He rolled over, felt blindly on the floor, tried to focus on the clock beside the bed. Quarter to eight. More or less. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Jimmy. Listen. Ewart’s car.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Ewart. Karl Ewart … Paul?’ Winter had struggled out of bed. Groping his way into the bathroom, he was just in time to throw up in the loo. Sinking to his knees on the cold tiles, he tried to remember exactly who Ewart was. Coppice? Tartan? Fuck knows. ‘Paul? What’s going on there? You OK?’ ‘No.’ Winter shut his eyes a moment, tried to quieten his churning stomach, failed completely. He bent forward, vomited again, then felt a little bit better. He eyed the soupy remains of last night’s meal before his hand found the flush. Scallops in white wine. What a waste. ‘Paul? Speak to me. What the fuck’s happened?’ Jimmy Suttle again. Winter got to his feet, steadied himself on the basin, reached for the toothbrush. The face that looked back at him from the mirror managed a weary smile. ‘Jimmy?’ he managed.
