pension,’ he muttered moodily, letting the wind extinguish the match.
The sky was black and heavy with rain and the graveyard looked as lonely and as miserable as a graveyard should look at half-past ten on a cold, wet night. They were in the old Victorian section among weather-eroded angels who wept granite tears over the graves of long-dead children, and where overgrown grass straggled over the crumbling headstones and collapsed graves of their long-dead grief-stricken parents. Through the rain, way over on the far side, Frost could see the serried ranks of stark white marble marking the modern section, where the recently deceased slept an uneasy, decaying sleep. One of the cold marble headstones marked the grave of Frost’s wife. He hadn’t visited it since the funeral.
Detective Sergeant Gilmore, shutting his ears to Frost’s constant moanings, was squinting his eyes, trying to focus through the lashing rain to something over to the left, near an old Victorian crypt. Was it the wind shaking the ivy, or could he see someone moving about?
Frost peered half-heartedly in the direction of Gilmore’s pointing finger and grunted dismissively. ‘There’s sod all there. It’s the wind.’ He perched himself on the infant Jenkins’ headstone and sucked hard at his cigarette. ‘How long have we been here now?’
‘Eight minutes,’ replied Gilmore.
Frost ground his cigarette to death against the headstone and stood up. ‘That’s long enough. We’re going.’
‘But Mr Mullett said . . .’
‘Sod Mr Mullett,’ called Frost, scurrying back to the car. ‘If anyone wants to vandalize graves in this pissing weather, then good luck to them.’
Gilmore stared hard across the ranks of marble. The wind rattled the ivy again. There was someone there, he was sure of it. But a cloud crawled across the moon and it was too dark to see. When it passed, there was nothing.
The pub was packed, thick-fogged with eye-stinging smoke, and very noisy. Disco music belted out and voices were raised to overcome it. A group of teenaged girls, clutching vodka and limes, were shrieking with high-pitched laughter at the punchline of some dirty joke. No-one took any notice of the disc jockey framed by flashing disco lights up on the small stage, who was chewing a microphone to announce the next number. In counterpoint to the throbbing beat of the disco, a drunken Irishman in the far corner was singing ‘Danny Boy’ in a high tenor voice to a fat lady in black who had tears in her eyes.
Gilmore was edgy. His very first night on duty in Denton and they had disobeyed Mullett’s express orders. He decided he would choke his drink down and tell Frost he was going back to the cemetery, as ordered by his Divisional Commander, and would continue the surveillance on his own if necessary.
By waving a £5 note Frost managed to grab the attention of the barman who lip-read his order. As he waited, he let his professional eye wander over the throng. The girls with the vodkas were silent, poised ready to shriek anew as the next joke reached its climax. The drunken Irishman had fallen in mid-song and was face down on the table while the fat lady, no longer tearful, thumbed through his wallet.
The main doors were still swinging behind someone who had left hurriedly and Frost recalled a face, a blur in the crowd that had seemed alarmed at the entrance of the two detectives. It was a face he should know, but couldn’t place. He shrugged. What the hell. They were here for a drink, not to feel the collar of some petty crook.
The barman pushed the two lagers across and was back from the till with Frost’s change when the bar phone rang. He answered it, then, holding the receiver aloft, yelled, ‘Is there a Mr Frost here?’
Frost swapped worried glances with Gilmore. Who knew they were here? Flaming hell, had Hornrim Harry sent his narks after them to report on their every movement? Gingerly, he took the phone and pressed it tight against his face, his finger jammed in the other ear to deaden the background noise. The caller was mumbling and he couldn’t hear what the man was saying. ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ he shouted and then, as clear as a bell, he heard the words ‘dead body’. ‘Say that again?’
‘Seventy-six Jubilee Terrace. Upstairs bedroom. The old girl’s dead. I think the husband’s killed her.’
‘How did you know I was here? Who’s this speaking?’
A click as the caller hung up. Frost swore to himself