DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

for your chaps, but I didn't really expect I'd have to stand here and answer all these questions. I've got an urgent appointment and I'm late now."
    Frost sympathized with him. "It's usually the way when you try and help, isn't it, sir? Makes us all the more grateful when, in spite of it all, the public still bothers to assist us. You've got the gentleman's particulars, Constable?"
    The police driver handed him the man's driving license. Frost flipped through it; it was all in order. Barnard returned from his search and gave the thumbs-down sign.
    "You didn't spot a carrier bag, I suppose, sir?" asked Frost on the off-chance.
    The man shook his head emphatically. "I'm afraid I can't help you any more." His hand moved to the door handle.
    "Just before you go, sir, do you think we could take a look in the boot of the car?"
    "The boot? Look - I just stopped to report an accident."
    "Won't take a minute, sir. There's some money missing and my superior would take it amiss if I deviated from my usual high standards and let a car go off unsearched. If I could have the keys, sir . . ." He held out a demanding hand. The key-ring was thrown into it.
    Frost opened the boot and switched on his torch. "Be over in a flash, sir, I - " And then Frost paused, at a loss for words. The boot was full of small, expensive electronic calculating machines of the type reported stolen from Buskin's Electronics on the Factory Estate. The case inherited from Inspector Allen. The case that Mullett had ordered him to treat as urgent. A quick radio call to Control confirmed that the serial numbers tallied.
    The inspector sighed at the thought of all the paperwork this would involve. "On any other day I'd have been overjoyed to have copped you, sir. Why did it have to be tonight?"
    "What rotten stinking luck," snarled the man bitterly. "I could have driven straight past . . . left her there to die and got away with it."
    "You couldn't, sir," said Frost, softly, "you're not that sort of person. You're very much like me. We do the right thing and get ourselves into trouble. You wouldn't have a cigarette on you by any chance, would you?"

    Frost pressed down his stapler and impaled details of the evening's arrest in a prominent position on the front of the Electronics Theft file which he proudly dumped, with a two-fingered salute, on the Divisional Commander's barren desk. That would wipe the smile off Mullett's face I when he came in the next morning.
    What to do now? Barnard was still at the hospital waiting for Mrs. Uphill to regain consciousness, and no lone had time for a chat as they were all busy clearing their desks ready for the next shift to take over at 10:00 p.m.
    Sounds of a commotion in the lobby promised a welcome diversion and he followed the unintelligible swearing, grunts, and calls for assistance to find young Keith Stringer struggling with a fat drunken Irishman from the local building site who'd apparently staggered out of a pub, slipped in the snow and broken a leg, and had then dragged himself through the slush to the station where he demanded immediate medical attention and flailed his fists at anyone who tried to get near. As Frost arrived the man was sprawled on the lobby floor, his hands locked round Stringer's legs, trying to crash him down.
    Frost ambled over and kicked the laborer's hands away. Small, red-rimmed pig's eyes squinted up with unveiled hatred and the slobbering mouth spewed mindless obscenities. The inspector lit a cigarette and looked down with disgust. The man's clothes were Filthy and sodden and at some stage he had been sick down his coat. He stank of whiskey, vomit, and blind hatred. Anaesthetized by drink, the man felt no pain from the fracture and was able to heave himself up, pulling on Stringer's trouser legs for assistance then, looking slyly apologetic, suddenly swung a meaty fist at Frost which, had it landed, would have felled him. But Frost saw it coming. His foot shot out and hooked round the man's good leg, sending him crashing to the floor with a scream of pain which hinted it hadn't done the broken leg much good.
    "What's his beef?" Frost asked Stringer.
    "I'll tell you," screamed the Irishman. "He's pinched my wallet."
    Oh no! thought Frost, not again, and he turned to Stringer who shook a drawn face in mute denial.
    "Fifteen pounds there was in it, sir. Fifteen pounds I had when I came in."
    "Shut up!" snapped Frost, steeling himself. He'd have to search the man and the thought of going