“She can’t have a high-ranking officer, Collier. All the high-ranking officers are upstairs getting pissed.” He snatched the phone from the constable’s hand. “Go out and keep an eye open for the Chief Constable’s Rolls… and get some bloody flowers.”

“Flowers?” queried Collier, but seeing the look on his sergeant’s face, prudently decided not to wait for an answer.

Wells stuffed a finger in his ear and put on his polite voice. “Yes, madam, can I help you?”

“What are you going to do about that bloody noise?” screeched the woman caller. “I’ve got three children in bed and they can’t get to sleep!”

“We’ll look into it, madam,” promised Wells.

The sliding panel that connected the lobby to the control room slid back and PC Ridley, the controller, poked his head through.

“I’ve got Dave Shelby on the radio, Sarge. He’s trying to get a body to the morgue. The ambulance men refuse to touch it. They reckon it’s too mucky for the ambulance.”

“Mr. Frost is handling that one,” said Wells.

“I can’t contact Mr. Frost, Sarge. He doesn’t answer his radio.”

“Typical,” snorted the sergeant. “Trust him to hide when there’s trouble.” He consulted a typed list of funeral directors. “Tell Shelby to try Hawkins in the High Street. They’re cheap, they’re not too fussy, and they keep begging us for work.”

“Right, Sarge.” The panel slid shut.

Wells was logging the last call in the phone register when he became aware of” an irritating tap, tap, tap. He raised his eyes. Someone had the temerity to be rapping a pencil on the desk to attract his attention. He jerked up his head and there was the new man, that sulky swine, the bearded Detective Constable Webster, with the usual scowl on his face, tap, tap, tapping away. Furiously, Wells snatched the pencil from the man’s hand and hurled it to the floor. Pushing his face to within an inch of the constable’s, he said, “Don’t you ever do that again, Webster. If you want to attract my attention you address me by name, then wait until I am ready to respond. Understood?”