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My dad always said that a trumpet player likes to aim his weapon at the audience, but a sax man likes to cut a good profile and that they always had a favourite side. It being an article of faith with my dad that you don’t even pick up a reed instrument unless you’re vain about the shape your face makes when you’re blowing down it.
'How do you want to do this?' asked Nightingale.
'You're the expert, sir,' I said.
'I looked into the literature on this,' said Nightingale, 'and it wasn't very helpful.'
'There's a literature about this?'
'You'd be amazed, Constable, about what there's a literature on.'
When I'm considering this I find it helpful to quote the wisdom of my father, who once told me, 'Who knows why the fuck anything happens?'
'Can you prove you're dead?' I asked.
'Whatever you say, squire,' said Nicholas, and stepped forward into the light.
He was transparent, the way holograms in films are transparent. Three-dimensional, definitely really there and fucking transparent. I could see right through him to the white tent the forensic team had set up to protect the area around the body.
Right, I thought, just because you've gone mad doesn't mean you should stop acting like a policeman.
'Can you tell me what you saw?' I asked.