'Not exactly, sir,' said Wield, uncomfortable again. 'It's Percy Lowe who services the radio equipment in the cars. He's very good with anything like this.'

'Oh aye. In his own time and with his own gear, I suppose,' said Dalziel sarcastically.

'He did a good job on your electric kettle, sir,' said Pascoe brightly.

Dalziel edged nearer the corner of the desk to scratch his paunch on the angle.

'Let's hear what the spirits had to say, then,' he commanded.

He followed Wield's transcript closely as the tape was played again.

'Now that's what I call helpful,' he said when it was done. 'That makes it all worthwhile. Here's us thinking Brenda Sorby was killed after dark when all the time the sun was shining, and that she was chucked into our muddy old canal that's so thick Judas bloody Iscariot could walk on it, and all the time it was some nice crystal-clear trout stream!'

'Sir,' said Pascoe, but the sarcasm wasn't yet finished.

'So all we've got to do now, sergeant, is work out the most likely nesting ground for albatrosses in Yorkshire. Or condors, maybe. Wasn't there a pair seen sitting on a slag heap near Barnsley? That's it! And these dark-skinned buggers'll be Arthur Scargill and his lads just up from t'pit!'

Pascoe laughed, not so much at the 'wit' as in relief that Dalziel was talking himself back into a good mood. He had known the fat man for many years now and familiarity had bred a complex of emotions and attitudes not least among which was a healthy caution.

'All right, Peter,' said Dalziel. 'This crap apart, what's really happened today?'

'Nothing much. House to house goes on, but we're running out of houses.'

'And the lad, what about the lad?'

‘Tommy Maggs? I saw him again today while the sergeant was at the Sorbys'. It was just about as useful. He sticks to his story. He's very uptight, but you'd expect that.'