Proctor, recognizing the weight of authority, said, 'Yes, sir. Couple of computers, software, hardware, that sort of thing.' Broomfield was looking alarmed. Not even a cockney deserved PC Hector, who didn't break cups when he washed up, he broke sinks. 'Computers, eh?' said Dalziel. 'Then Hector's your man. Strong as an ox. Hector! Come on out here!' He stood by the desk till Proctor and the bewildered-looking constable had gone into the car park. Then he said very seriously to Broomfield, 'These people are our guests, George. We've got to take care of them,' and set off up the stairs. He'd reached the first landing when he heard the first crash, and its accompanying cry of anguish followed him all the way up to the second. He smiled and went on his way to Sergeant Wield's room. 'Don't get up,' he said to the Sergeant who hadn't moved. 'The lad not back yet?' 'No, sir.' 'Bloody nuisance. I wish he'd not volunteer all the time for these skives.'

Wield, who knew very well that it was Dalziel who had volunteered Pascoe for the cadet lecture ('right up your street, being a Master of Ceremonies or whatever it is you are'), said nothing. 'Tell him to drop in when he gets back, will you?' Dalziel hesitated at the door, then went on, 'Matter of no importance, but how's he been looking to you lately?' 'Bit rough,' said Wield. 'He's not really been himself since that lass jumped off the cathedral tower. It seemed to knock all the stuffing out of him, somehow.' 'Certainly knocked the stuffing out of her,' said Dalziel. He stared hard at Wield's inscrutably craggy features as though challenging him to reprove his callousness, but the Sergeant just held his gaze unflinchingly. 'Right,' said Dalziel.