He stared at me for a moment. Using convicted felons to avert a smiting would not be popular, even if they were ax murderers. It would be a sorry return to those dark, barbaric days when nations actually executed their own citizens. Jack looked at me and smiled.

“We have engaged the services of convicted felons, who have agreed to be vaporized in order that property be saved. Their considerable fee—over a million pounds per man—will be paid to their dependents and families as well as victims, if any are living. I would like to stress that this is entirely voluntary, and we will be erecting a marble tablet for those who sacrificed everything to bring about the saving of Swindon’s valuable architectural heritage.”

That didn’t go quite how I’d planned it. Miles hadn’t said they were volunteers. I looked around the table, and everyone nodded sagely at the felons’ selfless sacrifice. One of the city councilors wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Right,” I said. “Sitting next to Mr. Schitt is Mrs. Bunty Fairweather of the City Council, and her assistant, Mr. Banerjee. Next to them is the Wessex Library Service chief accountant Conrad Spoons, and Colonel Wexler of the SLS is sitting next to him.”

I had the six others introduce themselves, as I weren’t sure who they were, then ended up by explaining that Geraldine would be taking the minutes and that we could drop the “Fatso’s” part of the Wessex Library Service title, as we needed to be done by midday.

First up was Conrad Spoons, and he outlined in a drab monotone the annual budget of the Wessex Library Service, beginning with the current and projected running costs, then outlining his plans for capital expenditure. I was quite glad when Duffy sneaked into the room to whisper in my ear that Miles wanted to have a quick word.

“Carry on,” I said, making for the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

I found Miles in the corridor.

“Is Jack Schitt in there?” he asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Did you hear that the felons up at Wroughton actually agreed to be vaporized in exchange for some cash for their victims and family?”

“That’s a lie,” said Miles. “Goliath doesn’t give money to anyone, especially ax murderers. Besides, such an act of self-sacrifice would show considerable empathy and remorse, and that could engender a limited form of absolution—they would hardly be effective at all in drawing the fire from Swindon.”

Miles’s argument rang true—never believe anything Goliath says.

“What are you here for anyway?” I asked. “I’m in a really boring budget meeting, but it’s kind of important.”

“They nobbled him!”

“Nobbled who? Joffy?”