He shook his head and erased the picture from his mind. Then he realized he still hadn’t broken the news to Ben’s mother. He sighed.

There were so many things he had left undone. Which reminded him

“Did you manage to finish the crime statistics?” he asked hopefully. cNo,” said Webster, ‘your figures didn’t make any sense.”

Frost nodded gloomily. They didn’t make any sense to him either, which was why he had passed them on to the detective constable. The returns were a monthly headache. This month Mullett had received a rocket from County Headquarters because, yet again, in spite of firm assurances, the Denton figures hadn’t been received on time. Fuming at his division’s failure, Mullett, in turn, had castigated Frost, and County had reluctantly agreed to extend the deadline by thirty-six hours. This deadline expired tomorrow.

“First thing tomorrow, son… as soon as we get back from the post-mortem… we’ll make a determined effort.”

Webster said nothing. Frost’s intentions were always of the best, but when the morning came, and the question of doing the returns was raised, Frost would suddenly remember some pressing reason why he and Webster had to go out. Webster badly needed to make good, but his chances of clawing his way back to his old rank of inspector were being sabotaged by his involvement with this hopeless, incompetent idiot.

“Left here,” directed Frost. Webster spun the wheel and the Wellington boots on the back seat crashed to the floor.

Frost leaned back and picked them up. “Must get the car cleaned up soon. We’ll do it as soon as we finish the crime statistics.”

High up, ahead of them, a large house, its grounds floodlit. “That’s the Dawson place, son. Dead ahead.”