DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

through the pockets of that sodden jacket churned up his stomach. He wished the Chief Constable's nephew was here so he could give the job to him.
    He walked behind the man who followed him with piggy eyes, screwed up to keep him in focus. What a ghastly sight, the enormous seat spread over the floor, the back seam of the trousers gaping where the thread had given up the struggle to contain the vast, flabby girth. And then Frost's eyes narrowed and he spotted a flat bulge in the back pocket.
    "Is this your wallet, Paddy?"
    The man squinted suspiciously at the brown leather object dangled in front of his face, then something like a smile revealed black stumps.
    "Well . . . and how did that get there? I never keep it in my back pocket."
    Frost opened it and flipped through the thin wad of notes. "Fifteen . . . All right you drunken sod, count them."
    "No need, sir, if you say they're all there . . ."
    Frost's foot swung back threateningly. "Count them, you sod."
    "Yes, sir, of course, sir, all there, sir. Thank you, thank you . . ."
    The young constable expelled an audible sigh of relief.
    "Right, son, now call the ambulance and see how soon they can get this stinking rat-bag out of here. If he shows his face again, think of a charge and book him. I'll support you."
    Stringer suddenly caught sight of someone behind the inspector's back and his face tic-tacked a warning. It was Mullett, resplendent in a beautifully tailored topcoat, white gloves in hand.
    "What's going on here?" he asked, coldly.
    Seeing a possible ally, a crafty look crossed the drunk's face. "I broke my leg outside, sir, and I've had nothing but abuse since I've been here. And that man kicked me." , Frost caught Stringer's eye and jerked his head toward the phone. The young constable took the hint and slipped off to call the ambulance. The sooner they got the drunk off the premises, the better.
    "Bit of a new development with that skeleton, sir," ventured Frost, hoping to change the subject, but Mullett, deeply concerned with an allegation of police brutality toward a poor injured Irishman, waved the inspector to one side and moved forward to question the man on the floor. At which instant the laborer turned a pale shade of green, gulped, and was copiously sick all over Mullett's shoes.
    Frost suddenly felt a warm, friendly, loving feeling toward the drunk and wished he'd been kinder. There's good in all of us, he thought, as Mullett scuttled away to clean himself.
    The diversion over, Frost returned to his office for a smoke and a bloody good laugh, when his phone summoned him to the old log cabin where Mullett, who had heard about the attack on Mrs. Uphill, proceeded to give him a roasting. How could Frost, an experienced officer, let her go out on her own with all that money? If that wasn't just asking for trouble - Frost countered by sniffing repeatedly, staring at Mullett's shoes, and asking if they could have the window open. The bloody man never let a wound heal without grinding half a pound of rough salt into it. Of course, he should have had Mrs. Uphill followed, but he couldn't think of everything. He wasn't bloody Gideon of the Yard, he was Detective Inspector Jack Frost, G.C., jumped up from being a lousy sergeant to a lousier inspector. He hadn't asked for promotion.
    These silent thoughts were stopped from being put into words by the intervention of the telephone. Mullett handed it to him. It was Clive Barnard from the hospital.
    Mrs. Uphill had regained consciousness.
    "Right," said Frost, "I'm on my way." Then he turned to Mullett. "By the way, sir," he said, trying to sound casual, "I've put the Electronics Theft file on your desk. We caught the bloke tonight."
    "Oh yes?" said Mullett, giving it a curt glance and dropping it in his "Out" tray. "One of Inspector Allen's cases, wasn't it? He had it all but tied up before he went sick."
    Frost shut the door carefully behind him, then swore loudly, long, and ineffectively into the empty passage.

TUESDAY (6)

    As he pushed through the hospital entrance doors, it all came back to him. The smells - over-cooked food and disinfectant. The sounds - moans, muffled sobs, hushed worried voices. He'd had them, twice a day, for six months when his wife was slowly dying. The end bed with the screens, and "You can stay as long as you like, Mr. Frost."
    Clive Barnard, slumped moodily on a hard wooden bench, rose at the inspector's approach and led him into a side ward where a white-faced Mrs. Uphill,