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SUNDAY, 5 A.M.

Kim turned over in bed to end the dream of someone banging on her front door.

Barney leaped off the bed and down to the floor.

She opened her eyes, but the dream didn’t end. Someone really was hammering on the front door.

Barney’s ferocious barking was now adding to the noise, mirroring her own thoughts. Nothing good came from a 5 a.m. wake-up call.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she cursed as she threw on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a tee shirt.

She briefly considered shouting out of the bedroom window, but her rage demanded that she abuse this person face to face.

She grabbed her phone from the bedside table where she’d left it only three hours ago. The movement lit up the screen and showed she had no missed calls or text messages from Keats, the station or any members of her team.

Oh, they sure were gonna get it now, Kim thought as she stomped down the stairs.

Unless the person knocking was being threatened by an axe-wielding psychopath, this intruder was going to get kicked across the street.

She threw open the door wearing the expression that her work colleagues called her ‘fuck off’ face.

The expression froze as Barney’s barking stopped upon seeing the person responsible for the disturbance.

‘What the hell, Frost?’

‘I need a word,’ the reporter said, pushing past her.

‘Well, make it a good one cos it’s gonna be your last,’ Kim said, still standing beside her open front door. The dream had become a nightmare.

‘Seriously, we need to talk,’ Frost said, reaching down and patting Barney’s head, and the traitorous animal allowed it.

Kim closed the door, resigned to the fact Frost was in her house now, and dynamite wasn’t going to shift her until she’d said what she was here to say.

‘Put the kettle on and make mine strong,’ Frost said, taking a seat at the breakfast bar.

‘I will put the kettle on, but I’ll be making yours to go,’ Kim said, searching for the travel mug she knew she had somewhere.

‘You need to see this,’ Frost said, taking a sheet of paper from her pocket.

It was only then that Kim realised the woman hadn’t paused long enough to grab one of her treasured designer handbags.

In fact, on closer inspection, her whole appearance was a shambles.

The smart trousers she usually wore had been replaced with Lycra leggings. The skyscraper high heels used to disguise a limp had been replaced with running shoes, and a stained tee shirt was visible as she took off her jacket. She wore a pensive expression rather than cosmetics on her face.

Kim took the piece of paper and unfolded it. Immediately, she could see it was an email addressed to Frost.

Dear Ms Frost,

First of all, you should know this is not a joke.

It is a game, and you will play. If you follow instructions, no one will get hurt.

You will not miss the first, but you will miss the next.

The game will begin at 7 a.m.

Assemble your team, including one high-ranking police officer.

Post updates on the progress of the game every 6 hours on the Dudley Star website naming the Jester.

Updates to begin at noon. Failure will have consequences.

The game will end at 7 p.m. Monday.

Make no mistake. Play the game or people will die.

The Jester

Even knowing it was a printout, Kim turned it over and checked the other side.

‘You woke me up at this time on a Sunday morning for a crackpot email?’ she asked, pushing the paper back towards Frost and turning to the kettle.

‘It came in at 4 a.m.,’ Frost offered.

‘Even I don’t need to tell you how sad it is that you’re checking your emails that early on a Sunday morning, and all that tells me is that the person yanking your chain has insomnia.’

She shrugged. ‘Hardly the point. What are we going to do about it?’

‘Well, I’m planning on throwing you out and going back to bed, but…’

‘You don’t think we need to do something?’

‘Frost, I’m pretty sure you’ve had dodgy emails before. Probably even death threats, which I can understand – some of them may even have come from me – so why are you taking this one seriously?’

Frost pushed the paper back towards her. ‘There’s no sensationalism. It’s precise, it’s to the point. It doesn’t ramble. It’s well written, it’s grammatically correct and it’s very clear that people will get hurt.’

‘You’re taking it seriously cos the sender knows how to use spellcheck?’ Kim asked, picking the page back up.

She read the message again and could kind of see Frost’s point, but she remained unconvinced. It was an email to a reporter.

‘It’s a hoax. A prank,’ she said with a little less conviction than she would have liked.

‘You might be right, Stone,’ Frost replied. ‘But what if you’re not?’

Kim considered the implications for a good ten seconds.

And then she reached for her phone.