“Not his criticism that bothers me,” growled Dalziel. “Have you ever got near him? Teeth you could grow moss on and breath like a vegan’s fart. I can smell it through the telly. Only time Stuffer’s not talking is when he’s eating, and not always then. No one listens any more. No, it’s Jax the bloody Ripper who bothers me. She’s got last month’s statistics, she knows about the decision not to replace George Headingley and, looking at the state of some of them burgled houses, she must have been round there with her little camera afore we were!”

“So you still reckon someone’s talking?” said Pascoe.

“It’s obvious. How many times in the last few months has she been one jump ahead of us? Past six months, to be precise. I checked back.”

“Six months? And you think that might be significant? Apart from the fact, of course, that Miss Ripley started doing the programme only seven months ago?”

“Aye, it could be significant,” said Dalziel grimly.

“Maybe she’s just good at her job,” said Pascoe. “And surely it’s no bad thing for the world to know we’re not getting a replacement DI for George? Perhaps we should use her instead of getting our knickers in a twist.”

“You don’t use a rat,” said Dalziel. “You block up the hole it’s feeding through. And I’ve got a bloody good idea where to find this hole.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances. They knew where the Fat Man’s suspicions lay, knew the significance he put on the period of six months. This was just about the length of time Mid-Yorkshire CID’s newest recruit, Detective Constable Bowler, had been on the team. Bowler-known to his friends as Hat and to his arch-foe as Boiler, Boghead, Bowels or any other pejorative variation which occurred to him-had started with the heavy handicap of being a fast-track graduate, on transfer from the Midlands without Dalziel’s opinion being sought or his approval solicited.