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The kitchen-sink. Or if your notions of hygiene are so strong, why not use the downstairs toilet? I noticed you had one.’
    Connon spoke the words of his reply very slowly and distinctly as if learned by rote from a linguaphone record.
    ‘I did not wish to disturb my wife.’
    Dalziel crossed his legs cumbersomely and started prying into his nostrils with thumb and forefinger.
    ‘Tell me, Mr Connon, Connie, I always think of you as Connie, do you mind?’
    ‘I always think of you as Bruiser, Superintendent.’
    Dalziel was amused and gave a few snorts of laughter.
    ‘If the name fits, wear it, eh? Give a dog, eh? But yours doesn’t tell us much. Doesn’t fit, does it? Connie. A bit girlish. Which reminds me. You did not wish to disturb your wife. Now me, I’m a blunt Scottish lad by birth, a blunter Northcountryman by domicile. So perhaps the finer points of marital diplomacy have passed me by. (I wish my lad Pascoe could hear me!) But I don’t quite follow the workings of your mind here. You come home, you’re a bit under the weather, your wife ignores you, you’ve got to make your own tea. And you don’t want to disturb her. There are some men would’ve disturbed her. Men you’ve played rugby with who’d have put their boots through the telly screen.’
    ‘Men who have no respect for their wives do not deserve to keep them, Superintendent.’
    That was a mistake, thought Connon. He’s taking it personally.
    Dalziel’s wife, now divorced, had gone off with a milkman fifteen years before. At least, she had gone off. The milkman might have been malicious invention.
    ‘Yes, Mr Connon. You’re right. We should respect those who are weaker than us. Or older. Of course we should. Like forgiving our enemies.’
    The phone rang.
    ‘Excuse me,’ said Dalziel. He listened for a moment.
    ‘The doctor’s ready for you now, if that’s OK.’
    Connon stood up.
    ‘He won’t keep you long, I expect. Like the Army. Just a cough and a piddle.’
    ‘Will you want to see me again, Superintendent?’
    Dalziel opened the door for him.
    ‘Just for a moment perhaps. Sergeant!’
    The uniformed sergeant who had brought Connon to the room appeared. The expression of unctuous sympathy with which Connon had been greeted reappeared on Dalziel’s face for the first time since the interview began.
    ‘This is very good of you. It’s a trying time. Sergeant, show Mr Connon to the doctor. And get him a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer it.’
    ‘No, thank you,’ said Connon and set off after the sergeant.
    ‘No,’ said Dalziel to himself as he watched them go. ‘I expect you’ll manage a piddle without it. Or I’m losing my touch. Sergeant Pascoe!’

    ‘You’re not intending to go down to the Club in that rig, are you, girl?’
    Gwen Evans turned before the mirror and peered back over her shoulder.
    ‘What’s the matter? My bum’s not too big, is it?’
    She was wearing a tight-fitting dress of flowered silk, whose style was distantly Chinese in origin.
    ‘No, but if that slit went any further up the side, you’d be able to see your belly-button.’
    ‘Don’t be vulgar, Arthur. What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to go to the Club?’
    ‘No, it’s not that at all’
    ‘No? I think you’d much rather have me here slaving over roast beef and two veg, waiting for you to come back full of love and beer.’
    ‘Be fair, Gwen. Most of the time you complain that I’m too keen to get you down there.’
    ‘Oh ay. Where you can keep an eye on me at night. But it doesn’t seem to worry you at lunchtime. Do you think I’ve got a time switch on it, then, and can’t get it to work in hours of daylight? You should know better.’
    Evans crossed to her in three swift strides. Instinctively she cowered back, holding her hands before her face, but he made no move to strike her. Instead he reached down, seized the hem of her dress and tugged violently upwards.
    There was a tearing noise as stitching came apart and