Hell, no. The last thing she wanted to do right now was tramp across a farmer’s field.

‘I’m sorry?’ She yawned, fearing she’d not taken in a word he’d said. ‘What was it he found?’

‘A foot. He found a human foot.’

Harry Baskin smelt bad, he knew it. He stank so bad that no amount of cigar smoke would mask it, although he was giving it his best try. He grunted behind the desk, and poured himself half a tumbler of Scotch. The little card game he’d run through the night was a brilliant wheeze, although he knew that having it on a Wednesday, with the busiest nights of the week still in front of him, would take its toll. But times were hard, he mused to himself, and recession meant you had to work all the harder, to squeeze out every penny from the punters, and get them in beyond the usual Friday and Saturday, even if it meant the hassle of staying up all night, and at his age too. He grunted to himself. Who was he kidding? He might tell the wife it was a hardship, and an economic necessity, but in truth it was a just an excuse to stay out gambling and boozing with his pals. He looked down at the pile of banknotes and sniggered again.

Suddenly a sharp knock on the door disturbed him from his thoughts. ‘Come!’ he rasped. The jug-eared youth poked his head in. ‘The girl’s here, boss.’

‘Which girl, Cecil?’ Baskin scratched his expansive midriff. The pain in his lower gut had started to niggle again.

‘The stripper, boss.’ Stripper? He couldn’t recall fixing to see a stripper. Reaching inside his tonic-suit jacket he yanked out another wad of notes, which flopped with a soft sigh on to the desk. Grinning smugly at the sight, he leaned down to open the safe beneath the desk; best not to leave all this cash lying around.

‘Remind me, son, what’s she like, this bird?’

‘Cracker, boss, huge bristols.’ The lad puffed out his cheeks.

‘Cecil, sunshine, there’s more to women than tits. It shouldn’t be the first thing you think of,’ he admonished with a wagging finger. The boy looked forlorn. ‘Never mind, never mind. Where is she?’

‘Right here, boss.’

‘Well, show her in.’

His words coincided with a deafening blast. Cecil careered across the room. Baskin had barely taken in the sight of the boy sliding down the filing cabinet, blood seeping from his chest, when the pistol swung before him and fired. The big gangster keeled over, banknotes flying through the air like confetti. As he lay slumped on the floor, he thought that Cecil was right; the girl was racked; then everything went black.

Frost stood in the grand entrance hall of George and Beryl Simpson’s luxurious Rimmington home and felt as much connection with his in-laws as would a stranger. Should there not be more of a bond, after the experience they’d shared? He paused for a moment; everyone was here for Mary, his Mary. Theirs had not been the perfect marriage by any stretch, but in his way he knew he had loved her; he couldn’t give a monkey’s what anyone else thought. At the end he was with her night and day, and he felt they were reconciled; she even teased him about not being able to dress himself without her there. He smiled sadly at the memory.

Now she was gone, and he was rattling around in that house on his own. What would he do? Hell, what did it matter.