Someone had answered. Not Mullett, but his half-asleep, disgruntled, toffee-nosed cow of a wife peevishly demanding to know who it was. "Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Mrs. Mullett, but is the superintendent there?… No? Do you have a number where I could contact him? Yes, it is urgent." Of course its urgent, you stupid cow. Would I be phoning if it wasn't? "Thank you." He scribbled on his pad and hung up.

The man was glaring at him. "I am still waiting, sergeant."

"Please take a seat, sir. I'll deal with you as quickly as I can." He looked up hopefully as PC Lambert came in from Control.

"Still no answer from that Inspector Allen number, sarge."

"Keep trying. Any luck with Wonder Woman?"

"Not a dicky bird!"

"Bloody cow's useless." Wells ripped the sheet from his pad. "See if you can get Mr. Mullett on this number."

Lambert frowned. "This is the same number I'm trying for Mr. Allen, sarge."

Wells looked at it again. Lambert was right. "Mullett ii and Allen, both out together at eleven o'clock at night. I wonder where?"

"A cut-price knocking shop?" suggested a familiar voice, helpfully.

Frost! Jack Frost in his crumpled mac and maroon scarf beaming at them.

"Jack!" cried a delighted Wells. "I thought you were on holiday."

"I am. I've just nipped in for some fags. Did you get my comic postcard?" He struck a pose and declaimed:

"I cannot get my winkle out Now there's a funny thing. The more I try to pull it out The more I push it in!"

Wells grinned. "I stuck it on the notice-board, but Mullett made me take it down. He said it was near pornographic'

"There's nothing pornographic about a man eating winkles," said Frost. "So what's all the panic?"

"Patriot Street. Body in a dustbin sack."

Frost grimaced. "Where did people hide bodies before dustbin sacks were invented? We find more bloody bodies than rubbish in them these days."