'Wrong, you fat bastard,' said Trotter dispassionately. 'It's you who's going to be the Last National Service Man. Next left. No! That one there, you stupid cunt!'

Pascoe had almost overshot the narrow entry into an overgrown lane, once metalled but now potholed and greened by the irresistible pressure of weeds and grass. Any hope that his sudden braking and turn might have drawn attention was vain. Sod's Law had made sure the road ahead and behind was empty. He bumped down the lane for fifty yards till progress was blocked by a five-barred gate. Assuming not even Tankie Trotter would expect him to crash through it, he brought the Riley to a halt.

'Out and open it,' said Trotter. 'Try anything funny and you'll hear the air hissing out of this bag o' wind."

Pascoe got out and took a deep breath of air. It tasted good.

Run you stupid sod, Dalziel urged mentally. Run\

Whatever Trotter's threat, his instinctive reaction would likely be to take a potshot at the fleeing man. And if the gun barrel stopped drilling into his gut for even a second…

But the prancing academic prat was opening the gate! And now he was getting back into the car. What the hell did they teach them at these sodding colleges. If they went in for mutual masturbation, they'd likely need diagrams!

They passed through.

'Right. Stop. Out and close it,' growled Trotter.

Second chance! Mebbe the lad weren't as daft as he looked. Mebbe he'd worked out he'd have a better chance of escaping when he was behind the car rather than in front of it. Dalziel tensed himself to grab for the barrel the moment he felt it move away from his gut. But the bugger was now shutting the gate, taking real care like he was worried about breaking the Countryside Code! And as he got back in the car, he said insouciantly, 'Lovely day out there.'

Dalziel closed his eyes in pain. Who the hell does he think he is? Captain fucking Oates?