'And this is what you say happened in this film.'

'It was a flash,' said Shorter. 'Just a couple of seconds.'

'Anybody else say anything?'

'No,' admitted Shorter. 'Not that I heard.'

'I see,' said Pascoe, frowning. 'Now, why are you telling me this?'

'Why?' Shorter sounded surprised. 'Isn't it obvious? Look, as far as I'm concerned they can mock up anything they like in the film studios. If they can find an audience, let them have it. I'll watch cowboys being shot and nuns being raped, and rubber sharks biting off rubber legs, and I'll blame only myself for paying the ticket money. No, I'll go further though I know our Ms Lacewing would pump my balls full of novocaine if she could hear me! It doesn't all have to be fake. If some poor scrubber finds the best way to pay the rent is to let herself be screwed in front of the cameras, then I won't lose much sleep over that. But this was something else. This was assault. In fact the way her head jerked sideways, I wouldn't be surprised if it ended up as murder.'

'Well, there's a thing,' murmured Pascoe. 'Would you stake your professional reputation?'

Shorter, who had been looking very serious, suddenly grinned.

'Not me,' he said. 'I really was convinced that John Wayne died at the Alamo, But it's bothered me a bit. And you're the only detective-inspector I know, so now it can bother you while I get back to teeth.'

'Not mine,' said Pascoe smugly. 'Not for six months.'

'That's right. But don't forget you're due to have the barnacles scraped off. Monday, I think.

‘I've fixed you up with our Ms Lacewing. She's a specialist in hygiene, would you believe?'

'I also gather that she too doesn't care what goes on at the Calliope Kinema Club,' said Pascoe.