People got drunk and smashed pub windows. Husbands and wives fought and broke up the happy home, and neighbors phoned to complain of the noise drowning out their televisions. Foolproof burglar alarms went off by accident and truculent motorists swaggered in flourishing certificates of insurance which they'd been ordered to produce after that little accident last night. Houses were robbed, old ladies mugged… the same as any other day.

Station Sergeant Johnnie Johnson was cold. The gap under the swing doors invited the wind to roar across the lobby and the damn radiator, which wasn't much good at the best of times, had developed an air lock that no amount of kicking could shift. The phone on the inquiry desk rang. It was Superintendent Mullen, the Denton Divisional Commander, flapping as usual.

"Yes, sir," soothed Johnson, "it's all laid on. I'm sending a car to meet him… No, sir, it's very quiet, as it happens. Must be the cold weather."

The cold weather! Say what you like about the cold-he stamped his feet to move the blood around his toes-but it certainly kept the crime figures down. Criminals were no respecters of the Sabbath, but even the most hardened villain preferred the comforts of his own fireside on nights like this.

He decided to let the lobby run itself for a couple of minutes and thudded across to Control.

"We got anyone picking up that new chap? The old man's just phoned."

The controller consulted his duty sheet. "Able Baker four's doing it, Sarge… But how come we're giving the red carpet treatment to a lousy detective-bloody-constable?"

"Because," explained the sergeant, "the new detective-bloody-constable just happens to be the nephew of the Chief-bloody-Constable… and our Divisional Commander knows on which side his bread is buttered."

He lingered. It was warmer in Control than out in that windswept lobby. "Anything happening?"