She wasn’t a particularly pretty-looking kid, but perhaps the photograph didn’t do her justice.

The swing doors clicked together as the sergeant returned. Gilmore sprang to his feet. ‘My appointment with Mr Mullett…’

‘You’ll have to wait.’ Wells had no time for jumped-up newly promoted constables.

Gilmore felt he had to report to someone. He consulted his itinerary. ‘Tell Inspector Allen I’m here.’

‘He’s off sick. Everyone’s off flaming sick.’ The internal phone buzzed. ‘No, Mr Mullett, Mr Frost isn’t in yet. Yes, I did tell him nine o’clock. Yes, sir.’ He hung up.

Rain blew in from the lobby doors as a scruffy figure in a dripping mac pushed through. He peeled a sodden maroon scarf from his neck and wrung it out. ‘It’s peeing down out there,’ he announced, then his nose twitched. ‘Disinfectant and perfume. This place stinks like a tart’s slop-bucket.’

‘The disinfectant is from the cleaners,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘We had drunks throwing up all over the place last night. And the poncey scent is from the new boy’s aftershave.’ He jerked his head at Gilmore, who scowled back. ‘Mr Mullett’s been asking for you.’

‘He’s always asking for me. I think he fancies me. He likes, a bit of rough.’ He unbuttoned his mac to expose a crumpled blue suit with two buttons missing. The red tie beneath the frayed shirt collar had a tight, greasy knot and looked as if it had been put on by being pulled over his neck like a noose. He turned to Gilmore and held out a nicotine-stained hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’

Gilmore shook the proffered hand, his mind racing. A detective inspector! This rag-bag was a detective inspector? A joke, surely? But no-one seemed to be laughing. ‘You’ll be working with me,’ continued Frost.