'It would seem so,' said Headingley. 'Look, would you mind if I used your phone again?'

'Be my guest.'

'Er, privately, if I may.'

'Why not?' said Sowden. 'They'll be reporting me for malingering if I stay here much longer anyway.'

He left. As he walked down the corridor which led past the waiting-room, its door opened and the two men emerged. Suddenly Sowden's absurd buried guilt feeling about Westerman's death came surging to the surface.

'Hold on a second,' he called.

The men stopped and turned.

'Yes?' said the cigar smoker.

Sowden looked around. At the end of the corridor he saw the uniformed constable. Waving an imperious summons, he said, 'I think the police might like a word before you go.'

The men exchanged glances.

'Oh aye?' said the fat one.

The constable approached.

'Officer,' said Sowden, 'I just wanted to be quite sure for my own peace of mind that you had in fact administered a breathalyser test.'

The constable was nonplussed.

The fat man belched and said, 'Who to, friend?'

'I should have thought that was obvious,' said Sowden.

He heard footsteps hurrying behind him and turned to see, not without relief, Inspector Headingley approaching fast.

'I was just inquiring about the breathalyser test, Inspector,' he said.

'Yes. All right. Sorry, sir,' said Headingley.

It may have been that the man was out of breath but there seemed to be in that 'sorry, sir ' addressed to the fat man something more than mere constabulary courtesy.

'Excuse me, but just who are you?' said Sowden. 'Don't I know your face?'

The fat man looked at him speculatively.

'Mebbe you do and mebbe you don't,' he said. 'Dalziel's the name, Detective-Superintendent Dalziel if you want the whole bloody issue. And you're Doctor Livingstone, I presume.'