“Depends what you mean by should. Deserves to be better known. It’s fantastic. And as my supervisor’s writing a book on Beddoes and probably knows more about him than any man living, I just had to stick with him. But it’s a long way to travel from Sheffield even with a decent car, and the only thing I’ve been able to afford has more breakdowns than an inner-city teaching staff! It really made sense for me to move too. So everything’s turned out for the best in the best of all possible worlds!”

“This supervisor,” said Pascoe, “what’s his name?”

He didn’t need to ask. He’d recalled where he’d heard Beddoes’ name mentioned, and he knew the answer already.

“He’s got the perfect name for an Eng. Lit. teacher,” said Roote, laughing. “Johnson. Dr. Sam Johnson. Do you know him?”

“That’s when I made an excuse and left,” said Pascoe.

“Oh aye? Why was that?” said Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel. “Fucking useless thing!”

It was, Pascoe hoped, the VCR squeaking under the assault of his pistonlike finger that Dalziel was addressing, not himself.

“Because it was Sam Johnson I’d just been playing squash with,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “It seemed like Roote was taking the piss and I felt like taking a swing, so I went straight back inside and caught Sam.”

“And?”

And Johnson had confirmed every word.

It turned out the lecturer knew his student’s background without knowing the details. Pascoe’s involvement in the case had come as a surprise to him but, once filled in, he’d cut right to the chase and said, “If you think that Fran’s got any ulterior motive in coming back here, forget it. Unless he’s got so much influence he arranged for me to get a job here, it’s all happenstance. I moved, he didn’t fancy travelling for supervision and the job he had in Sheffield came to an end, so it made sense for him to make a change too. I’m glad he did. He’s a really bright student.”