‘I’m a profiler. You don’t profile with a perpetrator sitting in front of you giving you information. And it’s a science, thank you. This is as certain as profiling gets. I have all the different strands. I just don’t have a single psychological diagnosis that pulls it all together yet.’

‘Is there one?’ Baarda asked.

‘Actually, yes. You hungry?’ she asked.

‘Not hungry, but curious about how things got resolved for you.’

‘The psychiatrist who diagnosed me as suffering from teenage hysteria – not a real thing, by the way, just a convenient phrase – was involved in a car crash. Coincidence is occasionally kind. A replacement consultant was sent to the ward, younger and more up to date than the great Dr Webster. He insisted on reviewing all the cases from scratch and was willing to spend time with me. I did my best to communicate with a sort of sign language, but it got muddled every time I started to send signals. He understood that my tears were of frustration rather than a fit of pique.’

‘So what happened?’ Baarda asked.

‘He ordered another brain scan, looked more carefully than Webster had and drew the conclusion that there was a small blood clot sitting in the part of my brain that controlled communication. They operated, and – thank God – he was right.’

Baarda drew in a long, slow breath. ‘That’s when you lost your colour vision?’

‘Same moment I got my life back. You win some, you lose some. Cheers.’ She raised her glass and clinked the edge of Baarda’s.

He left it untouched. ‘What happened to Dr Webster? He had you locked up for no reason at all. It was clear malpractice – in fact, nothing less than cruelty.’

‘Webster never fully recovered from the car crash. I know enough now to recognise him as a sociopath. Intelligent, incapable of empathy, manipulative, utterly self-centred. Hated women, especially women who didn’t pay him what he regarded as his due respect. My grandmother was furious, mostly I suspect for her own blind belief in Webster. A conversation was had with Webster’s lawyers and insurers. The money they paid put me through college and grad school, and there’s still plenty left over. This is a vocation. I don’t actually need the cash. I suspect you’re in the same position.’

‘Not exactly. School fees and a wife who likes our second home in Tuscany are expensive.’

‘Divorce her,’ Connie said.

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Yes it fucking well is. Take back control.’

‘You know, you’re a very angry psychologist,’ Baarda smiled.

‘I’m a very practical psychologist. Sometimes there’s unequivocal right and wrong. It’s okay to acknowledge that. Anger is important. It’s cathartic and paves the way for resolution. I’m prescribing a daily dose of fury for you. Get mad, Brodie Baarda. You’re owed it.’ Her mobile rang and she picked up. ‘Connie Woolwine.’