'I salute, sir!' shouted Dalziel saluting. 'And I say sir, sir! Please, sir, I don't have any polish, sir!'

'That's better. And you watch it, soldier. I catch you not addressing this officer correctly and you'll start to wish you hadn't been born.' To Pascoe he said, 'This one needs watch-ing, sir. Perhaps you could keep an eye on him make sure he gets to work on them boots.'

'But if he doesn't have any polish…' objected Pascoe weakly.

'He can spit, can't he?' said Trotter. 'Ought to be able to. Full of piss and wind, I'm sure he's got some spit to spare. Next inspection in thirty minutes if that suits you, sir.'

'Er yes. Er, fine. Er… carry on.'

He had a vague recollection from The Bridge on the River Kwai that that's the sort of thing they said. It seemed to work. Trotter crashed in a thunderous salute, span on his heel and marched out. The door closed behind him and the key rattled in the lock.

'Not bad,' said Dalziel, sitting on the bed. 'Though you'll need to work on it a bit.'

'Work on what?' demanded Pascoe.

'Being an officer. You're lucky, lad. He's decided to treat you as a genuine buckshee, not just surplus to requirements. You're on the team, but you'd best play to the rules else you might get dropped, from a great height.'

The Fat Man had taken off his boots and was examining them with pursed lips.

'Candle, a metal spoon and some blacking and I'd have these bright enough to get a kiltie done for indecent exposure.'

Pascoe worked this out, then asked, 'You've been in the army, have you, sir?'

'Aye, I've done the state a bit of service,' said Dalziel, spitting on the boot. He wrapped a huge khaki handkerchief his own, not part of Trotter's issue) round his index finger and began polishing the toecap in with tiny circular movements.