Pat Travers surfaced from a deep sleep, called back into consciousness by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. He’d spent a lonely Saturday night feeling sorry for himself, watching television, and drinking more shiraz than he had intended. His head hurt. His mouth tasted like sandpaper. He closed his eyes and let the phone ring out in an attempt to return to the oblivion of sleep.
A few moments later he heard a beep. Someone had left him a message. On a Sunday morning, he assumed it was still morning, that meant it could only be work.
He reached across to the bedside table, picked up the phone and pressed the home button. The screen lit up. It was ten twenty six. Time he was out of bed, even if he had the weekend off. He checked the recent calls list. The missed call was from DI Smith
