The doorbell brought him round. He shook himself. It must be Giles Morton. He’d no doubt be exasperated, but at least he’d come.
Hatherley got up. The pain, typically, had gone. He got up and opened the door. The man standing there wasn’t the doctor, but Hatherley recognised him.
“Inspector Collins?” he said.
The man nodded, his face impassive. He was tall, a little too gaunt, his drawn features pale, though his eyes were oddly sharp. Observant, Hatherley imagined. He remembered him, the steady, thorough appraisal of facts. What the hell was he doing here?
“You asked me to come, sir. Said you needed help. I recognised your voice—on the phone.”
Hatherley’s puzzlement must have shown on his face. “I—I’m sorry, inspector. I rang the doctor—”
“Are you unwell, sir?” Those eyes studied him
