How Mullett could subordinate the cost of running the force to the need for fancy furnishings was beyond Frost. He was no less bemused by Mullett’s assumption that, like the super himself, most of Denton’s villains would be taking a bank holiday break.

So, the super was probably on the golf course, and DI Allen was also nowhere to be seen. So far, only Station Sergeant Bill Wells had appeared, remarking on the fine May weather as Frost passed by the front desk on his way to the Gents, before settling back down to continue mulling over the bank holiday racing fixtures. And Miss Smith, Mullett’s secretary, had put in an appearance – she was allowed overtime to meet her boss’s ever-growing demand for paperwork and bureaucracy. All was peace and quiet. Apart from a burglary reported an hour ago, which PCs Jordan and Baker could manage, there was nothing doing. Maybe Mullett was right.

All being well, if Frost could tweak his car expenses a fraction, and at least make a start on the crime clear-up stats, he could be out of here by midday and meet Arthur Hanlon in the Cricketers for lunch. Cheer the tubby sod up a bit, and enjoy a spot of sunshine with the rest of Denton.

He was concentrating intently, tongue running along his bottom lip. He carefully changed the ‘6’ into an ‘8’ on the March garage bill. ‘Well, if you won’t pay me overtime, you stingy moustachioed git, I’ll have to shaft you,’ Frost said to himself. He took a sip of his coffee and then reached for the stapler, lining up the pages before walloping it down with the palm of his hand. Job done, he thought, and lit a celebratory Rothmans. Now the clear-up stats, although there wasn’t quite the same incentive to get those filed.

At 8.15 a.m. Sergeant Wells – who had finished studying the fixtures and was now listening keenly on Johnny Johnson’s portable radio to how it was all kicking off in the Falklands – was interrupted by a call. A man out walking his dog had found a dead girl on the outskirts of Denton, near the train track.

Superintendent Stanley Mullett sat inside the Rover in the car park of the Eagle Lane station listening intently. The events in the South Atlantic had him glued to his seat. The Argentine cruiser the Belgrano had been torpedoed. It made him proud to be British.

As the news drew to a close and Jimmy Savile was once more given the run of the airwaves, Mullett switched off the radio and smoothed his moustache in the mirror before emerging into the bright May sunshine. Another promisingly warm day, he thought, and very nice it was too. As he locked the car he looked forlornly at the splintered windows of the canteen building. Six months since a terrorist bomb in the nearby Territorial Army base car park had taken half of Eagle Lane with it, the 200lb explosive catching the base’s fuel dump as well. Six months, and only now was the boarding coming down and repairs at last taking place.

Six lives had been lost on that day last October. Four civilians, one army regular and one police officer. Mullett hadn’t taken to DCI Patterson from the Anti-Terrorist Branch, that much was true, but he’d done a good job. Poor devil had been about to return to London and was caught in the blast as he got in his car.

Despite the bank holiday Mullett had felt obliged to come in. Assistant Chief Constable Winslow’s new chap was turning up today. And of course, Denton’s new golf club would not open until later in the week, which had an impact on his decision; though not long to go now, he thought as he smiled to himself – the members’ private viewing of the new clubhouse was this coming Wednesday. But without his golf, and with Mrs M being away in Dorset, he was admittedly at a bit of a loose end. That reminded him . . . He pulled from his breast pocket the list his wife had left on the kitchen table:

Pick up cleaning.

Key to estate agent.

Filter for aquarium.

Back Thursday! Love Gx

He stroked his moustache thoughtfully again.