‘Would I be bloody phoning you if it was here?’ hissed Skinner. ‘Of course the bleeding thing isn’t here.’

‘If you’d just hold the line, sir, I’ll check,’ said Wells, putting him on hold. A tinny synthesiser played the first few bars of the ‘William Tell Overture’ over and over again. After what seemed ages, Wells returned, sounding puzzled. ‘Are you sure it isn’t there, sir?’

Skinner took a deep breath. ‘Of course I’m bloody sure, Sergeant. Do you think I don’t know what a flaming police car looks like?’ At that moment an area car crawled round the corner.

‘All right, it’s here now – and it’s taking its bloody time.’ He clicked off the phone and shoved it back in his pocket.

As the car drew up alongside him, he opened the door, chucked his case inside and slid into the passenger seat.

‘Are you DCI Skinner?’ asked the driver, PC Jordan.

‘Who the hell do you think I am?’ snarled Skinner.

A big, fat, pig-headed bastard, thought Jordan, but he kept the idea to himself. ‘You could be someone who thought this was a taxi and just climbed in, sir. It has happened before, so I always like to check who my passenger is.’

‘Well now you bloody know,’ snapped Skinner. This officer was too cocky for, his own good. He’d better watch his step or he’d be following Frost out of Denton.

Jordan exchanged raised eyebrows and pulled down mouth with his observer, PC Simms, then spun the car round to head back to the station. They drove in silence.

The radio crackled. ‘Control to Charlie Simms. Are you anywhere near Milk Street?’

‘Just passed it,’ answered Simms. ‘Why?’

‘A Sadie Rawlings, 13 Milk Street, has reported an abduction – her two-year-old baby son. Inspector Frost is on his way. He wants you to meet him there.’

‘We’re taking Detective Chief Inspector Skinner to the station. We’ll drop him off first. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.’