DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

(4)

    Superintendent Mullett's knuckles drummed his desk top in a gesture of impatient irritation. How much longer was he expected to wait? Other officers treated a summons from their Divisional Commander as tantamount to an Imperial Decree, dropping everything in their eagerness to obey it, but Frost . . .
    A rap at the door. At last! Even the knock was slovenly.
    A pause as the blotter was moved fractionally to dead center and the silver-buttoned tunic pulled down to pristine smoothness.
    "Come in."
    And in he slouched, trailing that matted woolen scarf, disintegrating at one end. His shoes made damp marks on the carpet.
    Mullett flicked a disdainful hand to a chair. Frost sat on the edge, apprehensively.
    "I've just spoken to the head of Forensic," snapped Mullett.
    "Oh?" asked Frost innocently, yet knowing what was coming. That slimey sod in Forensic, trust him to waste no time in whining direct to Mullett.
    "Do you know how much it costs to send out a full, experienced team like that?"
    If I don't, I'm sure you're going to tell me, thought Frost, adopting an attitude of interested concern while slipping his hand into his trouser pocket to play the game of counting his small change by touch alone. It gave him something to occupy his mind while waiting for the superintendent to finish his moan.
    ". . . You panicked and you blundered. Even the newest member of the force would have checked first before calling out a complete forensic team to look at a dead cat."
    Fifty-three pence, thought Frost. Now let's see if I can stack them with heads on one side and tails on the other.
    "It wouldn't be so bad if we could keep the shame of your incompetence within the division, but now the press have got hold of the story. I've already had a reporter from the Echo asking for details. We'll be a complete laughing stock. It'll be all over County tomorrow, and if the Chief Constable reads it . . ."
    . . . bang goes your promotion, thought Frost, but aloud he said, "Sandy Lane's a pal of mine, Super. If it worries you so much I might be able to get him to drop the story."
    Mullett was so delighted he forgot to wince at the "Super." "Excellent. And I can handle the head of Forensic--we belong to the same Lodge." He beamed and stood to indicate that the interview was over. "We all make mistakes, but the secret is the ability to put them right, eh?"
    Frost dragged himself up. He was tired and his wet trousers were sticking clammily to the backs of his legs. He wanted to get back to his own office.
    "Oh," said Mullett as if it was an afterthought. "There's some more good news . . . er . . . Jack."
    Frost waited warily.
    "Inspector Allen will definitely be returning to duty tomorrow, so you'll be able to hand all your cases over to him. It . . . er . . . might be a good idea if you slowed down. now and concentrated on getting the paperwork up to date. I happened to look in your office earlier and quite frankly . . . the state of your desk . . . I was appalled. You might have to put a spot of overtime in, but it isn't often, and I know Inspector Allen would appreciate receiving things in apple-pie order." His candid smile turned to a perplexed frown as Frost swept out without a word, deliberately slamming the door behind him.
    A deep sigh. So uncouth! There must be some way of getting him transferred.
    Frost stamped down the corridor and poked his head into Search Control. "Any advance on one sheep?"
    Martin smiled. "A couple of other false alarms, Jack, but we seem to be running out of steam. If the weather holds, we'll start on the outlying areas tomorrow, but I can see all Christmas leave being stopped."
    "It'll be all over tomorrow," said Frost, cynically. "Tomorrow Inspector Allen will be back, which means the girl will be miraculously found, alive and well, the murderer of Garwood, the dog, and the skeleton will walk into the station and confess, bringing the stolen £20,000 with him, the snow will melt, poverty will vanish, and peace will break out all over the world. But until then, the usual diabolical balls-up from your friendly bemedaled hero."
    Back in his office he shrugged off his overcoat and hurled it to miss the hat stand. He kicked it into a corner, then sat on the hot radiator, baking steam from his damp trousers and trying to work up enthusiasm to tackle his desk which had received a fresh delivery of bumf since he was last in. He was getting Inspector Allen's work as well as his own and was neglecting to do either.