It was the retirement party tonight. Police Inspector George Harrison was leaving the force after twenty-eight years in Demon, and the division was throwing a big farewell thrash for him in the station canteen. Although officially on duty, Frost had set his heart on attending and was going to take the first presented opportunity to sneak up there. Which was why his old blue-striped wedding suit had been pa rolled from its moth-balled prison. He could have done without Shelby’s newfound efficiency in finding this lousy dead body.

Frost fished a battered packet from his mac pocket and worried out a cigarette. “You’d better fill me in with some facts. How did you find him, and why the hell didn’t you pretend you hadn’t seen anything and leave him for the morning shift?”

“Well, sir, I was driving past on watch when I noticed the metal grille across the stairs had been forced back…”

“Hold on,” said Frost. “You know what a slow old sod I am. What were you doing driving down this bloody back street at this time of night?”

“It’s part of my beat, sir,” protested the constable, looking hurt. “It has to be covered.”

“Highly commendable,” sniffed Frost, spitting out a shred of tobacco, ‘but next time there’s a party, stick to the main roads. And speed it up, son. The beer’s going to run out before you reach the punchline.”

“Well, sir, I stopped the car, got out, and checked the grille.” He directed his torch toward the sagging grille and they both moved forward to examine it. “As you can see, the padlock has been forced.” Frost gave the padlock the briefest of glances and stared pointedly at his wristwatch. Taking the hint, Shelby speeded up his narrative. “As you know, sir, these toilets are locked up at eight o’clock.”

“I didn’t know,” grunted Frost. “I always pee in shop doorways.”

“Anyway, sir,” continued Shelby doggedly, “I thought I’d better investigate.”