From the dock he says he looks forward to the chance of meeting you somewhere quiet one day and carrying on your interrupted conversation. As the last time you saw him alone he was trying to stove your head in with a rock, you take this as a threat. But we all get threatened at least once a week. It’s part of the job.”

Dalziel, studying the machine like a Sumo wrestler working out a new strategy, growled, “Get a move on, Frankenstein, else I’ll start to wish I hadn’t plugged you in.”

Undeterred, Wield proceeded at a measured pace.

“Model prisoner, Open University degree, Roote gets maximum remission, comes out, gets job as a hospital porter, starts writing an academic thesis, obeys all the rules. Then you get upset by them threats to Ellie and naturally Roote’s one of the folk you need to take a closer look at. Only when you go to see him, you find he’s slashed his wrists.”

“He knew I was coming,” said Pascoe. “It was a setup. No real danger to him. Just a perverted joke.”

“Maybe. Not the way it looked when it turned out Roote had absolutely nothing to do with the threats to Ellie,” said Wield. “He recovers, and a few months later he moves here because (a) his supervisor has moved here and (b) he can get work here. You say you checked with the probation service?”

“Yes,” said Pascoe. “All done by the book. They wanted to know if there was a problem.”

“What did you tell the buggers?” said Dalziel, who classed probation officers with Scottish midges, vegetarians and modern technology as Jobian tests of a virtuous man’s patience.

“I said no, just routine.”

“Wise move,” approved Wield. “See how it looks. Man serves his time, puts his life back together, gets harassed without cause by insensitive police officer, flips, tries to harm himself, recovers, gets back on track, finds work again, minds his own business, then this same officer starts accusing him of being some sort of stalker.