The Bitch was ready, Maggie decided. Getting no joy from the substitutes bench, she would be in no mood to feel protective about her absent Welsh striker.

Plus she owes me!

But for all that, as Beanie Sample came along the walkway towards her, Maggie felt about as confident as Androcles in the Coliseum. Just because you’d once helped a lion didn’t always mean it would be grateful next time you met.

The editor’s mood as evidenced by her greeting didn’t hold out much promise.

‘So Dave the Turd came after all, did he?’ said Beanie. ‘Rattle the swill pail, even the fattest pig comes running.’

One of the few things Maggie found to admire about the Bitch was that she’d stated publicly she’d rather bed a porcupine than a politician.

She said, ‘In fact I’m here by myself. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Yeah? You want a job on Bitch!, hon, you’ll need to smarten yourself up.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve got a job. That’s why I’m here. I want to know what Gwyn Jones is up to.’

Beanie’s face went blank.

‘What makes you think he’s up to anything?’ she asked.

‘Because he came to the opening of the Gidman Memorial Community Centre instead of strutting his stuff here as your Stud of the Month.’

There was no point, Maggie had decided, in beating about this bush. Directness would get her what she wanted, or get her thrown overboard.

For a moment she thought the odds were on the latter.

Then a phone rang.

Beanie dived into her Vuitton bag and plucked out a mobile whose diamond-studded case matched her earrings and choker.

She checked the display then turned away from Maggie and walked out of earshot, or so she thought. But the acoustic of the walkway, plus her priceless acuity of hearing, allowed Maggie to catch Beanie’s half of the conversation.

‘Hi, honey. Where are you?’

‘Jesus! So what’s going on?’

‘Hell, that’s truly terrible. How long will it take?’

‘No, I understand. Families are important. Of course you’ve got to put them first.’

‘Yeah, it’s OK here. No fun without you, though. I probably won’t stay long.’

‘I love you too. Hope everything goes OK. You take care now. Bye.’

Her tone as she spoke was affectionate and concerned, but her expression as she made her way back to Maggie was gorgonian.

‘Bad news?’ said Maggie.

The Bitch glowered at her for a moment, then her features relaxed into a smile that would have made Jones nostalgic for Llufwwadog.

‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘You got a car? Don’t know about you, but I’m ready to abandon this rust bucket before I get sea-sick. You can drive me home and on the way we’ll have a nice little chat about Jones the Mess.’

15.50-16.15

Dalziel looked out of the window of 39 Loudwater Villas.

The view of industrial dereliction across the Trench wasn’t pretty, but it was preferable to the view inside. Even his normally cast-iron stomach had experienced a spasm as he looked down at the body. It wasn’t just the ruined head that made him queasy, it was the idea that he’d been responsible for putting Novello close to this carnage.

‘Shotgun-sawn-off, from the spread,’ said Pascoe. ‘Death instantaneous.’

‘Often is when you lose most of your head,’ said Dalziel.

It was a feeble attempt to assert control.

On arrival he’d found the street in front of the Villas had been cordoned off. This was easy to do as it was a dead-end for vehicle traffic, narrowing down within fifty yards to a rutted track following the course of the river. An incident room caravan had already arrived, reminding the Fat Man how far behind the game he was. Pascoe emerged from it as he approached. Before he could speak, Dalziel had barked, ‘What’s the news on Ivor?’

‘Still unconscious, but active signs are good. They’ll let us know soon as there’s any change. Sir…’

‘Save it, lad. Need to take a look for myself first.’

The DCI hadn’t demurred, merely produced a couple of white sterile cover-alls from the caravan and said, ‘We’ll need these. SOCO’s up there already.’

So, agreement, obedience, just what a senior officer arriving at the scene expected. But as they made their way up to the second floor, Dalziel had a sense of being escorted rather than being in charge.

The feeling had persisted in the flat. Pascoe, usually the sensitive plant when it came to gore, had taken him through the details of the fatal injury without a tremor, his gaze fixed on the Fat Man as if determined to register every reaction.

What’s he want? A confession? Dalziel asked himself. But he knew that if the circumstances were reversed he’d be doing exactly the same.

He said, ‘Who found him?’

‘Two uniforms. A neighbour called in to say she was worried, the TV set was on playing very loud but when she knocked at the door to ask Mr Watkins…’

‘Watkins?’ interrupted Dalziel. ‘That the dead man?’

‘Alun Watkins is the name of the man renting the flat,’ said Pascoe carefully. ‘As I was saying, when she couldn’t get a reply, she decided to ring the emergency services. Couple of uniforms turned up. They couldn’t get an answer either. Then one of them thought he smelled gas, which was odd as there isn’t any gas connected here…’

‘Probably the drainage,’ said Dalziel. A sensitive nose came in handy when you needed to get into premises without a warrant.

‘Whatever, it was as well they did. First thing they saw was Novello lying on the floor, bleeding from the head. They reacted by the book, one of them did what he could for her while the other called up an ambulance, told them exactly what the situation was so they came prepared. Their quick actions probably saved her life.’

‘Thank Christ we’ve got a few buggers we can trust,’ said Dalziel fervently.

‘Yes, that is a comfort, isn’t it?’ said Pascoe, looking at him pointedly.

Fuck, thought Dalziel. He’s not going to make this easy.

He made himself concentrate on the body.

He said, ‘Any identification?’

‘Nothing found. He had no ID on him.’

‘Nothing at all? No wallet. Meaning mebbe it were stolen?’

‘Possibly. So, probably Watkins, but we’ll need to wait for positive identification.’

‘You’ll not be asking his mum,’ said Dalziel, forcing himself to look unblinkingly at the ruined face.

‘Dental records should do the trick if there’s enough of his teeth,’ said Pascoe. ‘Or fingerprints maybe.’

Dalziel stooped lower.

‘Hey, look at this,’ he said. ‘I think the bugger’s wearing a rug.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Pascoe neutrally.

The Fat Man delicately tweaked the black wig to reveal the true close-cropped blond hair beneath. Then he straightened up with a sigh.

‘Pete,’ he said, ‘are you going to tell me everything you know, or are you going to play clever buggers to see if I let slip summat I couldn’t know without knowing a lot more than I’m letting on to you?’

‘Don’t think I need to play clever buggers to reach that conclusion, sir,’ said Pascoe.

‘Because of the address, you mean?’

‘That will do for starters. Why don’t we step outside and let these good people get on with their work?’

Dalziel took a last look round the room. There were signs of a search, drawers open, papers scattered, a rack of CDs emptied on to the floor. Just inside the door a body-shaped outline had been marked on the carpet. He stepped carefully over it and went out. Behind him the CSIs who had been waiting patiently recommenced their painstaking examinations.

Outside as they took off their cover-alls, they saw Ed Wield come out of the caravan. Pascoe made a beckoning sign, then opened the door of his car. Dalziel got the message. There’d be other officers in the caravan and the DCI wasn’t sure he’d want them to hear everything his boss was going to say.

He sat in the back seat with Pascoe next to him. Wield got into the front passenger seat and twisted round. At least, thought Dalziel, they haven’t locked the doors.