It read Eloisa and Abelard, Welcome Home.

Pascoe felt the carapace of professionally he had withdrawn behind crack across. The room overlooked the rear of the house. He did not look out of the window but descended rapidly. With a great effort of will, he forced himself to confirm by touch what his eyes had told him, that the two men were dead.

Timmy used to play the guitar and when in funds gave presents of charming eccentricity to those he loved. Carlo (it was Carlo, the one eye which remained unscathed told him that) had a fiery temper, adored Westerns, demonstrated for civil rights, hated priests.

These were memories he didn't want. Even less did he want to kneel beside this woman, turn her gently over, see the ruin of soft flesh the shotgun blast had made in Rose Hopkins.

She was wearing a long silk evening gown. Even the rain and the dew had not dulled its iridescent sheen of purple and green like a pheasant's plumage. But her eyes were dull.

The sundial against which she lay had an inscription on its pedestal. He read it, desperately trying to rebuild his carapace.

Horas non numero nisi serenas.

I number only the sunny hours.

He was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when Ellie returned, closely followed by the first police car.

Chapter 2

'Dalziel here.'

'Hello, Andy. Derek Backhouse here.'

'So they said.' Dalziel's voice fell a long way short of enthusiasm. 'It's been a long time. And you must be after a bloody big favour, to be ringing on a Saturday morning.'

'No favour,' said Backhouse. 'I'm ringing from the station at Thornton Lacey. I've got one of your men here. A Sergeant Pascoe.'

Pascoe!' said Dalziel, livelier now. 'He's not been crapping in the street again, has he?'

'Sorry?'