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But this morning, standing here on this pleasant patio in the warm sunshine, he felt such a longing to subside into a lounger, accept a cold beer, and while away the remains of the day in the company of these people he cared for more than he'd ever acknowledge, that he found he had no stomach for even a mock fight.
    "Nay, you're right, lass," he said. "Being friendly with your little lass would do anyone the power of good. But I thought her best mate was called Nina or something, not Zandra. T'other night when I rang and Rosie answered, I asked her what she were doing, and she said she were playing at hospitals with her best friend Nina. They fallen out, or what?"
    Pascoe laughed and said, "Nina has many attractions, but she doesn't have a pony and a swimming pool. At least not a real pony and a real swimming pool. Nina's Rosie's imaginary best friend. Ever since Wieldy gave her this last Christmas, they've been inseparable."
    He went into the living room and emerged with a slim, shiny volume which he handed to the Fat Man.
    The cover had the title Nina and the Nix above a picture of a pool of water in a high vaulted cave with a scaly humanoid figure, sharp toothed andwitha fringe of beard, reaching over the pool to a small girl with her hands pressed against her ears, and her mouth and eyes rounded in terror. At the bottom it said, Printed at the Eendale Press.
    "Hey," said Dalziel. "Isn't that the outfit run by yon sarky sod our Wieldy took up with?"
    "Edwin Digweed. Indeed," said Pascoe.
    "Ten guineas it says here. I hope the bugger got trade discount! You sure this is meant for kiddies? Picture like that could give the little lass bad dreams."
    He sounds like a disapproving granddad, thought Pascoe.
    He said, "It's Caddy Scudamore who did the illustrations. You remember her?"
    "That artist lass?" Dalziel smacked his lips salaciously. "Like a hot jam doughnut just out of the pan and into the sugar. Lovely."
    It was an image for an Oxford professor of poetry to lecture on, thought Ellie as she said primly, "I tend to agree with you about the illustration, Andy."
    "Come on," said Pascoe. "She sees worse in Disney cartoons. It's Nina that bothers me. I had to buy an ice cream for her the other day."
    "That's because you never had an imaginary friend," laughed Ellie. "I did, till I was ten. Only children often do."
    "Adults too," agreed Dalziel. "The chief constable's got several. I'm one of them. What's the story about, anyway?"
    "About a little girl who gets kidnapped by a nix--that's a kind of water goblin."
    A breeze sprang up from somewhere, hardly strong enough to stir the petals on the roses, but sufficient to run a chilly finger over sun-warmed skin.
    "Could have had that drink," said Dalziel accusingly to Pascoe. "Too late now. Come on, lad. We've wasted enough time."
    He thrust the book into Ellie's hands and set off through the house.
    Pascoe looked down at his wife. She got the impression he was seeking the right words to say something important. But what finally emerged was only "See you then. Expect me ... whenever."
    "I always do," she said. "Take care."
    He turned away, paused uncertainly as if in a strange house, then went through the patio door.
    She looked after him, troubled. She knew something was wrong and she knew where it had started. The end of last year. A case which had turned personal in a devastating way and which had only just finished progressing through the courts. But when, if ever, it would finish progressing through her husband's psyche, she did not know. Nor how deeply she ought to probe.
    She heard the front door close. She was still holding Rosie's book. She looked down at the cover illustration, then placed the slim volume facedown on the floor beside her and switched the radio back on.
    The strong young voice of Elizabeth Wulfstan was singing again.
    "Look on us now, for soon we must go from you. These eyes that open brightly every morning In nights to come as stars will shine upon