Denton would be ideal.

The Simpsons were exactly the kind of people Pierrejean and his shady contacts had in their sights. Thanks to over-inflated City salaries and bonuses enjoyed by Simpson and his ilk, they had money to burn and liked to advertise the fact with showy, expensive furniture and decor. However, the shop itself thus far was seeing little custom, hence he found himself here, cringing at a funeral wake of somebody he didn’t know, which had no sign of ending, and with the most bizarre collection of people he’d ever encountered in one place.

He sniffed the English autumn air. Rain again. It was just coming up to three, and in the time it took to smoke his cigarette his hands were cold enough for him to wish he had gloves. What a miserable, wet country this is, he grumbled to himself, flicking soggy leaves off his Citroën windscreen. God, he thought, making his way back to the house, something better improve, either the weather or business – he could barely imagine anything more grim than a winter in Denton.

Thursday (4)

Mullett knew he should leave the Rimmington house – it was growing dark outside – but then he stiffened upon noticing his superior, the Assistant Chief Constable, across the room. He’d spotted Winslow at the church, but having not seen him afterwards he’d assumed he’d returned to County HQ. When the hell did he slip in here? As usual there was tension between them; the ACC was unimpressed with the lack of progress in a rape case involving a teacher from a Rimmington school. The incident had been reported on Monday and all Denton CID had managed so far was to trace the source of some crank phone calls to the victim to ‘somewhere’ on the Southern Housing Estate. Detective Sergeant Waters had then spent two days on surveillance amongst what Mullett regarded as ‘the scum’ of the estate, but with little to show for it. Winslow was furious to hear that an officer whose chief characteristic was standing out like a sore thumb had been chosen for surveillance. He berated Mullett for poor judgement and a row then ensued over the tiresome issue of resources.

The superintendent sighed. He scanned the room for any other hobnobbing opportunities. He’d put in a good hour sucking up to Sir Keith, the MP for Denton and Rimmington, and the mayor, a blustering old fool by the name of Francis. Old man Simpson’s connection with the Lodge was the reason all these others were here, including Hudson, that great fat layabout of a bank manager. But in what capacity was Winslow here? True, he was a fan of Frost’s, albeit from a distance (but close enough to be pressuring Mullett to promote him by the end of the year), but there’d never been any personal connection as far as Mullett was aware. Perhaps his presence was also down to the Masonic influence?

Mullett cursed as Hanlon and Wells moved towards the buffet table and obscured his view. He watched them with distaste, scoffing as if it were their last meal, although soaking up some of this alcohol was undoubtedly a good idea. He really should be getting back, but his curiosity about Winslow had given him another reason to stay. Of course, Mullett hadn’t forgotten that the ACC had a skeleton in his cupboard: he’d been spotted leaving the unsavoury Pink Toothbrush sauna back in May. Perhaps this compromising information was something Mullett could use to his advantage? He moved unsteadily towards the two Eagle Lane officers.

‘Ah, gentlemen, what a very sad day,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘I take great comfort in seeing so many of Denton’s finest here, supporting our colleague in his hour of need.’

Hanlon reached his great bear’s paw around the super’s narrow shoulders, and pulling Mullett towards him said, ‘You’re all right, sir, you’re all right.’

What an idiotic remark, Mullett thought. However, Wells was nodding in sombre agreement, emotion brimming barely below the surface. He conceded that they might both be steaming drunk but at least they were well-meaning.

Mullett gently extricated himself from Hanlon’s grasp. ‘Why thank you, chaps,’ he said. ‘What are we on here? One more for the road, eh? Wait, where is old Jack?’

Within a few minutes, as the Simpsons’ grandfather clock chimed three, all thought of Winslow and Mullett’s own Masonic ambitions had dispersed from his thoughts.

‘A hand?’ said DC Derek Simms, gripping the telephone receiver. ‘Are you sure? Just a hand?’

‘That’s what the man said, son,’ replied Johnny Johnson.

Simms had started to take down the details when he noticed a very pale-looking Sue Clarke making to go. ‘Johnny, I’ll call you straight back.’ He hung up. ‘Hey, where you off to?’

‘Home.’

‘But it’s only just gone three.