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on one to make such a comparison. He guessed that was what they were like. ‘It all went kinda strange,’ he admitted.
    â€˜Panic attack,’ Rik confirmed knowledgeably. ‘People under stress, people who’ve suffered personal loss  . . . it happens.’
    â€˜I don’t have panic attacks,’ Henry said, affronted.
    Rik shrugged. ‘Well, maybe not, but you weren’t yourself. Something came over you and affected you, so I made the decision to get you away for your own good.’
    â€˜For my own good?’ Henry blasted him. ‘I’m not a child.’ He stood up quickly, started pacing around the room. Still not right. As if he wasn’t quite there. Rik studied him warily.
    â€˜I suggested taking you home, but you wouldn’t have it – nor the hospital.’
    Henry stopped abruptly. ‘We had that conversation?’ Rik nodded. ‘I don’t remember that at all.’
    â€˜Henry – it’s only been two months.’
    He stopped mid-prowl, glared at Rik, daring him to say more, to patronize him, but Henry’s expression did not stop Rik from continuing.
    â€˜You’ve hardly taken time off, have kept going. This is the third murder you’ve overseen in that time, plus dealing with all the shitty fallout from that nightmare up in Kendleton which still rumbles on. Maybe you need to stop, hop off the world and take a breather. Maybe it’s all catching up with you now.’ Rik blew out his cheeks. ‘You just keep going  . . . I know what you’re doing – compartmentalizing, boxing things off. Perhaps the walls are starting to cave in, Henry.’
    â€˜You a shrink now?’ Henry asked harshly.
    â€˜No – a mate,’ Rik said gently. ‘With all the things that go with that little word.’
    Dawn came. Henry found himself on the promenade, not planning a long walk, just something to clear his head. The air tasted pure, a hint of sea salt in it, and he inhaled deeply, feeling it passing sweetly into his lungs as they expanded.
    He had walked from the police station up to North Pier, then started to stroll south towards Central Pier, continually casting his eyes west across the silver shimmer of the Irish Sea, which seemed a mile away, the beach that lay between golden and pristine. No hint of the constant pollution that dogged the sands.
    He stopped for a short while at the sea wall, gripping the rail. The sun was rising at his back and he could feel its warmth.
    It should be raining, he said to himself. It shouldn’t be a beautiful day.
    He pushed himself away from the rail and continued his short walk south, able to see the snake-like metallic structure that was the ‘Big One’ a mile away on the pleasure beach, one of Europe’s most terrifying roller-coaster rides. When he reached Central Pier he crossed over to the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s and bought himself a filter coffee, taking it to a window seat in the otherwise empty restaurant, famous for once having been visited by Bill Clinton.
    The coffee, he found, was actually excellent. He marvelled at how coffee had sustained him, kept him going, gave him energy over the years. His constant companion. That and Jack Daniel’s Tennessee sour mash whiskey.
    He was flicking his fingernails together, thinking about how ironic it was that he had ended up on the seafront after all, when he became aware of someone standing by his table. He hadn’t seen the approach or noticed anyone come into the restaurant. He looked slowly around, his eyes rising up the torso of a man who was grinning lopsidedly at him. A good-looking guy, very tall, built in proportion, with an all-American chiselled superhero face and a boyish innocent aura that fooled many people, because this man had a very dark side to him.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’ Henry asked.
    The man’s name was Karl Donaldson. He had been Henry’s good