Except for the occasional direction from the bald man, no one spoke. What had happened to all Dalziel's little jokes? thought Pascoe sneeringly. All right for a courtroom where there was nothing but a woman's reputation to worry over. Stick a shotgun in his gut and the case was altered.

Behind him Andy Dalziel was thinking, why the fuck couldn't it have been Wield who'd come out and heard him hammering his deliberately flooded engine? One glimpse of that shaven head and he'd have been off like a lintie to get the car park sown up tighter than a nun's knickers. Outcome still uncertain, but at least Trotter would have had the alternative spelt out loud and clear. Now they were on their way God knows where to face God knows what, and it could be God knows when before anyone got on their trail, or even knew there was a trail to get on!

He paused, fair minded as ever, to give God a chance to share some of His knowledge. All he got was an echo of his own words to Pascoe. .. you'll have to find your own way out.

So be it. He put all recriminations on the back burner and turned his mind to the problem in hand.

First things first. Useless wanker this unwearied college kid might be, but he deserved to know the score.

'So tell me, Tankie,' he said conversationally. 'What fettle? They treat you all right in the glasshouse?'

'Belt up, Dalziel!' said Trotter, digging the barrel so far into the belly flesh it almost covered the trigger guard.

'Nay, lad. Tha's got something better in mind for me than splattering my guts all over this nice upholstery. Any road, it's only polite to introduce you properly to Constable Pascoe. He's new round here and likely he's not heard of one of our most famous sons. That right, Pascoe? You've not heard of Tommy Trotter?'

'Sorry, sir. No, I haven't.'