Prologue
2015
There were two things bothering him as he watched the telly, sat on the bed, sleeping bag unfurled beneath him in yet another hotel room. The programme about a bloke who’d had a stroke was one. There were closets in Nicks’ head where dark matters were kept that should never see the light of day. Ordinarily, they’d no escape. But now all he could think was, ‘what if I have a stroke?’ It would be like keeping the Devil in a paper cup and it frightened him.
He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes then the back of his neck. Another headache. He cracked open the paracetamol blister pack and washed it down with the freebie mineral water. He’d get his eyes checked, when he got back from Germany. If it wasn’t the specs? Well, then he’d ... he’d do something.
The other thing was Baddeley. The DCI had been on the news. It just served to remind him of how vulnerable he would be if their paths crossed, again. He’d hoped to be given longer before he was called back; a year wasn’t long enough in his book.
In the end, it had been a needless risk. His new target’s horoscope had said the day would end with a surprise and it did. His wife accidentally reversed into him, crushing him against a wall. He died the next day. Nicks got up, cleared the books from the bed, a quick wash and a clean T-shirt then he headed for the door. Fresh air ... and a pint. The Albert Dock.