‘But he is dedicated.’

‘Oh.’ Her look softened. ‘So it wasn’t all an act, then.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you,’ Mullett said.

‘Gave Mary a hard run, didn’t he, Dad?’ she said. The old man sighed. Mullett wasn’t altogether sure he was listening. ‘Good to know it was all for a reason; that he was just being good at his job …’

Mullett wasn’t aware that he’d said that, but he was touched by how the young woman took comfort from his words. He suddenly felt a peculiar closeness to this grieving family, with whom his only connection was through a man who was the bane of his life. Perhaps it was a sign that to be around these kinds of people was his rightful place? Or perhaps it was just the sherry.

‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you. You ruined my daughter’s life, you selfish, selfish man.’

Beryl Simpson shook her bowed head, clutching the kitchen work surface. That wasn’t true and she knew it – until the cancer had taken her, Mary was happy-go-lucky despite their ups and downs. Or so he’d convinced himself anyway. Frost felt his relationship with Mary was misunderstood. Perhaps it was time to address this with the in-laws, reassure them that Mary wasn’t the unhappy, downtrodden victim they thought. He picked up the picture of his late wife resting on the dresser in a gilded frame; it had been taken some years ago – fiery red hair, the brightest red lipstick imaginable, lively eyes and a full bosom. She was a cracker all right.

‘But for years … she, she carried on with that bleedin’ plumber,’ he said absently. He realized his mistake as soon as the words had left his lips.

‘Get out! Out of my house. How could you say that?’

She broke down in sobs. Frost’s head spun. He felt despair and frustration rising up inside. He had to leave – he needed air. On impulse he grabbed one of the many bottles of spirits on the worktop.

Frost barged through a throng of people still in the hall, drunken laughter ringing in his ears. If it wasn’t for the prevalence of black clothing it could well have been a party, not a wake. Perhaps that was the way a send-off should be? Despite coming into contact with death on a regular basis, he’d attended very few funerals.

‘Jack, you all right?’ Frost had collided with a red-nosed Arthur Hanlon.

‘Fine, fine, just need some air.’ He could hear himself slurring hiswords.

‘That much “air”?’ said Hanlon, pointing to the bottle. Before Frost could respond an equally smashed Bill Wells had clutched him to his chest, squeezing the wind out of him.

‘We love you, you know,’ Wells said to his scalp.

‘Get off, you great soppy oaf. I’ll be back.’ Then, opening the front door, he muttered to himself, ‘Hmm … or was he an electrician?’

Thursday (3)

Clarke pulled up at the Coconut Grove, next to DC Derek Simms’s red Alfa Sud. Baskin and Cecil had long been whisked off in an ambulance to Denton General. Simms was outside the club talking to a girl in a red miniskirt.

The sky was overcast and there was rain on the way again, giving the place an even seedier air than usual. Clarke avoided the puddles as she made for her colleague.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked. Simms turned away from the distraught-looking girl. Mascara streaked her puckered cheeks, and her hair was in disarray. A WPC patted her shoulder.

‘The girl who found them,’ Simms replied.