Pawser looked up to see Professor Leatherbottom floating gently toward him in a rather turtlesk manner down the sea blue corridor. The Professor was short and incredibly fat, his white lab coat which acknowledged his service as Head of Forensics was stretched to its limit across his ample stomach. It was possible that if you flipped him on his back he would be quite unable to stand up; his arms and legs would just flap around like helpless paddles until he gained some assistance.

'Hello Pawser. You alright? You look like you've got a bit of a lower back problem there or a severe case of the soggy bottoms.'

'The later I'm afraid Professor,' admitted Pawser, 'I wouldn't sit down in there, you'll find it's slightly contagious.'

'Thanks for the tip.' said Leatherbottom. 'I've been summoned by his master, the heir apparent, the future leader of the free World.' Leatherbottom's head rose up when he spoke revealing a long saggy neck and sank back again when he stopped talking leaving his chin resting on his broad chest.

'I heard. He's got a letter in there for you.' replied Pawser more knowingly than Leatherbottom might have suspected.

Leatherbottom slowly rolled his eyes up until the pupils disappeared briefly under his heavily lidded eyes. When they returned he said, 'Another one eh. I keep telling him that it's the business we're in. We all get them from time to time.'

Pawser gave the Professor a quizzical look.

'Oh OK, OK. I know.' admitted The Professor holding his hands up in feigned surrender. 'No one else gets them but he's got me running round like an rat in a lab analysing those stupid letters. This one's some sort of biblical nutter. Absolute waste of time you know.'

'Leatherbottom is that you lurking out there,' a voice roared form behind the door. 'Get in here man. Now!'

'Bit grumpy eh? I'm not surprised. I heard he had a bit of an accident coming in this morning. Ah well, better be off and do the deed.' He waved a clear plastic evidence bag at Pawser.

'Careful in there. He's a bit testy this morning.' Pawser warned.

Leatherbottom grinned and banged his prodigiously fleshy hand on the door.

Passing an open office door Pawser slunk in and called Killerman.

'I've just been in with Jocko, he tells me they bought in £100,000 of cash last night. I spoke to Rollo last night and he told me it was £200,000 of cash plus enough vouchers to buy Jocko a sense of humour. Get on to them and find out what the hell's going on.'

'Don't worry they're here now,' said Killerman, 'I'll have a word.'

'Right. I'll be down in five. I've just got to go to the little boy's room. Don't let them out of your sight.' ordered Pawser slamming the phone down.

The toilets or 'rest rooms' as they were labelled, on the fourth floor were of awe inspiring magisterial opulence. For a moment Pawser soaked in the ambiance, the sandalwood perfume, crystal chandelier, marble sinks with gold taps. MI5 had clearly upped the ante on the interior design, getting Queen Cleopatra's chief eunuch in to do the work must have been quite a coup. He flipped on one of the taps to reassure himself it did not run with milk and honey then checked the two cubicles for occupants. They were empty.

Pawser quickly emptied the paper towel dispenser, stuffing as much paper as possible down the back of his underpants in an attempt to dry off his rear end. Removing these he found they seemed to be hardly wet at all and with some irritation he threw the lot in the bin.

After a couple of minutes standing with on tiptoes with his rear up against the hand dryer Pawser became increasing exasperated with the abnormally absorbent qualities of his corduroy trousers and his inability to find an even more absorbent material.

Casting around to find a better solution his eye fell on the newspapers laid out on a little table next to the window. Picking up the FT Pawser carefully rolled it up to make a long tube. He then inserted one end over the hand dryer outlet and loosening his belt was able to slip the other down the back of his trousers. Banging the button on the hand drier produced a most gratifying effect, his trousers blew up like two barrage balloons while the bottoms of his trousers flapped wildly around his ankles as the hot air blasted through. This rather satisfactory solution also enabled him to stand, feet apart in front of the mirror and dab his tie dry with bits of toilet roll while the hand dryer did its work. The feeling was somewhat pleasurable and Pawser wished he had a pair of bicycle clips at hand to experiment with alternative variations. After a few minutes dabbing Pawser was aware of someone standing at the door watching him. He was an aging military type wearing a blazer, sporting a large handlebar moustache so handsome it might normally have been expected to have been found flapping around in the upper branches of the Brazilian rainforest .He looked completely baffled.

'Trench-Arse, General,' Pawser yelled over the sound of the fan pointing at his billowing behind.

The Generals face brightened up in acknowledgement before he yelled back 'Oh bad luck old man, they say the best cure is plenty of talcum powder and a rough pumice stone. Hurts like buggery but does the job. I'll pop back later I think.'

Pawser nodded in acknowledgement of this sage advice, waved him cheerio and returned to his flapping trousers.

Having used up all the loo rolls and reduced the level of dampness in his trousers to this side of acceptable Pawser dumped the FT in the bin, swept the Telegraph off the side table and dabbed on some sandalwood eau de cologne. Then just for good measure he grabbed the last toilet roll out of the cubicle emptied the dispenser and carefully tucked just one sheet of paper back into it and chucked the rest in the bin. Then he straightened his tie in front of the mirror brushed back his hair and satisfied, slipped through the door and headed for the lifts.

Pawser's decent in the lift back down to the basement gave some things to for his brain and stomach to churn over. Despite his apparent bonhomie on leaving Jocko's office Pawser felt considerably troubled. Jocko's knife throwing display aside, his concern was split between the realisation that Jocko now had him firmly in his sights for 'moving on' as personnel would euphemistically phrase it, no doubt on Jocko's instruction. This, together with Jocko's knowledge of the voucher raid was deeply unsettling. Given that the vouchers could only have been deposited in the bonded area the evening before last this was as odd as Jocko's knowledge of the supposed value deposited.

Pawser arrived back at the office to interrupt a rather ill tempered exchange between Ralfe, Rollo and Killerman, Dirk having taken the morning off to go and give a cryptology course to the new starters.

Killerman had hunkered himself down behind a huge rampart of unfiled paperwork on his desk and was lobbing verbal grenades over the top. The bulky torsos of Rollo and Ralfe occupied most of the doorway. Pawser squeezed his bulky frame through the narrow gap.

Rollo and Ralfe had their hands thrust deep into their leather coated pockets and they stared aggressively at Killerman.

'Why did you take it down to stores?' Killerman attacked a rather defensive Rollo.

'Because that's what we always do,' retorted Rollo huffily.

'Bollocks you do. You skim the take off the top and then you take it down to stores.'

'That our entitlement, it saves you the time of ripping us off later.'

'So where's our cut, then?' demanded Killerman.

'You'll have to sort that out with Ron, you know the score.'

Rollo was right considered Pawser. Ron the store man would divvy it up in normal circumstances but these weren't normal circumstances.

'If it blows up that bloke's poodle took one in the line of duty, they'll be a bloody investigation and the whole thing will get clamped down on. We won't get a dog's bollock between us.' argued Ralfe.

'And we didn't shoot the mutt. That was down to you.' Added Rollo pointedly.

Pawser stepped into the fray. Rowland was right of course. The shooting of the little truffle hunter would not be good news if it got out. 'Anyway we have another problem. Apparently there's £100,000 in cash down there, a bit short of what I was expecting.'

'£100,000! You're bloody joking aren't you?' Rollo looked decidedly pissed.

Ralfe sucked the air through his teeth in an 'I don't believe it sort of way.' Clearly he'd been spending too much time with Killerman.

'£200,000 in cash, £250,000 in vouchers is what we took down there. Not a penny less.' Stated Rollo with an air of absolute certainty.

Ralfe nodded his head in agreement and blew out the excess air.

'Did you get a receipt?' enquired Killerman.

'Shut up Killerman.' Pawser snapped, 'Did you get a receipt Rollo? '

Rollo pulled a small piece of crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it over. Pawser couldn't make out if it said £350,000 or £450,000 in Ron's spidery handwriting.

'Christ Rollo, did you feed this to your dog? It looks like it's passed through thirty feet of intestinal tract!'

Rollo shrugged his shoulders.

'I don't believe it. Only 24hours in and we're already £100,000 down. Hold on, hold on what did you two skim off the top.'

'Normal finders fee, Pawser.'

'Let's see it,' Pawser held out his hand. Rollo handed over a glossy slip of paper.

Pawser read the voucher, 'A spa treatment for two at Banhams Manor, Oxfordshire. Relax in woodland luxury and let us treat you and your partner an unrivalled experience in luxurious pampering following by an evening meal in our Michelin starred restaurant.'

'Well I'm sure you and Ralfe will be very happy together,' said Pawser and passed the voucher back, 'but forgive me boys but this is hardly very aspirational. You've a holdall full of boodle and all you pick out is a voucher for a ponced up afternoon at some Ariosto's crib in the Home Counties. Surely you could have done better?'

'Oh no I've got one as well.' Ralfe waved his voucher around like a little flag. 'We're going together me, Roland, Yvette and Gerry. I've booked a spar treatment and Gerry wants to try the Whortleberry pie in the restaurant, which is apparently is to die for.' He pursed his lips and closed his eyes as if in divine culinary rapture.

'It's good to hear you have the spares spoken for. I couldn't bear the thought of Dirk, Killerman and I having to draw short straws to who would have the honour of watching you two rolling up a couple of wet towels and chasing each other butt naked around the showers watched by half of Oxfordshire's posh polo set.'

'You know,' said Killerman who had up to this point said nothing of much use, 'Fat Fanny does a most excellent Whortleberry muffin.'

'Reaaaallly?' mused Ralfe seeming genuinely interested. 'Gerry loves them with whipped cream and a sprinkling of coco on top. We've been up Fat Fannies a few times, I've never seen them there.'

'This is becoming unbearable.' Pawser despaired. 'Right I'm off to stores to sort this one out with Ron.' He stalked out and left them to it.

As he trotted up the stairs to stores Pawser considered how is it that when adversity pushes people together they see completely hither too hidden aspects of each other. Ralfe was exhibiting a side that he never knew existed. He hoped by Gerry he meant Geraldine, if not it was a most unexpected revelation. Most surprising was to learn that that gun toting scourge of the canine world Killerman and the crop haired, peroxide blond, leather coat wearing Ralfe shared a common interest -they were both food aficionados and were no doubt now deep into a discussion over fairy cakes and fruit fancies.

The Bonded store was fronted by a large counter, above it rose a shield of thick wire into which was built a small lockable window through which seized items could be passed. A padlocked wire door allowed access for larger items. The racks beyond contained various evidence bags littered with bagged documents, contraband, hard drives and various assorted paraphernalia seized by MI5 officers during the exercise of their duties. A thick white line on the floor some three feet in front of the counter carried the message. 'Stand behind this line until called by the storekeeper...That means you!' It's what the Argos staff in Croydon would have done to their store if they'd been allowed a free hand. Somewhere in there Pawser knew there was a holdall containing his vouchers.

Officially the Bonded store did not exist, MI5 preferring not to be bound by having to produce evidence in court that might not be in the National Interest. Seizures that did not fit into that category were passed to Scotland Yard to go into the evidence system in the normal manner. This system allowed certain flexibility with the contents of the stores extended by the comfort that the contents would never receive any official scrutiny. 'Ebb and flow' was what Ron the store man liked to call it and there was no doubt to his close friends that Ron's Schooner always sailed on the ebbing tide. Pawser was pleased to be counted as one of Ron's close friends as befitted their relationship which involved Pawser shouting, ' What's your Ron,' every time he encountered him in the dingy environs of The Rats Tavern, the haunt of MI5 old timers.

Seeing the counter was unattended and ignoring the threat on the floor Pawser banged on the wire. Instantaneously a figure popped up from behind the counter where it must have been lurking. Having been running the stores for decades Ron normally prowled around behind the wire like a caged animal scowling at anyone who approached but the bloke who had suddenly appeared was all bright and shiny like he'd just been plucked from behind the counter at Boots. Pawser stepped back somewhat confused and sized him up.

'Can I help you?' the shiny bloke asked.

'Yes I'll have a packet of disposable razors and something for the weekend.'

'Sorry?'

'Where's Ron?' Pawser peered over his shoulder down the shelves.

'He's at lunch. Can I help you?' shiny persisted with a, 'will you get on with it ,' smile.

'I'd like to see the booking in log.'

'I'm sorry I can't help you.'

'I bet you never said that while you were at Boots. Why not?'

'Ron says no one's allowed to see it without uncle's permission now.'

'UNCLE? Who do you think I am, an agent from SMERSH?'

'Uncle McBride. No one can see the book without his permission.'

Fantastic thought Pawser. Another of the McBride clan. Soon we'd be serving haggis in the restaurant and offering courses in Glaswegian to the translators. He tried a different angle of attack. 'Was uncle down here this morning by any chance?'

'I couldn't say.' Boots boy looked a little nervous.

Pawser felt he'd touched a nerve so he pushed on. 'Is that I couldn't say as in, he wasn't down here, or I couldn't say as in I was too busy helping him fill his holdall with £100,000 of cash and hooky vouchers?'

'I couldn't say', the lad repeated stepping shiftily from foot to foot.

'Tell you what, that customer service course you went on at Boots is really paying dividends. Why not show me the book and let Ron know when he gets back?'

The lad considered this offer and then played his ace, 'I could ring Uncle and ask him.'

Pawser considered countering with, 'I could come round there and stuff your head through that chicken wire.' Which was not really viable given that he was standing behind a locked grill but it was the best Pawser had. He could up the ante and threaten to call his Uncle but he was a retired fishmonger from Windsor so it probably would not have swung it.

Pawser saw they had reached an impasse and could see Boots boy knew it too. He had lent forward, rested his arms on the counter and began to inspect his fingernails feigning complete obliviousness of Pawser's existence. Pawser had misjudged him. He had clearly come from Superdrug not Boots.

A disgruntled Pawser, leaving the matter of the distribution of the spoils of war unresolved went in search of Mr Bentley to organise his affairs for later that evening.