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that and the other.
    I waited a minute, then followed inside with a stony heart. Did it have to be sculpture? Being a painter I wasn’t really wild about it. Especially this piddly stuff. If you must do sculpture (and I really don’t see why) make it big, make it heavy, do it properly. And preferably outside somewhere.
    Lane was taking a clockwise turn through the exhibition space. On the walls were some drawings and photographs of stuff they couldn’t get in here, an awful lot of blurb about the history of sculpture and how Duchamp’s urinal had changed everything. (Surely if one pissoir can revolutionize your entire discipline you’re in trouble, non ?) I skipped most of it, keeping one eye on Lane. There were things plonked about everywhere: some guy’s reinterpretation of a pietà , better luck next time, mate; a couple of de Kooning things that looked like he left them on top of the stove too long, should’ve stuck to painting; two rather witty wire things by Picasso, should’ve stuck to sculpture; some motorized Alex Calder stuff that was ever so slightly bent which gave it an art-schoolish feel. The unavoidable Mr Moore was represented by some reclining, sorry, recumbent lump with holes in all the right places, and the centrepiece was a small contorted bronze by Rodin on a plinth. The whole exhibition looked like the stuff had just been dragged out of storage and no one had taken the time to give it a dusting. The names were all there but the examples, apart from the Rodin, were rubbish.
    Lane seemed to think the same. He didn’t linger over anything in particular until he got to the centre where the little Rodin dancer stood, presumably because it was recognizably human, I thought uncharitably. He spent some time admiring it from all angles, then made for the exit. It was no hardship to tear myself away and I followed him outside into the dancing rain. Lane took a left up Bridge Street, then turned his back on the Abbey and walked to the post office where his bus stop was. I had a pretty good idea where this was going and I had no intention of tagging along again. Not once had he given the slightest indication that he didn’t need the stick, not a single lapse and no exaggerations either. He just looked like a guy who had a slight problem in the walking and staying upright department.
    I scanned the street for anyone following Lane. I could still hear Deeks say ‘brand new detective constable, good exercise for him’ but I couldn’t see any evidence of a tail on Lane. Or perhaps the DC was better than I’d thought. I didn’t much care because I was starving by now and had been running around long enough. A reward was in order so I steered a course towards the Abbey Church Yard. The rain and the lateness of the season had cleared it of tourists but all too soon it would be sporting a giant Christmas tree. I crossed to the Pump Room. Water is Best some abstemious wit had chiselled on top of the sandstone façade, in ancient Greek no less. Yes, water was all right, I’d called the business after the stuff, but right now I felt I’d seen enough of it. I was shown to a table near the low stage where the Pump Room Trio were playing Mozart at an unobtrusive volume. Here, everything was calm, relaxing and reassuringly expensive. As always the service was swift and efficient. I ordered Eggs Benedict and a pot of Earl Grey and sat back to enjoy the salubrious surroundings. By the south window a bloke in Georgian costume still dispensed the warm mineral water that came out of the ground here but there weren’t many takers today. Apparently the water that bubbles up is an amazing twelve thousand years old. It tastes like it, too.
    It didn’t take long for the perfectly proportioned columns, the splendid chandelier and the excellent ambience of the room to convince you that you were indulging in real luxury, even before you looked at your bill. The tea arrived first. My stomach gave a delicate rumble as the