Frost passed round his cigarettes, then asked for a report. Jordan, stifling his resentment at Gilmore’s snub, flipped open his notebook. ‘I got the call from Control at 9.23. I arrived at 9.34. The fire brigade was already here so I left them to it and went straight in to Mrs Compton.’

‘Mrs Compton?’ interrupted Frost. ‘Not the husband?’

‘He’s away on business,’ said Jordan.

A smile traversed Frost’s face. ‘Good. Then I won’t have to watch him fondling her bloody body… What’s she wearing this morning?’

‘That pink shortie nightie,’ said Jordan. ‘The one she wore the first time.’

Frost whooped with delight. ‘The shortie – wow! That’s the one that barely covers her bum. I must try and drop something on the floor for her to pick up.’ Then he remembered the serious business of the day and nodded for Jordan to continue.

‘She got up just after nine, picked the post up from the mat, made herself a cup of tea and went into the lounge. The first letter she opened was this.’ Jordan pushed across a transparent plastic bag. Inside it was a sheet of cheap quality A4 paper on which were pasted letters cut from a glossy magazine to form words.

Frost read it, his face grim, then passed it across to Gilmore. The message was short and chillingly to the point. THE NEXT THING TO

BURN WILL BE YOU, YOU BITCH.

‘Where’s the envelope?’ demanded Gilmore. This case was looking a little more worthy of his attention now. Jordan handed over another plastic bag containing a manila envelope, 9 inches by 4 inches. The address, typed in capitals, read: MRS COMPTON, THE OLD MILL, LEXING. It bore a first-class stamp and had been posted in Denton the previous evening. He motioned for Jordan to continue.

‘Next she heard this roaring sound from outside. She opened the lounge curtains and saw the summer house on fire, so she dialled 999.’ He closed his notebook.