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Denton boy off to the Falklands. Every day it was the same – how many more spotty youths could there possibly be left to send? He flicked through the pages impatiently. Nothing – it must be too soon.
    He realized that killing the cat in the same way as the dog the previous week was presenting the police with a pattern, but they might not assume it was a local man, as he’d also had forays into Rimmington, including one unpleasant encounter with a Jack Russell. He didn’t feel too worried, though; after all, as regional branch manager of a respected chain of estate agents they’d never suspect him in a million years.
    There came a rap on the door. He looked up to see Vicky staring through the office window. He gestured at her to enter.
    ‘Afternoon, Chris,’ she said. ‘Good morning?’
    Everett grunted. ‘Pair of dithering old time-wasters first thing, then something more promising. I’ve the details here.’
    ‘Oh right,’ she said. Luckily his staff never questioned too deeply his movements or motives – he’d said he’d been valuing property in Rimmington – which made conducting a furtive double life that much easier. She ran through the morning’s events. ‘Just got another signing over at Baron’s Court. Shall I nip down to give it the once-over?’
    ‘Sure, you get over there.’
    ‘That’s the third from there in a fortnight,’ she added.
    Everett nodded approvingly. He realized the likely connection was Baskin’s new venture, but he didn’t let on; after all, he’d been meaning to give it a try himself, once all the hubbub had died down.
    ‘Good, good. Right, here’s the particulars of a nice Victorian place, Mount Pleasant area of Rimmington. Sole agency, owner selling due to bereavement. Very sad considering the two young kids.’
    ‘Oh – I read about that. A famous writer, wasn’t he? Had a heart attack?’
    ‘Yes, famous by Rimmington standards, at least.’ Everett laughed nervously, sliding the details over. ‘Right, I’ll just have a coffee and then I’m off up to town. That meeting at head office has been rescheduled for this afternoon.’
    Frost shivered as he entered the lab. No warm spring sun could penetrate this labyrinth of doom.
    ‘Morning, Sergeant. Or is it afternoon?’ said Drysdale, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘One loses track of time in here.’
    ‘Just slipped into the p.m., Doc,’ Frost replied, wishing he hadn’t left his mac in the car.
    ‘If you’re here about the young girl, she’s only just arrived. I’m about to take a look.’ As if on cue his assistant appeared through a set of double doors with a sheet-draped trolley.
    ‘Well, maybe I can give you a hand,’ Frost quipped sardonically.
    Drysdale raised an eyebrow and moved the trolley to align it with the overhead light. ‘Flying solo? Don’t you usually have a sidekick – the chubby fellow, or that attractive brunette?’
    ‘The chubby fellow’s burying his mother.’
    ‘Oh dear. He ought to take stock of his diet, that one, or he won’t be long behind her.’ Drysdale had removed the sheet and stepped back to survey the body, hands on hips as an artist appraising a fresh canvas. His assistant pulled out a small trolley of tools from the dark recesses of the lab. ‘And the girl?’ said the pathologist eventually, looking from the corpse directly at Frost.
    ‘DC Clarke is otherwise engaged.’
    Frost moved close to the corpse, his face inches away from Drysdale’s, which in the striplighting had taken on a greenish hue.
    ‘A bit of space please, Sergeant.’
    While Drysdale examined the girl Frost allowed his mind to wander. He wasn’t one to dwell on personal issues, but just lately he’d had more than his fair share. His wife had been unwell, but he’d found his sympathy lacking, believing it was largely an act – a ploy to stop him leaving her. But as the suffering dragged on and the visits to the doctor continued something had begun to nag at him: what if she