in what must have been a bedroom, Jake spied a foot.

On the floor. Toes pointing downwards.

He called the station. It switched through to Murphy.

‘Listen, mate, I’m at Liam O’Brien’s address. There appears to be someone unconscious on the floor of a back bedroom. The front door is open. I’m going in to have a look.’

‘No worries,’ Murphy said. ‘Need me to do anything?’

‘I’ll check back in with you as soon as I’ve assessed the situation.’

Jake entered the house’s narrow corridor, braced himself against the festering smell of rotting garbage and called out again. ‘Mr O’Brien? Liam O’Brien? It’s detective Jake Hunter. I can see someone on the floor. I’m coming in to check on you.’

Apart from the blah blah blah of a ridiculous breakfast show on the TV in the background, there were no sounds in the house.

Liam O’Brien was lying face down on the floor of his bedroom. A dark stain near his head spread from a spilt glass of liquor that had presumably been poured from the empty whisky bottle on the bedside table.

‘Mr O’Brien?’

Still nothing. He was out cold. Nothing coffee and a cold dose of reality wouldn’t fix. At least Jake wouldn’t need to start the day by calling for paramedics again. They were starting to tease him.

‘Mr O’Brien?’ he tried again.

Jake noticed a white A4 sheet of paper on the end of the bed, not far from O’Brien’s head. ‘Sorry’ was the first word that caught Jake’s eye. He grabbed the piece of paper.

May God forgive me …

Shit! Jake knelt beside O’Brien and shook his shoulder. His flesh was firm and unyielding.