TWO
1944
After the death of my girlfriend Max… after her brutal murder… I spiralled down into an undignified state of self-pity. I tried to escape reality through booze and sleep, failing to function either as a detective or even a human being. I rejected the ministerings and comfort offered by those close to me: Peter, my sort-of adopted son, Benny, the little Jewish café owner who treated me like family, and my old mate Detective Inspector David Llewellyn. In their various ways they all tried to shake me out of my depressive malaise, but failed. It was not their fault. Perversely, I didn’t want to be shaken. I wanted to wallow. Ironically, as I think back to that period now, I can see that being deeply miserable was in a strange way the only thing that was keeping me sane.
As an orpha
