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of a lifetime, one that would see him retire with his reputation restored. Or whether he was barking up the wrong tree. He’d grown scared, scared of the truth.
    And then the truth got scared of him. Three people he hadn’t been expecting at the usual rendezvous. That was a shock.
    He couldn’t stay awake. Sorry, Jack – you’ll have to find your own way now .
    Sorry, Denton .
    Sorry, Betty .
    Jack Frost sat in the Cortina, eating a chicken vindaloo straight out of the aluminium tray, plastic fork practically melting from the heat. The curry, from the new Denton Tandoori, was so hot it was nuclear. But very tasty. He hadn’t been able to wait to get home before tucking in. He checked his watch – just gone ten.
    Once more he peered through the windscreen at 8 Denton Close, a nice, detached modern house, with a steep pitched roof and a large chimney, and crazy-cladding running up the side of the building. A soft orange glow was coming from the curtained front room. There were shadows behind the curtains: people moving about. A weak light in one of the upstairs bedrooms went on again.
    Suddenly lights were going on and off all over the house as though the building itself were flashing out Morse code. But there was nothing in the way of either loud, antisocial noise, or indecent behaviour, from what he could see and hear.
    Having been bollocked by Control earlier, Frost felt he couldn’t ignore a request to check out a disturbance in Denton Close, seeing as he was heading home that way. Not that he’d rushed here, stopping to pick up the curry first.
    He took another mouthful of his and Mary’s dinner. The station on this Sunday evening was so understaffed that they’d had to send a detective on what should have been an area-car dispatch. Still, he was enjoying his dinner with no one nagging him.
    What’s more, there didn’t appear to be much of a disturbance.
    That Mullett had decided to channel resources towards lavish office furnishings and a new paint job, rather than paying for more staff and overtime, was not something he was going to worry about now, either.
    The radio crackled into life. Frost gave a start, swallowing rapidly.
    ‘Jack? Anything to report?’ It was Station Sergeant Bill Wells.
    ‘Bill? You still at the helm? It’s gone ten,’ Frost managed to reply, his mouth burning. He should have got a drink as well, a take-out can of lager.
    ‘Bloody well am,’ said Wells. ‘Just about to leave, though. Johnson’s finally turned up. But first, those two things you asked about,’ continued Wells. ‘Blake Richards, the temporary Aster’s security guard, is an ex-copper, ex-Met. Some problem in the past there. And second, the girl’s father, Steve Hudson? His uncle is Michael Hudson, the manager at Bennington’s Bank.’
    ‘Thought so,’ said Frost.
    ‘Word is, he’s the money behind his nephew’s car business, not to mention quite a few other ventures around town.’
    ‘Bill, you are the fount of all knowledge,’ Frost added, pleased with the information.
    ‘Well, the fount has now run dry, until tomorrow anyway. What’s with the disturbance?’
    ‘Quiet as a mouse here.’ Frost licked his fiery lips. ‘No doubt whoever rang it in had another agenda. Still, I’ll hang around for a few more minutes.’
    ‘That’s good of you, Jack.’
    ‘Do what I can in these straitened times. What’s keeping those area cars so occupied, anyway?’
    ‘Charlie Alpha’s tied up in Market Square, and Tango Bravo has a puncture.’
    ‘A puncture? I’ll try telling that to Mary,’ chuckled Frost, peering more keenly through the rain-splattered windscreen. ‘I’ll tell her to give you a tinkle when she doesn’t believe me.’
    ‘Oh, and Jack, I should warn you, Mullett was on the phone earlier this evening, wondering where you’d left the crime clear-up stats. He needs them first thing.’
    But something had caught Frost’s attention. ‘Got to go.’ Replacing the handset with one hand