Yes, he thought, almost the whole day will be given up to Mary Frost. The vicar’s voice floated over the remaining mist, a suitably ethereal backdrop to the ample crowd of mourners at the graveside. The deceased’s immediate family stood solemnly beside the casket: elegant mother, respectable-looking father, well-dressed sister and new husband. And to the side, a pace removed, the widower, Detective Sergeant William ‘Jack’ Frost.

Frost was barely recognizable in his smart attire of black tie and heavy overcoat, and though it hadn’t occurred to him to shave, his unruly, sandy-coloured hair for once had a side-parting chiselled into it. These superficial fineries of mourning served to heighten the changes in Frost that even Mullett had noticed develop towards the end of his wife’s illness – the weight loss, the sunken eyes, the greyish complexion. Mullet sniffed contemptuously; though not wholly unsympathetic, he couldn’t help but think that Frost had contributed to his own bad luck.

Alongside the DS were his Eagle Lane chums: the overweight DC Hanlon, Frost’s pal of many years who knew the region inside out, though in reality added little to the department beyond acting as Frost’s driver; and next to him, good old Desk Sergeant Bill Wells, always dependable but failing the CID entrance exams with stoic consistency. Mullett observed how Frost appeared closer to these oddballs than to his own in-laws; it seemed that along with the other CID rabble, Waters, Clarke and Simms, they formed Frost’s real family. The superintendent reflected sadly that sacrificing family ties for the sake of the job hadn’t done much to make Frost a better policeman. Or perhaps it wasn’t such a sacrifice. Mullett shivered as Frost suddenly caught his eye with a look suggesting he could read his mind.

The vicar finished his prayer and the casket was lowered slowly into the ground, as gracefully as was possible. Mullett glanced again at Mary’s relatives; the two women, now in tears, huddled together, whereas the father remained stiff and resolute. A white-haired man in his late sixties, he suddenly appeared familiar. Where had Mullett seen him before?

Behind the front row of mourners, he noticed a number of Denton dignitaries – a bank manager, the mayor, the local MP. What on earth were they doing here? Frost’s wife hadn’t worked, hadn’t done much at all as far as he could make out. The father was a City banker, unlikely to be on close terms with the local worthies. Surely they couldn’t be here on Frost’s account? Or had Mullett misjudged Frost’s popularity? He’d always assumed he rubbed the town’s back up as much as he did his own. So what was the connection?

The alarm clock sounded, but Detective Constable Sue Clarke was only half asleep anyway. After a nocturnal stake-out she only ever managed to doze. She reached to shut off the buzzer then realized it wasn’t the alarm but the electronic telephone. Christ, she felt groggy. It was hardly surprising; having returned to her poky flat just before 7 a.m., she had made the mistake of pouring herself a large glass of Blue Nun. The bottle was a birthday present from her mother and had sat there unopened for over a month, but having just spent eight hours lying in a field of stinging nettles she’d been desperate for something to numb the itch. Clarke thought the whole operation a waste of time; she had spent three nights on the look-out for stolen electrical goods being shunted through an old warehouse out at Rainham, in the back of beyond. The station was understaffed, and those who opted for extra shifts were paid overtime, so she’d been fairly amenable – until now. DS Waters, who was looking to move out of police digs, had done the same and had been on a similarly unrewarding stake-out. The wine had seemed to help, but halfway through a second glass she was struck by a powerful wave of nausea and rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

It was now getting on for midday. Clarke picked up the telephone.

‘Hello?’ she croaked, reaching for a glass of water and not finding one.

‘Didn’t wake you, did I, love?’ It was the tired but kindly voice of Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson.

‘It’s all right, Johnny, I was just dozing. What’s up?’

‘It’s just you’re the only one …’

Everyone else from CID was at Mary Frost’s funeral. In the meantime the station was being manned by a skeleton staff including Johnson, who’d accepted a double shift.

‘It’s fine, honestly.’ She scratched beneath the covers at a nettle sting. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nev Sanderson, the old farmer, found something unpleasant while out on his tractor.’

Fields again.