Moments later, lowering himself into the car, he feels as if he’s stepping into the last helicopter out of a war zone. He turns the key in the ignition and reaches for the glove box again. If you’re going to be done for drunk driving, you may as well have some fun first. Not that this is any kind of fun. But it’s at least tolerable. He backs the car out of the driveway, intending to head over to the university not to deal with the burglary because, as everyone inside the house already worked out, he lied about that, but to be in the familiar fortress of his office surrounded by his expensive coffee machine and the etching of his alma mater.

To his surprise, at the end of the street he turns away from Avon towards the centre of the city, driving through the still-clogged streets, past groups of students on their way to the clubs. He knows where he is going, knows too he wouldn’t be going there if he weren’t wrecked but cannot seem to stop himself. Swinging into the car park on Upper Maudlin Street, he cuts the engine and sits for a moment to compose himself. What he’s about to do is probably a bad idea but it feels too late to turn back so he gets out and stumbling through the automatic doors finds himself in the main entranceway of the Bristol Royal Infirmary.

The quiet of night-time illness is immediately soothing. He goes over to the hospital map, remembering Lea Keane mentioning something about Pine Ward. Following the directions, he takes the lift up two floors, walks through a couple of sets of swinging doors and along a cucumber-coloured corridor lined with cheerful artworks to the ICU’s nursing desk. Reduced night staff, no one around. He stands leaning an elbow on the counter, feeling disorientated and rather bilious, and waits. That second bottle of burgundy was probably a mistake. Time passes in slo-mo. Eventually a voice says, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

He turns and sees a woman in her thirties, tall, slender, dressed in navy scrubs.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, feeling suddenly confused.

‘Are you here to see someone?’

Yes, yes, of course, that’s it, he thinks. I’m much drunker than I realised.

The woman is close enough to be able to smell his breath. Her nose twitches. He wants to explain the reason for the drinking, to tell this tall, slender woman with the kind eyes everything, but he doesn’t know where to begin. Pulling himself upright, he lurches back. I’m too drunk for this, I should just leave, he thinks, but even as he’s having the thought his mouth is saying, ‘I am the Dean at Avon University.’

The nurse says kindly, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’