Now that just had to be a joke. He waved his itinerary. ‘I’ve been assigned to Mr Allen.’

‘All been changed – Allen’s got the pox,’ said Frost.

‘He’s down with flu,’ corrected the station sergeant. ‘Half the damn station’s down with it, most of the others are on sick leave following Friday’s punch-up and the rest of us silly sods are dragged in on their rest day and working double shifts.’ The internal phone buzzed.

‘If it’s Mullett…’ said Frost, backing towards the exit doors.

It wasn’t Mullett. It was Control for the inspector. ‘The Comptons – the couple receiving the hate mail. They’ve had a fire – someone’s tried to burn their summer house down.’

‘On my way,’ said Frost, banging down the phone. He jerked his head at Gilmore. ‘Come on, son. If you like rigid nipples you’re in for a treat – the lady of the house is a cracker.’

‘But I’m supposed to report to the Divisional Commander,’ Gilmore protested.

‘You can do that when we get back.’

The internal phone rang. This time it was Mullett.

Frost grabbed Gilmore’s arm and hurried him out into the rain.

Frost’s old Ford Cortina was tucked out of sight, round the corner from the station car-park where, hopefully, Mullett wouldn’t spot it. While Gilmore waited in the pouring rain which was finding its way through his new raincoat, Frost cleared the junk from the passenger seat, including two mud-encrusted wellington boots which he tossed into the back of the car. ‘In you get, son.’

Gilmore scrubbed pointedly at the seat with his handkerchief before risking its contact with his brand new suit. His head nearly hit the windscreen as Frost suddenly slammed the car into gear and they were away.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, hastily clicking the buckle of his seat belt as the car squealed into Market Square, shooting up spray as it ploughed through an unexpectedly deep puddle.