The doors of Hell are locked from the inside.
-- C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

Detective Sergeant James Hathaway clicked off his mobile. Still no answer. He exhaled slowly. He'd have to make his own decision about what to do with the information he'd received earlier that Friday evening and hope for the best.

He'd been unable to reach his governor, Detective Inspector Robert Lewis, for several hours. In the past, it had been unlike Lewis to be completely out of touch, but maybe something had come up. Again. Seemed like this was the third time this week when Hathaway couldn't find or phone Lewis. And a couple times the week before that, as well. Very uncharacteristic. Maybe there was something wrong with Lewis's mobile, battery too weak to get a decent signal or such. He'd have to check that in the morning.

The following Thursday, Hathaway set down his guitar with a happy smile. Even after just an hour, they were really sounding good on that new number. He felt as if his fingerboard were just an extension of his hand and the music flowed effortlessly. The whole band felt the glow of being totally immersed in the music.

And then Hathaway's mobile rang. Another suspicious death. Damn!

He relayed the call to the inspector.

"Yeah, Lewis."

"Sir, there's a body, over on the Banbury Road. So I hope your plans for the evening aren't ruined, as mine are."

"No plans here. Only, can you give us a ride? I've had a glass or two of wine and I don't think I should drive."

"Sure, no problem, Sir. You okay to work?"

"Oh, yeah, it's just, I don't want to take the chance with driving, y'know?"

Hathaway pulled to a stop in front of Lewis's flat, and Lewis came out to the car, pulling the door open. Hathaway noticed he wove a bit when negotiating the drop into the seat of the car, and he landed unsteadily, not squarely in the seat. It took him three tries to successfully get hold of the car door to close it, and Hathaway could smell not wine, but brandy on his breath.

"You sure you're okay, Sir?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You seem maybe a bit tipsy, is all."

"'Tipsy'?" He smiled as if it were a joke. "I'm fine, Sergeant. Let's go see that body, shall we?" He seemed a bit puzzled at Hathaway's concern.

He wasn't much better at getting out of the car, but while walking around the cordoned-off area, he appeared steady and perfectly normal.

But the pathologist at the scene, Doctor Laura Hobson, had known Lewis a long time, and she saw the difference in him. She approached Hathaway.

"He's a bit in his cups for such an early hour."

"I wouldn't say there's any 'a bit' about it. He's sloshed."

"Mmm. Still, he functions rather well."

"That's not a good thing. It must be affecting him. And he's covering up -- he told me he'd only had two glasses of wine."

"You think there's something going on?"

"It would fit with him being unavailable several evenings a week. And lately he . . . I don't know. Seems like every time he starts drinking he gets really drunk. I think he might have a real problem. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? I wish I knew how to confront him on it."

She frowned, concern on her face. "You can't, James. He won't hear it and it will just make him more secretive."

"I know, I've dealt with it before, with other people. I just wish there was something I could do. I really care about him."

She squeezed his arm. "We all do." She gazed sadly at the older man as he checked things, off near the SOCOs. "It's happening again, isn't it?"

"I don't know, I wasn't here the last time, Laura. Does it look familiar?"

She didn't answer, biting her lip. "If you need to talk, James, I'm here, okay?" Her non-answer gave him the response he expected.

Hathaway was in the office early, as usual. He worked at a few reports, correcting things he didn't see yesterday, adding bits of new information. At last he had one ready to print. When it emerged from the printer, he squared it up and dug out his stapler. He gave it a firm shove and the stapler fell apart in his hands, the two halves skittering across his desk and pinching his fingers.

"Damn!"

He gathered up the pieces and chucked them out, cursing under his breath at its cheap manufacture. Where does Lewis keep his stapler? It was stupid for them to each have one anyway, it wasn't something they used so often as to need two.

He pulled open a couple of Lewis's desk drawers, still not finding the stapler. Then he tugged the bottom drawer of the desk, and his heart plummeted down to his heels. A pint bottle of brandy, about a quarter gone.

When Lewis arrived at the office in the morning, he seemed unaware of the close scrutiny Hathaway gave him.

Gait steady, eyes red, . . . definite odor of brandy. Hathaway realized he probably wouldn't have noticed had he not been observing so closely.

Hathaway kept a quiet eye on him. As the morning wore on, Lewis grew quieter and seemed to be working more slowly. He dropped his pencil twice, and once he dropped an entire file, the contents fluttering over the floor in disarray. Without comment, he stooped and gathered them up. Hathaway could see Lewis's hands shake as he tried to arrange the file properly.

After lunch, Lewis appeared to be working back at his regular pace. He wrote his notes steadily, and when Hathaway handed over the report he had finished, Lewis looked up with focused eyes and took the report. He read it over, signed it, and got up to take it to the Chief Superintendent.

"This is good. Don't know how you crank these out so quickly, Sergeant. Nice work."

As soon as Lewis was out of sight, Hathaway crossed the office and pulled open the bottom drawer of Lewis's desk. The bottle was still there but now it was more than half empty.

Hathaway took the call out just before eleven, as he was returning to his flat after an evening of practice with his band. A body, suspicious death, near the Radcliffe. He tried Lewis's number, but there was no answer. But he was only a couple of streets from Lewis's flat, so he drove directly there, unsure of what he might find.

There was no answer to his ring, but the door was unlocked. Hathaway entered the flat, calling Lewis's name. The flat was silent. A few lights were on, including the light in the bathroom. The door to that room was open, and with mounting trepidation, Hathaway turned the corner into the room.

He was met with a scene of utter ruin. A towel bar had been pulled from the wall; the towels lay in a heap on the floor. A cabinet was standing open, its contents spilling out, including a bottle of liquid cleaner that had poured out. The pieces of a shattered drinking glass lay in the sink. The lid of the toilet was up and the bowl held a stinking slurry.

Lewis sat on the floor, his back against the wall, a fifth of brandy in his hand. It was nearly empty. The floor and the front of his shirt were wet with vomit, and his chin was slick with it. He seemed to notice Hathaway standing in front of him, his eyes working to focus, but after a moment he gave up and took a swallow from the bottle.

Hathaway set his mouth hard and pulled out his mobile. He dialed Chief Superintendent Innocent.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid you'll have to assign someone else to this body. Inspector Lewis isn't well." He took in her response. "No, Ma'am, he really cannot go anywhere tonight. Sorry."

He rang off and stared at the older man. If only he could see himself in this degraded condition. An idea took form in his head. He thumbed his mobile, putting it in video mode, and pointed it at Lewis.

Lewis seemed completely unaware of his sergeant's presence. His head began to weave, and he spewed more bile and brandy down his front. He made no effort to wipe his face or change position, except to take another swig of brandy. Then he set the bottle down to paw at his belt and zipper. But his fumbling hands were unable to manage in time, and the result was a spreading wetness across the front of his trousers. He gave no sign that he even noticed. He picked up the bottle, tipped it back, and drained it. And he slumped, sodden and reeking, to the floor.

o - o - o