‘Operator,’ he shouted over the thudding rain. ‘Get me the police… Denton police.’

Detective Inspector Jack Frost, slouched at the desk in his office, glanced up as lightning flashed and the overhead lights flickered off and on. He went to the window and looked out on the darkened car park, where stair-rods of driving rain broke the reflections in the puddles.

‘Look at that bleeding rain,’ he muttered to himself, glad he wasn’t out in it. One good thing about heavy rain: it kept most villains indoors.

He returned to his desk and his car expenses. Picking up his ballpoint he carefully altered a ‘6’ to an ‘8’.

There was a perfunctory tap at the door and Bill Wells, the station sergeant, entered. ‘Jack…’

Frost didn’t look up. ‘I can’t come out to play now, Bill. I’ve got my sums to do.’

Wells grinned. ‘You’re going to get caught fiddling those expenses one of these days, Jack.’

‘Not a chance,’ murmured Frost. ‘The devil looks after his own.’ He put his pen down. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘No time for that, Jack. Just had a bloke on the phone. He’s in Denton Woods – his dog has found a chopped-off human foot.’

‘Tell him to phone again when he’s found the rest,’ said Frost. Thunder rumbled and the lights flickered again. ‘I pity the poor sod you’re sending out to answer the call.’

‘There’s only you, Jack. Jordan and Simms are still at the hospital with that girl who was attacked in the car park.’

Frost chucked down his pen and took another look out of the window, hoping the rain was showing some signs of easing up. ‘Shit!’ he muttered. It was bucketing down worse than ever.

Bill Wells yawned, knuckled his eyes and checked the time. Two o’clock. Not a word from Frost yet. Time was creeping. The cells were empty. The usual quota of yelling, singing and vomiting drunks had been kept indoors by the weather. He didn’t have much to do.