Thin winter sun found its way into the gloomy confines of the bedsit. The air was foggy from the smell of last night's steak, cooked over the gas stove and seasoned with herbs that had taken the occupant all day to track down. A bottle of Chianti had been sunk but the Detective Inspector, whose home this was, had abandoned a second bottle halfway through when the booze had exacerbated his loneliness and melancholia to unbearable proportions. When that happened there was nothing left to do but run and hide inside sleep. Sleep within sleep, as he preferred to think of it. "Do we have an ID, Ray?"