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descriptions of the men he saw are to say the least sketchy.”
    “He does his best,” said Pascoe defensively. “Anyway, surely it’ll be DNA, fingerprints, dental records that are going to identify the poor devils in there?”
    “Aye, we should be able to find enough of them for that,” said Glenister.
    She was mid to late forties, Pascoe guessed, full figured to the point where she fit her tweed suit comfortably but if she didn’t cut down on the deep-fried Mars bars, she’d soon have to upsize. She had a pleasant friendly smile which lit up her round slightly weather-beaten face and put a sparkle into her soft brown eyes. If she’d been a doctor he would have felt immensely reassured.
    Pascoe said, “You’ll want to debrief me, ma’am.”
    Glenister smiled.
    “Debrief ? I see you’re very with it here in Mid-Yorkshire. Me, I’m too old a parrot to learn new jargon. A full written report would be nice when you’re up to it. All I want now is a wee preliminary chat.”
    She pulled a chair up to the bedside, sat down, produced a mini-cassette recorder from the shoulder bag she was carrying, and switched it on.
    “In your own words, Peter. All right to call you Peter? My friends call me Sandy.”
    Trying to work out if this were an invitation or a warning, Pascoe launched into an account of his part in the incident, with some judicious editing, in the interest of clarity and brevity he told himself.
    “That’s good,” said Glenister, nodding approval. “Succinct, to the point. Just what I need for the record.”
    She pressed the Off button on the recorder, sat back in her chair, and took a tube of Smarties out of her shoulder bag.
    “Help yourself,” she said. “So long as it’s not blue.”
    “No thanks,” said Pascoe.
    “Wise man,” she said. “I started on the sweeties when I stopped the ciggies. When I realized five bars of fruit and nut a day were d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 31
    going to kill me as surely as forty fags, I tried to go cold turkey and that nearly had me back on the nicotine. Now I treat myself to a Smartie whenever the urge comes on. Just the one. Except if it’s a blue one.
    Then I can have another. God knows what I’ll do now they’re stopping the blue ones.”
    She gave him that attractive smile, mocking herself. She really should have been a doctor, thought Peter. With a bedside manner like this, she could have sold urine samples at a guinea a bottle.
    “Now let’s stray off the record, Peter,” she said, popping one of the tiny sweets into her mouth (a yellow one, he noticed) and settling herself more comfortably into her chair. “Just you and me. Thoughts and impressions this time. And maybe just a wee bit more detail. For a start, why were you really there?”
    “I told you. Inspector Ireland rang me and I went to assist.”
    “And why did Paddy Ireland ring you?”
    “Because of my negotiating experience, I suppose,” said Pascoe.
    But even as he spoke he was registering the Paddy as a gentle reminder that Glenister had already interviewed the inspector.
    “And because I think he felt that as the video shop had been fl agged by you people, Mr. Dalziel might be grateful for some assistance,” he added.
    “And was he?”
    “I think so.”
    “But he hadn’t contacted you himself ?”
    “He wouldn’t care to disturb me on my day off,” said Pascoe.
    “A most considerate man then. I gather he even offered to obtain refreshment for the people inside number three.”
    So she knew about the bit of knockabout with the bullhorn. Hector.
    Or Jennison. Or Maycock. Why wouldn’t they describe exactly what had happened? Even if they’d tried to play it down, they’d have been easy meat for this bedside manner.
    He said, “Yes, Mr. Dalziel did try to make contact with anyone who might be inside the shop.”
    “Who might be? You had doubts?”
    “Our information seemed a bit vague.”
    “Vague? Not quite with you there. Foot patrol sees an