'Lots of time on your hands now to catch up with what's going off. You must've seen that telly programme yon Yank, Waggs, made, a while back?

The one that caused the big stink?' Pascoe shook his head. 'Well, no great loss. Them TV twats get carried away. Funny angles, fancy music, all film festival stuff without the titties in the sand. I've got a video of it I'll show you some time, but best for background is this radio thing they did a couple of years back before they started this miscarriage of justice crap. I don't suppose you heard that either?'

He rummaged in a drawer, brought out an audio cassette. 'You listen to that. That was the truth for twenty-five years. Now they're telling us it's a load of lies.' Pascoe took the cassette and said, 'I gather you know Mr Hiller from way back.' 'Oh aye. He got dumped on us but Wally soon saw him off. I reckon that's how he's got on so well. Everyone he worked for'd be so keen to get shot of the bugger, they'd give him a glowing testimonial to get him on his way! Big mistake. You don't get rid of a snake by pushing it into someone else's garden. You keep it close where you can stamp on it.' 'It's a nice theory,' said Pascoe.

'But he must have some ability.' 'Too true. The ability to dig up whatever bones the Emmies have buried for him and come running back with them, wagging his tiny tail behind him.' 'I'm sorry?' said Pascoe, baffled. 'Emmies? I don't quite follow…' 'Emmies!' said Dalziel in exasperation. 'MI this, MI that. The funny buggers.' 'The Security Services, you mean? Come on, sir! Why the hell should Security be interested in Mickledore Hall?' Dalziel shook his head.