Her gloved hand clutched her chest to hold the hurt of her fluttering heart. She needed help. Anyone’s help. A light was on next door where that awful young man with the motor bike lived. She staggered across and pressed the door bell. She could hear it ringing inside the house. No-one came. She pressed it again.

Upstairs in the bedroom, the man with the knife smiled to himself and patiently waited.

RD Wingfield

Night Frost

Monday morning shift

Rain slashed across the windows blurring the view of the dreary houses on the opposite side of the street. Liz Gilmore, kneeling on the settee, stared out moodily. It hadn’t stopped raining since they moved into this poky little house two days ago. Married three years and all they’d ever lived in was a succession of rented police accommodation. ‘I hate this lousy town,’ she announced.

She had never wanted to come to Denton. When the promotion came through she was hoping he’d be posted to somewhere exciting, somewhere with a bit of life – theatres, clubs, decent shops… not this boring little backwater.

Her husband, Detective Sergeant Frank Gilmore, twenty-four, stockily built with dark, close-cropped hair, checked his watch for the eighth time. He wished Liz would stop her moaning. He had so much on his mind. 8.45. In a quarter of an hour he would be meeting his new Divisional Commander to take up his first assignment as a newly promoted detective sergeant. He wanted to keep his mind clear. First impressions were important. Denton was a one-eyed town, but it was the first step on the ladder leading to dizzy heights. ‘It won’t be for long, Liz.’

She flicked back her blonde hair and picked up the local newspaper, the Denton Echo. The front page was dominated by a photograph of upturned, smashed and graffiti-desecrated headstones. Graveyard Vandals Strike Again, screamed the headline. Vicar Suspects Black Magic Coven. ‘Black magic coven,’ she muttered. ‘If I knew where it was, I’d join it. Probably the only bit of excitement in this dead-and-alive hole.’