Dialogues of the Dead

As Pascoe watched Bowler move away, making a bee-line for the girl from the library, he found he was smiling. Who was it said that middle age began when you started looking fondly on the young, and old age when you started really resenting the bastards? Probably Dalziel. Time to check out the art. He'd been checking for several minutes without much enthusiasm when someone touched his shoulder and said, 'Peter, how're the muscles? Recovered enough for another go?' He turned to see Sam Johnson grinning at him. 'You've got to be joking,' he said. 'Nice to see you, though. I wanted a word. I spotted Franny Roote earlier. He with you?' It was hardly a subtle approach but Johnson was too sharp for obliquities, as Pascoe had discovered when he'd checked out Roote's story with him. Now the lecturer emptied his wine glass, seized another off a passing tray, and said, 'Yes, I got Franny an invite. Is that a problem?' 'No problem. Just an occupational reflex,' said Pascoe lightly. 'You see him as a bright student, I see him as an old customer.' 'I also see him as a friend,' said Johnson. 'Not a close friend maybe, but getting that way. I like him very much.' 'Well, that's all right then,' said Pascoe. 'Can't be much wrong with a bright student whose supervisor likes him very much.' It came out a bit sharper than he intended. Something about Johnson acted on him as a mild irritant, the same thing probably which had provoked him into that farcical non-game of squash from which his shoulder was still aching. Not that there was anything obviously irritating about the young academic. Boyish without being childish, good-looking this side of matinee idol,