The phone rang.

'Excuse me,' said Dalziel. He listened for a moment.

'The doctor's ready for you now, if that's OK.'

Connon stood up. 'He won't keep you long, I expect. Like the Army. Just a cough and a piddle.'

'Will you want to see me again, Superintendent?'

Dalziel opened the door for him.

'Just for a moment perhaps. Sergeant!'

The uniformed sergeant who had brought Connon to the room appeared. The expression of unctuous sympathy with which Connon had been greeted reappeared on Dalziel's face for the first time since the interview began. 'This is very good of you. It's a trying time. Sergeant, show Mr Connon to the doctor. And get him a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer it.' 'No, thank you,' said Connon and set off after the sergeant. 'No,' said Dalziel to himself as he watched them go. 'I expect you'll manage a piddle without it. Or I'm losing my touch. Sergeant Pascoe!'

'You're not intending to go down to the Club in that rig, are you, girl?' Gwen Evans turned before the mirror and peered back over her shoulder.

'What's the matter? My bum's not too big, is it?' She was wearing a tight-fitting dress of flowered silk, whose style was distantly Chinese in origin.

'No, but if that slit went any further up the side, you'd be able to see your bellybutton.' 'Don't be vulgar, Arthur. What's the matter? Don't you want me to go to the Club?'

'No, it's not that at all…'

'No? I think you'd much rather have me here slaving over roast beef and two veg, waiting for you to come back full of love and beer.' 'Be fair, Gwen. Most of the time you complain that I'm too keen to get you down there.' 'Oh ay. Where you can keep an eye on me at night.