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touched Freeman’s lips without getting a grip and he said, “Hi.”
    “And hi to you too,” said Pascoe, sitting down.
    Though not in the same superleague as Edgar Wield, who it was rumored could hack into Downing Street to check out what antiwrinkle cream the PM used, Pascoe regarded himself as premier division, IT
    speaking. As he gingerly accessed the fi le and realized just how extensive and comprehensive it was, the sense of an audience made him a touch nervous and he found himself bogged down in pictures, both still and moving, of the rubble. He lingered here awhile, as if this were where he wanted to be, before moving on to his real goal, a lengthy list of every recognizable item recovered from the ruins.
    After scrolling through it twice, he asked, “Where’s the gun?”
    “Sorry?” said Freeman, at his shoulder.
    Pascoe got in a bit of payback, blanking him for a second before swiveling round in search of Glenister who, he discovered, had moved across to the wallboard.
    “Where’s the gun?” he said. “Hector reported that one of the men he saw had a gun. There’s no gun mentioned here.”
    “Peter,” said the woman, “despite your admirable loyalty to Constable Hector, you’ve admitted yourself that when it comes to detail, he’s not the most reliable of witnesses. In fact, wasn’t it Hector’s involvement that made Mr. Dalziel so sure there was no man with a gun on the premises that he took the reckless action he did?”
    Reckless. Shit on Dalziel, shit on Hector, in fact, shit on Mid-Yorkshire police work generally. He thought he was getting the message.
    He stood up and said, “Thanks, Dave,” to Freeman.
    “Anytime, Pete.”
    Pete. Was this kid his own rank? Or just a cheeky sergeant?
    Neither, the answer came to him. The C in CAT stood for d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 55
    combined. Freeman was a spook. Did Trimble know that Glenister had imported nonpolice personnel into the Station? Of course he did!
    Pascoe answered himself angrily. He was getting as paranoid as Andy Dalziel about the Security Services.
    Glenister was observing him as if his reactions were scrolling across his forehead.
    He went up to her and said brusquely, “So what’s the state of play now?”
    “Complex. We’re working backward and forward at the same time, trying to trace where all this explosive we didn’t know about came from, and what it was they planned to do with it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Peter. I’ll get your PC linked to our network here so you’ll have everything at your fingertips and not need to wear a hole in the corridor running along here every time you need an update. But do drop in anytime you need to. For obvious reasons we need to have a bit of a firewall between us and the rest of the Station. But as far as you’re concerned, you’re fireproof. And I’m hoping it will be two-way traffi c.
    Anything you think may help, don’t hesitate. You’re the man on the spot. Your input could be invaluable.”
    It was an exit cue if ever he’d heard one.
    But for all her vibrantly sincere assurances, as Pascoe returned to his own office, he felt less like a protagonist with big speeches still to come than an attendant lord, fit to swell a progress or start a scene or two.
    In fact, it occurred to him as his ribs twinged and his knee began to ache that at the moment, he didn’t actually feel fi t enough even for those walk-on roles.
    And when Edgar Wield looked in twenty minutes later and found him half slumped across his desk, he made no protest as the sergeant escorted him down the stairs to the car park and drove him home.

    2
    S H O W B U S I N E S S
    Archambaud de St. Agnan said, “Aren’t we too close?”
    “For what?” said Andre de Montbard. “He’s used to being followed. That’s what makes it so easy.”
    Ahead of them, the silver Saab turned right into a long street of tall Edwardian houses and came to a halt after about fi fty yards. Andre pulled the