DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

the front office. He'd sent the duty constable, young P.C. Stringer, upstairs to the canteen for his breakfast and was keeping an eye on things until his return. The damn phone would have to ring: a woman with some rambling story about teenagers smashing her window two weeks ago and she'd only just decided to report it and what were the police go ing to do about it? A blast of air sent his papers flying as the lobby doors opened, but he trapped them with a practiced elbow and looked up at the visitor. A young chap with a crooked nose and smart overcoat. He looked supercilious enough to be someone important, so Wells cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, "Be with you in a moment, sir."
    Clive nodded curtly. As he had managed to arrive in good time he hoped the sergeant wouldn't take too long on the phone and make him late for his appointment with the Divisional Commander. He roamed the lobby, studying the posters on the wall. Missing Persons, Foot and Mouth Disease Movement Restriction Orders and, everybody's favorite, the Colorado Beetle poster.
    His heavy overcoat felt cumbersome, so he slipped it off and carried it over his arm. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the murky glass of the swing door. It brought him to an abrupt halt.
    The new suit! It shrieked!
    In the dim lighting of the shop it had seemed tastefully conservative with, perhaps, a barely audible refined whisper of trendiness, but in the somber surroundings of the station the trendy whisper was a raucous shout. It was a disaster, and no time to race back and change. He huddled himself into a dark corner.
    P.C. Stringer, the duty desk man, returned to his post replete with bacon, beans, tea, and two slices. With his honest, open, freshly scrubbed schoolboy's face sur mounted with dark curly hair, he looked more like a sixth former than a policeman. He smiled at Clive with an air of helpful inquiry.
    "I'm attending to the gentleman," hissed the sergeant from one corner of his mouth while carrying on his phone conversation with the other. The young constable shrugged good-naturedly and settled down to peck out a report on an ancient black Underwood.
    At last the sergeant slammed down the phone and rubbed a sore ear. He turned to Clive with almost obsequious politeness.
    "Can I help you, sir?"
    It occurred to Clive that the sergeant was mistaking him for someone important. It also occurred to him that the sergeant wouldn't take too kindly to the knowledge that he had been abasing himself before the lowest of the low, a raw detective constable whose forehead still bore a ridge from a helmet. A quick explanation was vital.
    "Actually, Sergeant, I'm Detective Constable - "
    On the first syllable of "constable" the sergeant's smile froze solid: it shriveled to a tight glitter on the second and vanished chillingly on the last. The expression "his face went ugly" could have been invented for this moment. Clive plowed bravely on . . .
    " - Detective Constable Barnard. I have to report to Superintendent Mullett at nine o'clock, sir."
    So this was Barnard. This is the young bastard who's going to make it because of his uncle while people with seventeen years bloody service but without influential relatives . . . Wells twisted his neck to wall clock. A minute before nine. Pity. It would have been a pleasure to bawl him out for un-punctuality.
    Another blast of wind ruffled the papers on the desk as a figure in military uniform hurtled through.
    "Meeting?" he barked.
    "Third door on the left, sir." The man was already on his way. Wells returned his attention to his victim.
    "Oh, yes. Barnard . . . I remember. The Chief Constable's nephew, isn't it? I should have recognized the broken nose."
    Clive tightened his lips, said nothing, and stared at a spot just above the sergeant's balding head. Wells moved his gaze downward . . . and then he saw it -
    "Good God! Where on earth did you get that suit?"
    Clive flushed. "In London, Sergeant."
    "London? The last time I saw a suit like that Max Miller was wearing it. How much did you pay for it?"
    A deep breath. "£107, Sergeant."
    The sergeant's jaw thudded. "£107! For that? Take my tip, Barnard, don't wear it in the daylight. There's some very nervous people about." Shoulders shaking at his own witticism and his good humor restored, Wells jerked a thumb toward a polished wooden bench and bade Clive sit.
    "The Divisional Commander's tied up at the moment. I'll tell you when he's free."
    Clive sat.