He felt … how did he feel? Empty. He went through the open doorway of a large reception room and walked straight to where the drinks were laid out, at the far end of a buffet table, nodding vaguely to one or two guests as he did so. Seizing a cut-glass tumbler he poured three fingers of Scotch and drank swiftly. A sigh escaped his lips.

The last few guests had now arrived and a quiet throng hovered around the finger buffet. Mourners drifted past Frost towards the lounge; he was keen not to engage, affecting a distracted demeanour and avoiding their eye by focusing on The Horse, an impressive painting on the far wall at the foot of the staircase.

His reverie was short-lived.

‘You might’ve shaved, William.’ Frost could feel the scornful gaze of his mother-in-law upon him. She put particular emphasis on the first name he avoided using.

He chose to ignore the rebuke. ‘Popular girl, our Mary,’ he replied instead, but the word ‘our’ jarred uncomfortably. He surveyed the bustle of guests, of whom only a fraction were familiar.

‘Yes, there were plenty who loved her.’ Beryl Simpson observed him with cold eyes and exhaled cigarette smoke. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked, the remark carrying as much concern as if she were enquiring which entrée he’d chosen.

‘Oh, I’ll be fine.’ He said it to himself as much as in response to her question. His attention had already wandered. Who was that chatting to his brother-in-law, Mary’s sister’s husband, Julian? Some strange, swaggering, foreign type who stood out a mile among the ordinary Joes gathered here. Nobody from Denton wore a cravat. Apart from Julian Brazier himself, of course, but then he was a used-car salesman. Together they looked a right pair of Noddies …

Beryl Simpson sighed. ‘Of course you will.’ Abruptly she turned, and with a steadfast clip-clop of heels across the chequered marble floor she made off towards the drinks, leaving a cloud of smoke and a faint trace of perfume in her wake.

‘Suit yourself,’ Frost muttered, patting himself down for cigarettes. Then he remembered that the pockets didn’t work on this cheap black Marks ’n’ Sparks suit. He’d only worn it once before, at his mother’s funeral less than a year ago. And now Mary was gone. He was truly alone in the world – quite a depressing state of affairs if he stopped to think about it. So he wouldn’t. End of. He went in pursuit of his mother-in-law to cadge a cigarette.

Superintendent Mullett, sipping his sherry, watched the exchange between Frost and Beryl Simpson. He wondered what they could be talking about. The Frosts’ marriage had been in tatters – that fact was common knowledge (although Mullett himself was one of the last to find out, being rather crudely so informed by his secretary on hearing of Mary Frost’s passing). It was a bit late, but maybe the detective was penitent in some peculiar way? He did seem a shadow of his former self, and looked slight standing next to the haughty older woman. Mullett hadn’t yet spoken to her, but something in her bearing exuded a certain class. Plus there was the quality of the domicile; situated in the most expensive street in Rimmington, its decor was worthy of a glossy interiors magazine. The paintings alone must be worth more than the Mullett residence in its entirety. How could the Simpson girl have married so far beneath her station? What had she been thinking? Frost wouldn’t know a Stubbs from a—

‘Superintendent Mullett?’ The departed’s father had unexpectedly sidled up.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Mullett said stiffly. ‘Very sorry for your loss.’

The old fellow sighed through a neatly trimmed, whitening moustache.