Death

And that was the first time I heard dear Sam's name, but I hardly felt it as an epiphanic moment, I was more concerned with pressing home my advantage.

'So now you've happened to find out about my PhD proposal, what do you reckon it shows about me?' I asked. 'Do you really think I'm secretly harbouring thoughts of revenge against the people I blame for putting me here?'

'That's putting it too strongly, perhaps,' she said. T don't see you as a strongly vengeful personality. While it would be surprising if you didn't feel some resentment, I see your choice of thesis subject as a sublimation of these feelings. In other words, it's part of the healing process rather than part of the trauma.'

This was Reader's Digest stuff, I thought gleefully. This was the kind of simple diet I wanted the boneheads who decided my future to be fed on.

'So in fact, Doctor, you think the topic of my PhD proposal, and its acceptance at Sheffield, will be a help in getting me transferred to Butler's Low? I mean, I wouldn't want to be too far away from my supervisor, would I?'

'I can see that’ she said, nodding and making a note. 'That makes a lot of sense.'

I took that as a yes, and a yes is what it proved to be, though in fact I got transferred to Butlin's before I had my PhD proposal accepted. So it was there I met Sam for the first time. I was glad later that he never had to come to the Syke and see me in that context, and smell me too, probably, for one of the first things they told me when I reached Butlin's was that I'd brought the prison stink with me. You don't notice it yourself, but the others notice it, and I noticed it myself later when a new transferee arrived.

Curious, the creative power of a smell! It took me straight back to slamming doors and crowded cells and slopping out and constant fear – oh yes, even when you were Polchard's chess playmate, you still lived in fear – a sadistic screw, some nutter running amuck, dodgy smack, a new king rat knocking Polchard off his perch – you never knew what deadly changes the day might bring. So that smell was a potent incentive to behave myself in Butlin's. Here we were in the Land of Beulah. Every day we could look across the river to the Promised Land.

Only a fool would ever let himself be sent back to that other place.

I wasn't a fool then and I'm not a fool now.

I can see you might find it hard to believe my prison experience has rehabilitated me, but you can surely understand it's left me resolved never ever to risk going back inside.

So, no threats of revenge, nor even any thoughts of revenge, not even under provocation – and you must admit you have been somewhat provocative, dear Mr Pascoe.

What I want from life I can get by simple honest means, or at least what passes for such in the groves of academe! I look around me – at the old oak panelling of the room I'm writing in, its honeyed depths returning the glow of the open fire which fends off the chill of the crisp winter day whose pale sunlight fills the quiet quad outside my window.

I only arrived a couple of hours ago and, as I've told you, I'm only here for the weekend, but, I knew the moment I set foot in the place that this or something very like it is what I want. That's why I'm writing to you, Mr Pascoe. I'd been thinking for some time it would be nice to clear the air between us, but now I know it's essential, as much I admit for my own selfish reasons as to ensure your peace of mind.

Have I said enough? Perhaps, perhaps not. I'll check later. But now I've got to go. It's the opening session of the conference in five minutes. Dwight has already left, pointing to his watch then making a drinking motion with his hand.

It wouldn't do for a new boy to be late. There's a post box by the porter's lodge so I'll drop this in when I go down. I don't expect I'll be writing to you again, dear Mr Pascoe. I hope that I've cleared the air between us. The past is Hades, the past is the cities of the plain; look back and disaster strikes. My eyes are set firmly on the future.

I must admit to feeling somewhat nervous, but also very excited.

This could be the beginning of the rest of my life.

Wish me luck!

And a Very Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Franny Roote

Ellie Pascoe was a fast reader and soon she was picking up his discarded sheets and she snatched the last one from his fingers before he could let it fall.

Pascoe watched her finish it then said, 'So what do you think?'

'Well it's always nice to have one's judgment confirmed.'

'Your judgment being like the court's, that Roote is a devious amoral psychopath?'

'Is that what the judge said? I must have missed it. I thought he was found guilty of being an accessory to murder. In any case, the judgment I refer to is the one by which Charley Penn and me awarded him first prize in the Gazette short-story competition. He writes very entertainingly, doesn't he?'

'Does he? I'd rather-read a gas meter.'

'Each to his own taste. But you've got to give it to him. He's really making the most of his opportunities.'

'That's a good working definition of most crimes.'

'I didn't see any reference to crimes.'

'Killing Brillo wasn't a crime?'

‘The fault, dear Peter, lies not in our Fran but in the system that put him there.'

'How about blackmailing Haseen to get him into Butlin's? And what about conning Linda Lupin into taking him under her wing? The poor cow had better keep her eyes skinned else she'll find she's got a permanent stowaway on the European gravy train.'

'Haseen seems to have behaved unprofessionally, so she had it coming. As for Loopy Linda, she deserves everything she gets. And besides, I suspect she can look after herself. She certainly doesn't waste much energy looking after anyone else.'

Pascoe smiled, knowing he wasn't going to get anywhere inviting sympathy for Linda Lupin, who was a Tory MEP and a particular betesse noire of the left-wing feminist tendency. The fact that she was also the late lamented Sam Johnson's half-sister and sole heir had come as a shock to Ellie, but to Franny Roote it had clearly come as an opportunity which he'd grasped with both hands.

'And aren't you being a touch paranoid?' continued Ellie. 'All he's doing is telling you he's doing well for himself, so why should he be nursing grudges?'

'Doing well for a criminal involves criminality,' muttered Pascoe.

'Maybe. But what better area for the legitimate use of criminal talent than the life academic?' said Ellie, who since being officially confirmed as a creator by acceptance of her first novel tended to look back rather patronizingly at her old existence as a college lecturer. 'Anyway, he's paid his debt and all that, and he'd probably never have come to your notice again if you hadn't gone after him in a not very subtle way.'

This was so unjust it might have taken Pascoe's breath away if life with Ellie hadn't left him pretty well permanently breathless.

He said mildly, 'I only turned him up in the first place because someone was threatening you and he looked a possible candidate.'

'Yeah, and the other times? Pete, admit it, you've always gone in hard with Franny Roote. Why is that? There must be something about him that bugs you specially.'

'Not really. Except he's weird, you've got to admit that. No? OK, let's look at it another way. Don't you think it's just a little bit screwy to be writing to me like this?'

'You're acting like this is a threatening letter,' said Ellie. 'Despite the fact that he goes out of his way to say this isn't a threatening letter! What more does he have to say?'

'A man comes towards you in a dark street,' said Pascoe. 'He stops in front of you and says reassuringly, "It's OK, I'm not going to rape you." How reassured do you feel?'

'A lot more reassured than if he's stark naked and waving a knife, like Dick Dee when young Bowler rode to the rescue. How is he, by the way?'