“Oh gosh, yes, I see. In fact I’ve noticed you a couple of times too, and when I saw you coming out of the Staff Club just now, I thought, Good job you’re not paranoiac, Franny boy, else you might think Chief Inspector Pascoe is stalking you.”

This was a reversal to take the breath away.

Also a warning to proceed with great care.

He said, “So, coincidence for both of us. Difference is, of course, I live and work here.”

“Me too,” said Roote. “Don’t mind if I start, do you? Only get an hour.”

He bit deep into the baguette. His teeth were perfectly, almost artistically, regular and had the kind of brilliant whiteness which you expected to see reflecting the flashbulbs at a Hollywood opening. Prison service dentistry must have come on apace in the past few years.

“You live and work here?” said Pascoe. “Since when?”

Roote chewed and swallowed.

“Couple of weeks,” he said.

“And why?”

Roote smiled. The teeth again. He’d been a very beautiful boy.

“Well, I suppose it’s really down to you, Mr. Pascoe. Yes, you could say you’re the reason I came back.”

An admission? Even a confession? No, not with Franny Roote, the great controller. Even when you changed the script in mid-scene, you still felt he was still in charge of direction.

“What’s that mean?” asked Pascoe.

“Well, you know, after that little misunderstanding in Sheffield, I lost my job at the hospital. No, please, don’t think I’m blaming you, Mr. Pascoe. You were only doing your job, and it was my own choice to slit my wrists. But the hospital people seemed to think it showed I was sick, and of course, sick people are the last people you want in a hospital. Unless they’re on their backs, of course. So soon as I was discharged, I was…discharged.”