Night Frost (6 page)

   "Everything all right, Mrs. Bartlett?" called Wells. "Yes, thank you," she smiled, pulling the red hood over her hair. "This gentleman here is going to bring Paula home for me. I’ve got her room all ready." She gave Gilmore a look of such implicit trust, he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. He opened the lobby door and watched as she crossed the road in the rain to hurry home and wait for her daughter.

   "Poor bitch," murmured Frost. "She comes in two or three nights a week."

   "You might have warned me," Gilmore snapped angrily to Wells.

   "You never gave me the chance," said Wells happily. To Frost he said, "Mr. Mullett wants to see you."

   "Sod Mr. Mullett," said Frost.

   "That’s what I say," said Wells, "but he still wants to see you."

In direct contrast to the arctic conditions in the rest of the station, Mullett’s office was a hothouse with the thermostat on the 3-kilowatt convector heater set to maximum. But the heat did nothing to soften the expression on his face which was pure ice as he waited for Frost, who was already nearly a quarter of an hour late.

   A half-hearted rap at the door. Unmistakably Detective Inspector Frost. Even his knock was slovenly. Mullett adjusted his chair to dead centre, straightened his back and curtly said, "Enter!"

   The door opened and Frost shuffled in. What a mess the man looked. The shiny suit with the loose buttons, creased and crumpled where it had received a soaking from last night’s rain and had then been dried over a radiator. His tie was secured with a greasy knot that looked impossible to undo and Mullett was sure that the shirt was the same one the inspector had been wearing for the past six days. Why was this flu virus perversely selecting all the best men for its victims and leaving the rubbish unscathed?

   Frost flopped into a chair. "Take a seat," said Mullett a split second too late. His lips tightened as he unlocked the middle drawer of his desk and removed the envelope from County HQ.

   Frost watched warily, wondering which of his many transgressions had come to light. He adjusted his face into a pre-emptive expression of contrition and waited.

    "I’ve never been so humiliated and ashamed in all my life," began Mullett.

   No clue here. Mullett had used these opening remarks many times before.

   "That an officer in Denton Division—
my
division—should be detected in forgery."

   Forgery? Frost’s mind raced. He had often forged Mullett’s signature on those occasions when his Divisional Commander’s authorization had been required and Frost knew it would not be forthcoming. But the last occasion was months ago.

   Mullett pulled out a wad of papers from the envelope and detached the
Strictly Confidential
County memo. The rest he pushed across to the inspector.

   Frost’s heart dropped with a squelch into the pit of his stomach. He recognized them immediately. His car expenses. His bloody car expenses, back like an exhumed corpse to accuse him

   "Ah—I can explain, Super," he began, frantically trying to dream up an excuse that would satisfy Mullett.

   But Mullett was in no mood for explanations. He snatched up the receipts for the petrol Frost was claiming to have purchased during the month. "Forgeries!" he snapped. "Twelve different petrol stations, but identical handwriting. Your handwriting, Inspector." He waggled the receipts under Frost’s nose and Frost could see that someone in County had done the Sherlock Holmes with his expense claim and had ringed in red ink all the similarities in the handwriting of the various receipts.

   "Flaming hell!" gasped Frost. "Here we are, down to less than half-strength, working double shifts, and some lazy sod in County has got the time to go through a few lousy petrol receipts." He tossed the expense claim back on the desk. "If I was you, sir, I’d damn well complain."

   "Complain?" shrieked Mullett. "I’m in no position to complain. One of my officers, an inspector, fiddling his car expenses . . ."

   "I wasn’t fiddling," said Frost. "I lost the proper receipts and had to make copies."

   "Copies! They weren’t copies. They were forgeries . . . and not even good forgeries at that!"

   Frost switched off his ears as Mullett ranted on, his face getting redder and redder, his fist pounding the desk at intervals. He wasn’t interested in what Mullett was saying, he was only concerned at what Mullett intended doing about it. This could be the chop, the heaven-sent opportunity his superintendent had been dreaming about for years. Then something Mullett was saying penetrated his filtering mechanism.

   "This could have been the end of your career in the force, but much against the grain, I have interceded on your behalf with County . . ."

   Interceded. Bloody hell, thought Frost. What’s the catch?

   Mullett stuffed all the receipts back into the envelope and gave it to Frost. "Resubmit your expense claim, but this time with proper, genuine petrol receipts and nothing further will be said."

   Frost sat stunned. This was too good to be true. He slipped the envelope in his inside pocket. "Right, Super, leave it to me." He rose, ready to take his leave before Mullett came to his senses.

   "This is your last chance, Inspector. One more slip up—just one—and . . ." But he was talking to an empty room. Frost had gone.

   Mullett sighed deeply. He unfolded the
Confidential
memo from County and read it again. It pointed out that he, as Divisional Commander, had signed Frost’s expense claim, certifying that he had checked it and found it correct. How on earth was he expected to check everything he had to sign? It was most unfair. And what was more unfair was that in getting himself off the hook; he had to get Frost off as well. Damn. He returned the memo to his middle drawer and locked it, then phoned Sergeant Wells saying he wanted a briefing meeting with the night shift in ten minutes.

The murmur of conversation stopped abruptly and every one sprang to their feet as Mullett marched into the Briefing Room. He frowned. There seemed very few people in attendance. A quick count . . . eight in all, six men and two WPCs. No sign of Frost. He raised his eyebrows at Wells, querying the small turnout.

   "This is all there is, sir," he was told. "Two more down with flu, plus Bryant and Wilkes still in hospital after the pub punch-up last week. Collier’s on the desk in the lobby standing in for me." 

   "And Mr. Frost?"

   "I did tell him, sir."

   Mullett’s lips narrowed. Typical Well, he certainly wasn’t going to wait for him. He looked around the room. The new man, Gilmore, smartly turned out, was in the front row. Next to him, a sullen DC Burton, all brawn and no brains. Burton was a good man to have at your side in an emergency, but he would never progress beyond the rank of DC.

   Mullett shivered and rubbed his hands together briskly. It was damn cold in here. "Sit down, everyone, please. Well, what we lack in quantity, I’m sure we more than make up for in quality." He let the half-hearted ripple of laughter die. "Firstly, I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Allen has suffered a set-back and will not, be returning to duty for some time . . ." His brow furrowed in annoyance as the door crashed open and Frost burst in.

   "The bloody canteen’s shut," announced Frost, looking round in puzzlement. "What’s everyone doing in here?" Then he spotted Mullett. "The briefing meeting! Sorry, Super . . . I forgot . . ."

   Mullett waited until Frost had found himself a seat right at the back. "I was just telling everyone the sad news about Inspector Allen."

   "Sad news?" echoed Frost, genuinely misunderstanding. "Bloody hell, he’s not coming back, is he?"

   When the laughter subsided Mullett gave a tolerant smile. "He won’t be back for some time. I was about to explain that, in the meantime, you would be taking over his cases. Our resources are going to be spread very thinly, so I don’t want any wasted effort. We’ve got two people tied up in the Murder Incident Room on this Paula Bartlett case. What’s the current position?"

   "It’s more or less fizzled out," said Frost, striking a match down a filing cabinet. "I can’t see any progress there until the body turns up."

   "Good," smiled Mullett, ticking off the first item on his pad. "Then on the basis of your assessment, Inspector, I’m closing down the Incident Room pro tem. This will release much-needed personnel to more urgent duties." He beamed as if that solved everyone’s problems, then frowned as he reached the next item on his list. "Another senior citizen burglary, over the weekend, Inspector?"

   Frost looked up. "That’s right, Super. Old lady living alone. He got away with about £80 in used fivers."

   "Correct me if I’m wrong, Inspector," said Mullett, "but this would be the sixteenth such break-in in three weeks, the victims all senior citizens?"

   Frost gave a vague shrug. "I haven’t been counting, but you’re probably not far out."

   "I am exactly right," snapped Mullett. "Sixteen—all senior citizens, most of them robbed of their life savings. What are we doing about it?"

   "What the hell can we do about it?" replied Frost. "He leaves no clues and nobody sees him. It doesn’t give us much to go on."

   "What does he take?" asked Gilmore. "If it’s jewelry have we got all the local fences covered?"

   "Good point!" agreed Mullett.

   "Of course I’ve got the fences covered," replied Frost "Even a dim old twat like me thought of that. If anyone tries to sell any of the loot, I’ll be contacted. But he takes very little jewellery. He concentrates on cash—used notes Many of these old people mistrust banks. They keep wads of banknotes in the house. They stick it in the wardrobe or in the middle drawer of the dressing table under the condoms and the leather knickers. They think no-one will find it there—but it’s the first place he looks."

   "You say there’s been no clues," said Mullett. "I understand people have spotted a blue van in the vicinity. That should give you something to go on. There can’t be that many blue vans in Denton."

   "Sixteen burglaries," said Frost. "In two instances, we found neighbours who claim they saw a van parked in the vicinity late at night. One thought it was a small blue van, another a biggish van, dark-coloured, could have been blue."

   "But it’s a lead," insisted Mullett. "Do a check on all blue vans."

   "Do you know precisely how many blue vans there are in the Denton area alone?" asked Frost, producing and waving a small notebook.

   Mullett flapped a hand. He didn’t want to know, which was a relief to Frost as he had no idea himself, although he was fully prepared to pluck an astronomical figure out of thin air if Mullett called his bluff "It doesn’t matter how many there are, Inspector. We’ve got a computer. It can churn out the information in seconds."

   "But the computer can’t check through it and knock on bloody doors and question people," said Frost. "That’s what us poor sods would have to do and it could take weeks—months—and still lead nowhere."

   Mullett gave Frost a vinegary smile. "It’s easy to be negative, Inspector. I offer suggestions, you offer objections. I’m getting a lot of flak from the press on this one. I want him caught now. That’s your number one priority. We haven’t got many men, but take as many as you like." He frowned with annoyance as Sergeant Wells’ hand kept flapping, trying to attract his attention. Not more of the man’s moans, he hoped. "Yes, Sergeant?"

   "With respect, sir. It’s all very well saying Mr. Frost can have as many men as he likes, but I’ve still got a night shift to run and I’ve hardly any men to do it. This flaming flu epidemic doesn’t seem to have hit the criminal fraternity yet."

   "I’m well aware of that, thank you, Sergeant, which brings me to my next point. We’re under strength so some things will have to go by the board. We are going to have to turn a blind eye to many of the minor crimes, even . . ." and he flashed a paternal beam in Gilmore’s direction, ". . .suicides which look slightly doubtful. We will not go out of our way to look for trouble. I don’t want any arrests for drunkenness, rowdiness, soliciting, illegal parking, loitering—anything minor like that. We just haven’t got the time or the manpower." He smiled at Wells. "So that should lighten your load quite a bit, Sergeant."

   "Yes, sir," mumbled Wells, doubtfully.

   "Fine," said Mullett, closing his notepad and turning to go. Then he remembered one other item. "Oh—Inspector Frost. I had a visit from the vicar of All Saints and Councillor Vernon this morning. They are very worried at this current wave of mindless vandalism in the cemetery. There was another incident over the weekend. How are the patrols going?"

   "What patrols?" asked Frost.

   "The anti-vandalism patrols I asked you to organize. I sent you a memo."

   "I never got it," said Frost hastily. It was probably buried somewhere in his in-tray together with all the other stupid rubbish Mullett kept sending him.

   "And I spoke to you personally about it."

   "Ah—so you did," agreed Frost, vaguely remembering Mullett chuntering something about graveyards, "but as you so rightly said, Super, we can’t waste time on these piddling trivialities."

   Mullett gave Frost a pitying shake of the head. Hadn’t the man any common sense? "There’s no such thing as a piddling triviality when a member of the town council is involved, Inspector. See to it right away—the vulnerable time seems to be between ten and midnight."

   "I’ve got no-one to send," said Frost.

   "Then attend to it yourself, Inspector. These are difficult times, so we act as a team. We’ve all got to pitch in." Mullett looked at his watch and yawned. It had been a long day and it was freezing cold in the Briefing Room. Time for him to get home to bed.

Monday night shift (1)

Rain dripped down the upturned collar of Frost"s mac. "How long have we been here?" he asked peevishly.

   Gilmore wriggled his watch free of his sleeve. "Five minutes."

   Frost hunched his shoulders against the cold, penetrating drizzle and wound his scarf tighter around his face to blunt the teeth of the wind chewing on his scarred cheek. As he stamped his feet to try and bring some feeling to his frozen toes, his wet socks squelched in his shoes. "This is all a bleeding waste of time," he muttered, rasping a match on a weather-eroded headstone. The match splintered, then flared to show the moss-blurred inscription: