15.20-15.30

Andy Dalziel opened his eyes.

His old sleeping patterns had taken some time to re-establish themselves after his long sojourn in the strange never-never-land of coma, of which he had no memories but which occasionally sent him brief visionary flashes.

He wondered if he was having one now, but it seemed more than a flash. Perhaps he had suffered a complete relapse?

He was lying beneath a silky smooth feather-light duvet with his head buried deep in a mountain of soft pillows. The air was sweetly perfumed, there was music sounding in his ears and through the dim religious light surrounding him moved a lovely blonde angel in a diaphanously revealing negligee.

He applied his mind to a cool consideration of the possibilities.

Did he wake or sleep?

Was he dreaming or dead?

The angel dropped something on to his face.

It bounced off his nose. He said, ‘Ouch.’

‘At last,’ she said. ‘This thing’s been ringing ever since I got back. I’d have chucked a bucket of water over you if it hadn’t been my bed.’

Her bed. Slowly it came back to him. By the end of the meal he’d felt definitely languorous. Coffee had had no restorative effect. Mebbe the fact that it was accompanied by a large malt hadn’t helped. As they left the terrace, he checked his watch. Their early start meant it was only just after half past one.

‘You got any plans for this afternoon?’ he’d asked.

‘Plans?’ she said, as if not recognizing the word. ‘Why?’

‘Just that I could do with getting me head down for half an hour afore I set off driving. Snoring in the lounge might be a bother. Some people are funny. So I wondered, any chance of crashing out on your bed?’

‘As long as I’m not in it,’ she said. ‘And as long as you’re out of it in half an hour.’

‘Cub’s honour,’ he said gravely.

Only he’d never been a cub.

But he really had thought that his internal clock would wake him after thirty minutes. It always had in the past. Instead, he realized as he stared blearily at his watch, he’d been sleeping for nigh on two hours.

‘I’m now going to have a shower,’ said Gina. ‘When I come out, I definitely don’t expect to find you still here.’

She drifted out of his line of vision.

He sat up and threw back the duvet, realizing as he did so that, apart from his shoes and his jacket, he was fully clothed. His phone had stopped ringing so he didn’t need to bother about that.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

The movement made him aware of two things. He had a bit of a headache and he needed a pee.

The headache was nothing that a breath of fresh air and a cup of strong tea wouldn’t take care of. The pee was rather more urgent.

It occurred to him that Gina Wolfe was unlikely to feel the enjoyment of her shower in any way enhanced by the arrival of a fat policemen in her bathroom, no matter how urgent his need.

He slipped his feet into his shoes and put on his jacket. There was a notepad by the room telephone. He scribbled a couple of lines on it and tucked it between the pillows on the double bed, then headed for the door.

By a great effort of will he made it to the ground-floor toilet without incident, then he headed out on to the terrace.

As he sat down, a young man he recognized as Pietro, the highly efficient restorer of order after his demolition of the water jug, appeared at his side.

‘Buon giorno, Signore Dalziel. Can I get you something?’

Remembered names too. That was good.

‘Pot of strong Yorkshire tea, thanks. And mebbe a parkin.’

‘Subito, signore.’

‘By the by, did I settle up for the lunch?’

‘No problem, sir. Signora Wolfe said to charge it to her room.’

Shit. Would a knight errant let a distressed damsel foot the bill?

Probably not. But it wouldn’t bother Rooster Cogburn.

‘Grand,’ he said. ‘Quick as you can with the tea.’

He remembered about his phone and took it and checked for messages.

There were several, the first couple from Wield asking him to ring back urgently.

Then the message repeated in Pascoe’s voice.

And finally, ‘Andy, where the hell are you? I’ve got search parties out. We’ve an emergency here. Get in touch the second you get this, understand? This is important. Don’t muck me about!’

This was not the language of a deferential 2 i.c. to his superior. This was angry and imperious.

He brought up Pascoe’s number.

‘OK, lad,’ he said. ‘What’s all the panic? Forgot where I keep the key to the stationery cupboard? It had better be good-this is my day off, remember?’

If he’d hoped by his bluster to fend off bad news, he was disappointed.

Pascoe said, ‘Andy, thank God. Listen, it’s Novello. Someone’s bashed her over the head and she’s in Intensive Care. It gets worse. She was found lying next to a man’s body. He’s had his face shot off!’

‘Oh Christ. Found where?’

He knew the answer before he heard it.

‘Loudwater Villas. Number 39. Wieldy says he ran a number plate for you this lunchtime and that was the address. Andy, what the hell’s going on?’

‘You there now?’ said Dalziel, ignoring the question because he couldn’t answer it.

‘Of course I bloody well am!’

‘I’m on my way.’

He set off, passing en route without a glance Pietro bearing a silver tray on which rested a pot of tea and a freshly baked parkin.

It had been a crazy day, thought the young waiter. This was the third time someone had ordered then rushed off without touching a thing!

But at least the good-looking young woman who’d abandoned her prawn sandwich had said she’d be back. Pietro prided himself on recognizing genuine interest when he saw it.

Oh yes, he told himself complacently.

That one would definitely be back.

14.45-15.35

As Maggie Pinchbeck drove away after dropping Gidman, she hadn’t been happy.

Normally she might have been as dismissive of Gwyn Jones’s unexpected appearance as her employer had appeared to be. Journalists spent much of their time chasing will-o’-the-wisps. The only sin was to miss a story, and if that meant spending tedious hours exploring dead-ends, that was the price they had to pay.

In newspaper circles it was generally agreed that Goldie Gidman was fireproof. Some cynics averred this meant he had to be dirty because nobody could be so clean, but majority opinion held that if there really had been any dirt to be found, the combined excavatory skills of the police and the press would surely have dug it up years ago. Of course it was potentially such a great story, conjuring up the prospect of bringing the Tory’s new Icarus crashing to earth, that it would never entirely die. Great truths may burn eternally, but great lies too retain a heat in their embers that stubbornly refuses to be quenched.

So Jones had probably caught a fragment of a whisper, half overheard and wholly misinterpreted. Being a dedicated Gidman-baiter, he’d tossed it into the water and stood back to see if anything surfaced.

Disregardable then, thought Maggie. If it hadn’t been for Tris Shandy’s party.

Tristram Shandy (real name Ernie Moonie) was a former Irish boy-band singer who had survived changing fashion, waning hair and waxing waist with a flexibility worthy of the Vicar of Bray. In turns record producer, Celebrity-Up-the-Creek winner, comic novelist, Live Aid activist, panel game player, soap star and confessional autobiographer, he was now, rising fifty, revelling in his latest metamorphosis as chairman of Truce! this season’s mega-successful TV show. Its ostensible aim was to bring together warring parties ranging from quarrelling neighbours, divorcing couples, kids at odds with parents, and families divided by wills, to individuals in dispute with corporate bodies such as supermarkets, estate agents, manufactures, hospitals, lawyers, politicians.