… it was green, all green, all over me, choking, the water, then boiling at first, and roaring, and seething, till all settled down, cooling, clearing, and my sight up drifting with the few last bubbles, till through the glassy water I see the sky clearly, and the sun bright as a lemon, and birds with wings wide as a windmill's sails slowly drifting round it, and over the bank's rim small dark faces peering, timid as beasts at their watering, nostrils sniffing danger and shy eyes bright and wary, till a current turns me over, and I drift, and still am drifting, and…

What the hell's going on here! Stop it! This is sick…

Please. Oh God! Be careful you 'll…

Jack! No!

Ohhhh…

See! Look. The lights… please

… fakery… I don't want

… lights! Mrs Stanhope, Mrs Stanhope, are you all right?

… auntie, are you OK? Please, auntie…

… thank you, love, I'm a bit… in a minute… did I get.. .

… vicious blackmailing cow and I'll see…

'… picking up lots of forget-me-nots. You make me…'

'Sorry,' said Sergeant Wield, switching off the pocket cassette recorder. 'That was on the tape before.'

'Pity. I thought she was proving that Sinatra really was dead,' said Pascoe putting down the sergeant's handwritten transcription of the first part of the recording. 'Did you switch off there, or what?'

'Or what, I think. I had the mike in my pocket, nice and inconspicuous. When I jumped up to grab at Sorby it must've fallen out and pulled the connection loose. I'm sorry about all this, sir!'

'Oh no, you're not,' said Pascoe. 'Not yet. When Mr Dalziel comes through that door with the Evening Post in his hand, that's when you're going to be sorry.'

Wield nodded gloomy agreement with the inspector, who now studied his report as if seeking some hidden meaning.