Wells didn’t catch who said it, as he put down the phone. It had been ringing constantly all morning – either Hartley-Jones again for the super, or the super’s wife, or the flipping press. A bunch of uniform had gathered in the lobby and were noisily debating the latest news from the South Atlantic that had just broken. ‘You can’t say that – we’ve got the same bleedin’ missiles!’ bellowed PC Jordan. The British destroyer HMS Sheffield had been hit by an Exocet missile. The Defence Secretary, John Nott, had addressed the House of Commons late last night, and it was all over the wireless this morning. ‘Yeah, but the Frogs gave the Argies the planes, too.’ ‘What? Like they just gave them away? Don’t think so, mate …’ The phone went again, and Wells waved at the officers to keep it down. ‘Denton Police.’ ‘Detective Frost, please,’ said a voice Wells recognized. ‘He’s out, I’m afraid.’ ‘It’s Harding from Forensics. We’re at Kenneth Smith’s house.’ The sweep, of course.
