Carol was right. He told her this many times the previous evening when they sat up late drinking their way through the bottle of vodka Karel had brought with him from Prague. Yes, she was right about the fact he worked too hard. Yes, she was right that he had done everything he could in trying to solve this case by coming to England. Yes, she was right that he shouldn't get so personally involved in his work. Yes, she was right that he needed a rest. Yes, she was right he was probably depressed. Yes, she was right that he should have another drink.

Carol was right, he thought as he fiddled with the spare key that she had left for the apartment. He rubbed his eyes, trying to move what felt like grit from the sockets. He felt the muscles in his thighs tighten as he rose from the kitchen table. He stretched. Since he had been awake he had grown more tired. He yawned. He told himself that this was probably a good sign. It was what Carol said would happen. He would start to feel all the tiredness that he had been pushing back. He needed to let it come through. He had to stop and let that happen. Dibcek, though, did what he always did when he felt that he was slackening off. He sought out more work. He found a number in his mobile phone and pushed the call button.

"John? It's Karel," he said. "I'd like to take one more look at those papers."

"Whatever for?" replied Inspector Graham from Hampshire Constabulary.

"I'm uneasy about that statement."

"We've been through this yesterday. There's no more we can do. Thanks for everything."

"I need an address."

"Look Karel," said Graham in a gentle tone, "we've been through this. Just enjoy your holiday. Looks like you've got some good weather for it."

"John. Give me the address of Phillips."

"You mean Phillipson?"

"Yes. I need to speak to him again."

Dibcek felt the weariness edging away after he had persuaded Inspector Graham to let him have the address and listening to the affable Scotsman tell him how stupid he was being and that if he got into trouble it would be his own bloody fault and that with two tides a day the River Itchen might be a good place for the body of an obsessive Czech detective to end up if someone wanted to get rid of him. Yes, he had heard words like these before. So what? He moved quickly out of the apartment, clutching the street plan Carol had kindly left for him so that he could enjoy an afternoon of sightseeing.

He knew that he could do no more, but he just had a feeling about Phillipson. That's all it was. How many times had his hunches got him out of trouble? How many times had one simple uneasy feeling about something, something that he couldn't explain properly to anyone else, helped him out of a difficulty? He had been asked many times to talk in front of an audience at the police academy in Prague about detection and its logical processes. But he always refused. When asked by his boss he always said that he didn't realise that logic was ever part of his job. Dibcek knew that he was often breaking the rules, but what mattered to him was getting results, and if that meant acting purely on instinct at the crucial times then that was just his style. It was a style that had also nearly driven him crazy.

It was Carol, the evening before, he remembered, who had called him crazy. Except when she said it he felt worried, because she was saying it in the way that meant he was mad, or about to go mad. She was playing with a euphemism, whereas when most people back home said that he was being crazy they just meant he was being stupid. Carol was warning him, as a close friend. He had to be careful out there, she said. "Of your mind".

He found the address of Phillipson with the aid of the map's street index. It was the other side of the city, in the Chilworth district. He could have taken a taxi, but it was a still overcast day and it was just right for walking. The air felt fresh and it made a change from the heavy, hot air that had been hanging over much of Bohemia all summer. And besides, he could do some sightseeing along the way. And then he wouldn't be lying when Carol asked him that evening.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do when he got to the house. All he knew was that he felt he should go there. He just wanted to see for himself what the house of a respectable city accountant looked like. He wanted to see what the house a man connected with the drugs that had found their way on to the streets of Prague looked like. He wanted to see where someone responsible for the death of an innocent tourist caught up in a gang slaying in Prague lived.

He knew that Phillipson was a link in the chain of events that had kept him busy for the last several months. But there was no evidence that would stick.