‘A little village called Lexing – about four miles outside Denton.’ A blur of shops zipped past then the engine was labouring and coughing as it clawed up a steep hill and there was a smell of burning oil. Frost sniffed and frowned. ‘Do you know anything about engines, son?’

‘No,’ said Gilmore, firmly. There was no way he was going to mess up his new suit poking under the bonnet of Frost’s filthy car. They were now passing a heavily wooded area, with sagging, rain-heavy bushes.

Frost jerked a thumb. ‘Denton Woods. Right over the far side is where that schoolgirl went missing. She was doing a newspaper round, but never finished it. Her bike and her undelivered papers turned up in a ditch, but no trace of the kid.’

‘Had there been trouble at home? Could she have run away?’

‘Don’t know, son. It was Mr Allen’s case until he conveniently got the bloody flu. Now I’m lumbered. We’ll have to start reading through the file when we get back.’ He scratched a match down the dashboard and lit up, then remembered he hadn’t told Gilmore about the case they were driving to. ‘Married couple, in their mid-twenties, live in a converted windmill. Some joker’s been frightening the life out of them.’

‘How?’ Gilmore asked.

‘Lots of charming ways. Sending fake obituary notices – tombstone catalogues and things like that. They even had an undertaker call on them last week to collect the husband’s body. His poor cow of a wife went into hysterics.’

The car was now jolting and squelching down a muddied lane and the smell of burning oil was getting stronger. Frost wound down the window to let in some air, then pointed. ‘There it is!’ Looming up before them, imperfectly seen through the Cortina’s mud-grimed wind screen, was a genuine old wooden windmill, its sails removed, and painted a smart designer black and white.

Gilmore leant forward and craned his neck to take it all in. He was impressed. ‘That must have cost a few bob?’