Big Ted doesn’t seem to be breathing—I can’t find a pulse.  There’s a bullet wound on his chest above the right nipple.  Maybe it’s just chocolate.  His eyes are wide open, staring accusingly at the ceiling.  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t even know why he’s in my house.  They probably threw him out of his last place for bad behaviour—stealing and dealing.  There’s broken glass on the floor, one of my crystal goblets.  He’s been drinking his favourite tipple, cherry brandy and advocaat.  At least he wouldn’t have suffered too much. I try some chest compressions.  Can’t hear a lot, maybe some wheezing but it sounds more like creaking.  He must have passed a few hours ago so this could be the beginnings of rigor mortis. I cover his face with a tea towel and go to bed.  I’ll make a phone call in the morning.