'And which way did it send you? Mad or bad?' enquired Pascoe.

Dalziel stopped polishing and regarded him almost sympathetically.

'Don't give up, lad,' he said.

'I'm sorry?'

'Only reason a sprog like you reckons he can get cocky with someone like me is you don't hold much hope we're ever going to get out of this. My advice is, until you're dying and I'm dead, stay polite and call me sir. Except when Tankie's around that is. Then I'll call you sir and you can call me what you like, short of vulgar abuse. Vulgar abuse is for warrant officers and NCOs.'

The fat oaf isn't joking, realized Pascoe. Curiously it was almost comforting.

He said, 'What did Trotter mean, he could have gone to university?'

'Now that's a good question. More you know about a man, the more you open up opportunity.'

'For negotiation, you mean?'

'For kicking his bollocks into his brain-pan,' growled Dalziel. 'I've been trying to fill you in on the background ever since you let yourself get dragged into this. One thing you've got to grasp about Tankie is, he's no deadhead. He were a bright lad. Passed eleven plus, went to the grammar, got 'O' levels, and it were right enough, he could've stayed on for his 'A's and mebbe gone to college, but that would've meant going away, leaving his sister and his mam alone wi' his father. Now he were a real bruiser, Thomas. Tankie were named for him, but he'd never answer to Tommie so that's why he got Tankie. He grew into it when he got on in his teens, but he were nowt alongside Thomas. Made me feel like a ballet dancer, he did!'

Pascoe had a brief vision of Dalziel in a tutu. It was like a snip from Fantasia.

'Glad to see you can still smile, lad,' said the Fat Man. 'Lose your sense of humour, and what you got left? Your job, maybe. But what's a job to a man wi' a degree?'

'This Thomas, am I right in assuming Tankie didn't get on with him?' said Pascoe.