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boot of the Escort – to stem the bleeding.
Christ
, it hurt.
    Frost returned to the car after smoking two cigarettes outside the phone box. ‘Something special,’ Mullett had said. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. Smacked of a stitch-up, if he knew the super. He looked at the names and addresses the cab controller had given him and then at his watch: 12.05. Six hours’ sleep would be enough for a taxi driver; more than he ever got, anyway. He’d pay them a call before he headed back to Eagle Lane; the super’s special project could wait. The radio was crackling nineteen-to-the-dozen so before setting off for the lab he picked it up.
    ‘Afternoon, Bill. Lot of noise out there. What’s up?’
    ‘Sue Clarke, Jack. She’s been stabbed.’
    Frost held his breath, then said, ‘Where?’
    ‘Outside Baskin’s sauna place.’
    ‘Not where – I meant, is she badly hurt?’ Frost snapped.
    ‘In the leg. Lost a fair bit of blood. But hopefully nothing serious, mate,’ Wells crackled. ‘Myles took her over to the General. Sorry, I didn’t want to panic you – just thought you should know.’
    ‘She all right, though?’
    ‘She’s fine – probably.’
    ‘OK, thanks,’ Frost said, relieved. ‘I’m on my way to see Drysdale.’
    ‘Before you do, Mr Mullett wants you to call in at Singh’s the newsagent’s, on the Southern Housing Estate.’
    ‘Can’t he get his own newspaper?’ Flamin’ hell, he’d only just got off the phone to the man.
    ‘They’ve had a robbery – a gang of armed midgets, by all accounts,’ Wells explained.
    Frost choked on his cigarette. ‘Armed midgets? Do me a favour.’ He snorted. The first time he and Clarke had been on a date came to mind, when he was recuperating last year, to see a fantasy flick she fancied. ‘Maybe they’re the
Time Bandits
, though why anyone would want to drop in on Denton in 1982 is beyond me.’
    ‘Straight up. I took the call myself.’
    ‘Surely such a small problem can be handled by uniform.’
    ‘You know the super: anything involving shooters is CID.’
    Frost sighed, watching a fox leisurely pad across the road. ‘Can’t somebody else take this?’
    ‘Everyone else is out.’
    ‘
I’m
out!’
    ‘Sorry, Jack. And Jack, the vicar called again.’
    ‘Again?’ Frost exclaimed. ‘I only spoke to whatshisname, the church warden, on Saturday.’
    ‘Turner, George Turner.’
    ‘That’s him. I said, leave it with me and we’d catch the bugger. Blimey, it’s only Monday!’
    ‘He wanted to know how he was going to get the church roof repaired.’
    ‘I don’t bleedin’ well know: ask the Almighty. Or, better still, ask his punters to dig deeper next Sunday, ’cos that lead’ll be halfway to Eastern Europe by now.’
    Frost hung up. Poor Sue; he should really get over to Denton General. He’d go after he’d seen the cabbies. On top of that,
and
a dead girl, he was now being lumbered with a ‘gang of midgets’; well, he was adamant – somebody else could pick that up. He would do as planned and see Drysdale at the lab. So much for a quiet bank holiday.

Monday (4)
     
    IT WAS JUST gone one o’clock when Chris Everett arrived at the Denton branch of Regal Estates. Having abandoned the trains, he’d been out to Mount Pleasant in Rimmington to value a property, a three-storey Victorian terrace. Its owner, an attractive and recently widowed woman, had decided it was time to scale down.
    He nodded to Vicky, who was taking down details, phone cradled between neck and shoulder, and she offered up a half-hearted smile. Head office had applauded his initiative to open on bank holiday Monday but the girls had been none too pleased. He headed for his office at the back of the building, passing Sandra at the window, fiddling with the Lettings section. After quietly shutting the door he slid his leather briefcase on to the bare desk, flipping out the
Echo
from inside.
    Once again the front page was trumpeting the bravery of a