A police car was parked outside the entrance to the apartment building and Frost slid his Sierra behind it. The burglary was at Flat 305 on the third floor. He thumbed the lift button, but nothing happened. A couple of swift kicks to the door hurt his foot, but failed to produce the lift, so it was the damn, stairs, when he reached the third floor he saw that the lift doors had been wedged open with a piece of wood, preventing the lift from operating. On to Flat 305 where an angry-looking woman opened the door to his ring and beckoned him in. 'The more the bloody merrier,' she said bitterly. 'No-one here when he robs us, can't move for bleeding police when it's all over.' Frost grunted his sympathy. Two uniformed men, Jordan and Simms, were already in the flat, Simms questioning an irate man who was slumped in an armchair. 'First bleeding night we go out together for ages,' he was moaning, 'and this flaming well happens.'

PC Jordan briefed Frost. 'Mr and Mrs Plummer. Went out just before eight o'clock to see the film at the Premier, got back quarter of an hour ago to find they'd been burgled.'

'The whole bloody evening was a wash-out,' wailed Mrs Plummer. 'Moan, moan, moan from him because he was missing the match on the telly. When we get back the stinking lift is out of order so we have to walk up three flaming flights of stairs to find we've been robbed, and on top of that it was a lousy bleeding film.'

'If we'd stayed in to watch the match like I wanted,' said her husband, 'this wouldn't have happened.'

She turned on him angrily. 'Oh – so it's all my bleeding fault now, is it? Just because, for once in my life, I wanted to go out.'

Frost shut his ears to the row. 'Any sign of forced entry?'

'No.' Jordan took him over to the front door. 'The letter box is in line with the latch. He probably hooked a piece of wire through and opened it that way.'