'I'll look into it,' said Headingley without enthusiasm. 'About Deeks, cause of death?'

'Well, I haven't done a detailed examination of course, it's a bit hectic tonight. But I'd be surprised if it wasn't simple heart failure brought on by stress. He'd been beaten about the head, and there were several cuts around the throat and shoulders, nothing likely in itself to cause death, but the strain of undergoing such treatment must have been tremendous.'

'Some nasty people about,' said Headingley gloomily. 'We'll need a full scale PM, of course. Mr Longbottom's not about, I suppose?'

'I'll check,' said Sowden, picking up the phone.

'And I'll have a quick word with our lad out there,' said Headingley.

It took Sowden a couple of minutes to ascertain that the pathologist was not in the hospital. He got the exchange to dial Longbottom's home number and as it rang, he called, 'Inspector!'

Headingley returned from his conversation with the uniformed policeman looking very pensive.

'They're ringing Mr Longbottom at home,' said Sowden. 'You take over. It's not part of my remit to disturb consultants at this time of night.'

He smiled as he spoke, but Headingley did not respond.

The pathologist himself answered the phone and condescended to be available at 10.30 the following morning.

Rather to Sowden's admiration, Headingley responded to brusqueness with brusqueness. After he had replaced the phone he said, 'The constable said you said something about even a dying man smelling whisky, sir.'

'That's right. Last words that poor devil uttered were, let me get it right, driver, fat bastard, pissed. That's a pretty straightforward death-bed declaration, wouldn't you say?'