An overtaking cyclist had to swerve sharply to avoid collision. She went on her way, swearing over her shoulder. Pascoe paid no heed. He forced his head between his knees and drew in great ragged breaths.
After a while he managed to get some rhythm into his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, long, slow inhalations and exhalations. His heart too was slowing, his salivary glands resumed a limited service, and his hands began to feel less like a bunch of radishes bound loosely to his wrists. When strength returned to his legs, he stood up and walked unsteadily around the car. He forced himself to think about his lecture to the cadets, what he should have told them about criminal investigation, what he shouldn't have wasted time telling them. The sun was pleasantly warm on his skin, the air tasted good. At last he felt able to get back in and drive away. But he didn't let his gaze drift up to the skyline again. A mile away, a van was backing into Pascoe's spot in the HQ car park. The driver got out and went into the building. Sergeant George Broomfield on the desk said, 'Can I help you?' 'Why not? Sergeant Proctor, South Thames. I'm with Mr Hiller's mob. Got some gear outside in the van. Any chance of a lift?' His cockney chirpiness grated on Broomfield's ear, which would have surprised Proctor who came from Ruislip. 'Doubt it,' he said. 'Not for a while, any road. I don't think I've got a body free.'
Suddenly Dalziel was there. How a man of his girt could be sudden, Broomfield never knew, but when he wanted he could lurk like a Brazilian striker. 'George, what are you saying? Cooperation's the key word here. Isn't that young Hector I see through there playing with himself? Send him out to help. Fragile stuff, is it. Sergeant?'