“I took the liberty of calling your husband earlier. The assassin got no further than the back door. That was the Wingco responding on Jack’s phone. And Joffy was never in any danger either. You just had to think he was for this to work.”

“You planned all this?”

“Righteousness is a tricksy beast,” he replied with a shrug, “and has to be helped sometimes. But you came out with flying colors. Can you drop me at the station?”

So we drove quietly out of the airfield and past the cordon, now manned by confused-looking Goliath security personnel. We found Phoebe where she had been released, next to the wreckage of her Mini. I thanked her for watching my back earlier, and she climbed into the back of the Sportina.

“Where’s your arm?” she asked.

“Long story. This is Tim. He’s a righteous man.”

“Hello,” said Phoebe. “Got any advice for someone who has caused the death of another?”

“You need to contact Judith’s husband and explain. It will not be easy, but you can and will find forgiveness.”

“You know about Trask?” asked Phoebe.

“He knows things,” I said. “I’m not sure asking questions actually helps.”

“Right,” said Phoebe.

We left Tim at the railway station. I told Phoebe all about Jack Schitt and the Day Players and the palimpsests and the Dark Reading Matter and HR-6984 and everything else he’d been up to—and that Goliath would doubtless continue this course without him.

“There are many more like Jack at Goliath,” I said.

“If he was Laddernumber ninety-one,” said Phoebe, “then there are probably about ninety worse than him. With Jack dead, the object of my hatred has moved to Goliath. What would you say to a merger of our departments? Your funding would be restored. We can recruit from within the library service and then really start to hit Goliath where it hurts.”

“Let’s see: run the Wessex Library Services, assist at the new SO-27 and kick some Goliath butt?”

“How about it?” asked Phoebe.

I smiled. “I am so totally on board.”

I gave her my hand to shake, and she squeezed it gratefully.

We drove back to my house in silence, and I let her take the Sportina into town. Phoebe, I reflected, was a good sort, reliable in a scrap, driven, and she disliked big business and all that it stood for—particularly Goliath. We’d make a good team.

I pushed open the doors to be greeted by Landen and the others. My erstwhile assassin was being carted off by the local police.

“What happened to your arm?” asked Landen.

“Long story.”

I related the day’s events over lunch and described as best I could what it was like to be within spitting distance when a truly sinful man is vaporized by the all-consuming wrath of God.

“Cool,” said Gavin once I’d finished the story. “So all’s well that ends well?”