Are you sure they weren’t crows?’

Sanderson rolled his eyes. ‘I know the difference, ma’am. Reckon maybe they came from the reservoir.’ He nodded towards the horizon. Denton reservoir, yes, of course, although there was nothing to see from this aspect; it was somewhere beyond these acres of softly undulating arable farmland.

‘Yes, perhaps.’ Clarke sighed, struggling for inspiration. Frost also said to take in a crime scene fully before focusing on the body, so as not to be unduly influenced in any way by the sight of the corpse. But this was just a field, and this was just a foot. She stepped forward. Yep, it was a foot, all right. She regarded the naked, lily-white limb, flecked with abrasions. What the hell should she do now? The farmer coughed impatiently.

‘Detective Clarke,’ wheezed a familiar voice.

‘Doctor Maltby.’ She was glad it was someone she knew. Next to him stood a visibly unimpressed young SOCO with a whisper of a moustache.

‘Is that it, then?’ the lad said, looking from Clarke to the foot and back again. Clarke raised her eyebrows and shrugged; she instantly loathed this upstart, pathetic bum-fluff and all.

‘This does not constitute a “body”,’ added Maltby irritably.

‘Well, I didn’t call you,’ Clarke countered defensively, but she was distracted by Sanderson, who had turned his back on them and was making for the tractor.

‘Mr Sanderson, wait … Mr Sanderson …’ The departing figure paid her no heed.

The Forensics men regarded her expectantly.

‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ she snapped, furious with everyone, including herself. She mustered some latent authority and, raising her voice above the roar of the tractor, shouted, ‘Bag it, then!’

After begging a fag from Beryl Simpson, who quickly moved on to an ancient aunt, Frost found himself standing with the Braziers and the cravat-wearing stranger. Frost groaned inwardly; he didn’t like his brother-in-law at all, never had done. A tall, sort of handsome but smarmy individual with greying, bog-brush hair, Julian Brazier had always irritated the hell out of him.

‘So, Julian … how’s business, then?’

‘We’re doing great, aren’t we, Jules?’ Elizabeth, Mary’s less attractive younger sister, cut in. ‘Opening another showroom, here in Denton, aren’t we, darling?’

Frost reached for the nearby Scotch bottle and poured himself another drink. He offered the bottle around, well aware they were drinking wine or sherry.

‘Yes, so I heard. That place on the Bath Road. I nicked the last motor dealer to have it.’ He knew the reference would rile them, but Jesus, ‘showroom’ was an exaggeration even for them; a shabby Portakabin with a forecourt were the sum of it.

‘William, allow me to introduce you to Charles,’ said Brazier, ignoring the remark. ‘Charlie is from France.’

‘Hello, Charlie from France.’ Frost took a limp hand. He knew that the Braziers had friends in France, and Mary had been to stay with them in the Dordogne before she became very ill. ‘It’s very kind of you to come all this way.’

‘He’s come for more than the funeral, Will,’ Brazier said.

‘Yes, my business partner and I have opened an antiques shop in Denton; we opened early last month.’ The Frenchman smiled cordially.

‘Really?’ said Frost, unimpressed. ‘Well, I’m not sure we’ve got the requisite clientele for such’ – Frost searched for the words – ‘overpriced knick-knacks.’ Just then he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and a blast of hot, boozy breath on his ear. ‘Arthur, say hello to Charlie from France.’

Hanlon lurched forward and winked at the Frenchman. ‘Spain: three–one,’ he chided.

‘Eh?’ Frost said, baffled.

Charles smiled politely at Hanlon’s remark, turned back to Frost and bowed gracefully. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said before rejoining Brazier, who was deep in conversation with some town official Frost vaguely recognized.

‘What was all that about Spain?’ Frost asked, spearing a cocktail sausage from the buffet table.

‘The World Cup, Jack! You know, football? Just a couple of months back. England trounced the Frogs three–one. Where’ve you been?’ Hanlon guffawed.

‘Hospital, in the main.’ Frost waved away Hanlon’s sudden embarrassment. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time we trounced them in Spain. 1812.