February had arrived on the wings of a vengeful wind that whipped off the ocean and flung a chill flurry of salt-tanged rain into the face of any soul wilful enough to venture out. Rina Martin, with sixty-three winters behind her, was not about to be driven inside by this one.

She marched sturdily along the promenade, the little wicker trolley with its uneven wheels ticking along behind her and the crepe soles of her embroidered leather boots squeaking slightly on the smooth slabs of fancy stonework the council had laid in the autumn to define the new pedestrian area. Rina had no truck with bad weather. In her opinion, it should be dealt with the same way as anything that misbehaved and that didn't respond to either a stern telling off or a quick slap on the legs: it should be stoically ignored.

Anyway, this morning she was a woman on a mission and a little bit of weather certainly wasn't going to slow her down. There were, unfortunately, some things that even Rina could not be stoical about and which she certainly could not ignore, and the break in at number 42 Newell Street fell firmly into that category. What was more, Rina was determined to make certain no one else ignored it either.

Rina wheeled sharp left at the end of the promenade and dragged her little trolley up the three steps that led to the big double doors. There was a newly installed ramp at the side of the steps which would have been somewhat kinder to the wheels, but Rina was in no mood for concessions. The doors of the police station, which faced directly on to a distinctly grey and irritable sea view, were firmly shut against the chill weather. Rina had expected that. What she had not expected at eight o'clock in the morning – a weekday morning at that – was to find them still locked.

'Well, really!' Rina hammered on the wooden door, bringing a response a few minutes later as the bolt was drawn back and a very young and slightly blemished face topped with a shock of bright red hair poked out.

'Oh!' The head was rapidly withdrawn. 'It's you, Miss Martin.'

Rina ignored the usual mistake; calling her Miss instead of Mrs seemed to be a common fault among the young and at this moment she had other, more important things to occupy her mind. She marched across to the desk and hammered on that too.

'Frank Baker, don't you dare try to run away from me. You get back here.'

Behind her, the red-haired and spotty boy stifled a giggle. Rina turned just long enough to stare him into silence then removed her attention back to the desk sergeant who was reluctantly returning to his post.

'It's the third this week,' she told him.

'Um, third what?'

'Oh, for goodness' sake. Third burglary. In our street. The third. I want to know what you're doing about it?'

Frank Baker looked askance. 'Third?' he said. 'Look, I'm sorry, Mrs Martin, I've only just come on. I've not had time to consult ...'

'Third,' Rina reaffirmed. She unfastened her coat and unwound one loop of scarf from around her neck. She was wearing two and they were a little too much in the warmth of the station foyer, but the Peters sisters had started knitting again and Rina didn't like to hurt feelings by choosing one woollen offering over another. 'We had one patrol car round last night and poor Mrs Freer had to call a locksmith out herself to secure her back door. All your lot wanted to do was nail a bit of wood over the broken pane. What good, I ask you, would that have done?'

'I'm sure our officers would have left the place secure —' Frank Baker began.

'And how, pray, would she have been able to get out to the bins? Or let the cat into the yard? Mrs Freer walks with a frame, Frank Baker, as well you know. You can't expect her to trek all the way round from the front every time she wants to put a bit of rubbish out.'

'I'm sure, if she'd asked, they'd have called a locksmith for her, Mrs Martin.' Frank felt he ought to defend his colleagues even though as yet he had no idea what had been going on and, come to that, did not actually know Mrs Freer from Adam.

'Oh, would they indeed? They were there barely half an hour. Long enough to drink tea, then they were off, called to some night club or other. Tell me, Frank Baker, what's more important? An old lady scared half out of her wits after some thug broke into her house or some idiots who have drunk too much and got themselves into a fight?'

Frank knew he was on to a loser but he had to try. 'Mrs Martin, if the officers were called to an affray, then —'

'An affray, you call it? I call it drunken louts. If they want to beat seven shades out of one another, I say let them get on with it. Call an ambulance when they're done if you really must and charge them for the privilege. I ask again, which is more important, Frank?'

Frank Baker leaned across the counter, a dangerous move even if it was intended to be a reassuring one. 'Look, Mrs Martin ... Rina ... I'll get someone out this morning, I promise. We're not forgetting our other duties, you know.'

'I should hope not,' Rina told him calmly. 'I expect you to keep your word, Frank Baker, and whoever you send to see Mrs Freer, you'd better tell them to call on me as well.'

Rina took her leave, sweeping out of the foyer and pausing in the doorway to fasten her coat and re-loop her scarf. It was, she felt, her duty to allow some of the stiflingly warm air out and a little of the chill back in, just to reinforce the depth of her displeasure.

She jogged the wicker trolley back down the steps, aware that Frank Baker's gaze was fixed upon her right until the point that the door slammed shut. Seeing her off the premises, Rina thought. Then, with the storm front of her outrage somewhat spent, she walked back up the promenade, into the face of the gusting wind.

'That woman!' Frank breathed.

The red-headed probationer who had opened the door to the redoubtable Mrs Martin now stared at his sergeant.

'Is she really married? Poor bugger.'

'Hey, I'll not have you speak ill,' Frank told him. 'That's my job. Widowed she was, years since.'

'He die to get away, did he?' The probationer was risking displeasure, he knew, but he couldn't help himself.

'Get on with you. She's a good woman ... once you break through the barricades. A very determinedly good woman.' He frowned and glanced through the entries in the day book that he really should have read long before Rina arrived that morning. 'She's right, though. It is the third break-in of the week in that road.'

'Druggies, probably,' the probationer mooted.

'Maybe. Report says nothing was taken this time. The old lady screamed and they ran away. She was lucky,' he added seriously. 'They could have turned nasty on her.' He paused, checking the duty roster and glancing up thoughtfully at the probationer. 'Now, who shall we give this little job to?'

'Sir, I don't think ...' The colour had drained from his already pale face, leaving only blemishes and freckles behind.

Frank chuckled. 'Don't worry, lad, I wasn't going to throw you to the lions. I think I'll have a chat with Inspector Eden, suggest our new boy go and do the honours. Get a feel for the local population, like.'

'Oh.' The red-headed young man smiled and the colour returned, rising like a tie from his rather thin neck. 'Inspector McGregor,' he said. 'Nice one.'

'I don't need your...