DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

you’ve arranged with your mate Sir Charles, you go right ahead. I just don’t want to know about it.” The slam of the door as he left rattled everything moveable in the office.
    With only a brief frown at the manner of the inspector’s exit, Mullett sighed, relieved that the unpleasantness was over. He picked up the phone and dialled the ex-directory number Sir Charles had given him.
    “Hello, Sir Charles. Mullett here. That little matter we discussed. I’ve put it in hand, sir . . . Not at all, Sir Charles . . . my pleasure.” He hung up and tapped the receiver lightly with his fingertips. Most satisfactory. Sir Charles wasn’t the sort of man who would forget a favour.

    Fuming and desperate for something to kick, Frost stamped back to his office. The wastepaper bin provoked him by standing in his path, so he booted it across the office floor. It bounced off the desk leg and voided its contents all over the feet of the scowling, I'm-going-home-and-just-you-try-to-stop-me Webster.
    “Sorry, son,” muttered Frost, crashing down in his chair, ‘but there are some rotten shits in this station, and they’re all called Mullett. You’ll never believe what’s happened. Shut the door.”
    He told the detective constable of the scene in the Divisional Commander’s office. Forgetting for the moment about going home, Webster sank into his own chair and listened with growing incredulity.
    “You mean he destroyed the statements we took?”
    “Yes, son. I think it’s called perverting the course of justice, but if you’re an MP with five thousand quid to spare, then it’s called a slight bending of the rules for a good cause. Sod the crime statistics, sod the overtime returns, and sod our beloved Divisional Commander. I’m going home.”
    That was when the internal phone rang.
    Control reporting another rape in Denton Woods.
    A seventeen-year-old girl.

    Bodies aching, feeling tired, dirty and gritty, Frost and Webster headed back to the car, which seemed to have been their home for most of the long, long day. As usual, Webster was driving too fast, but the dark streets were deserted and they passed no other traffic.
    They reached the woods to find the ambulance had beaten them to it, its flashing beacon homing them into a lay-by alongside Charlie Alpha. The rear doors of the ambulance were open, and already the victim was being loaded into the back.
    The wind whined and shook the trees, sending a confetti shower of dead leaves on Frost and Webster as they hurried across to the victim. The girl’s eyes were closed and one side of her face was swollen and bruise-blackened where she had been hit. All the time she shivered and moaned. Very carefully, Frost tugged down the blanket to expose her neck. And there they were, the familiar deep, biting indentations of the rapist’s fingers.
    “Isn’t it about time you had a go at catching the bastard?” asked one of the ambulance men, who had a young daughter.
    Frost said nothing. What the hell was there to say?
    The ambulance lurched forward and sped on its way to Denton Hospital, its siren screaming for the road to be kept clear.
    They turned their heads at approaching voices. Along the path came two police constables, Simms and Jordan. Between them was a youth of about nineteen. He had dark hair, tightly curled, and wore a gray jacket with black trousers. There was a swagger about him that reminded Frost of Dave Shelby. As the group came nearer he could see that there was a raw scratch running down his right cheek to below his chin.
    Simms pushed the youth forward. “This is Terry Duggan, Inspector. The girl’s boyfriend. He found her.”
    “Hello, Terry,” said Frost, his eyes noting that in addition to the scratch on his face, there were nail rakes on the back of his wrists.
    “The girl’s name is Wendy Raynor, she’s seventeen, and she works part time in a shop. They’d been to a disco . . .” began Simms.
    “Let Terry tell me,” said Frost.
    “We left the disco at about half ten,” said the youth. “We had to leave early because her parents wouldn’t let her stay out late. On the way back we had this row, so she jumps out of the car and stomps off home on her own.”
    “Slow down, son,” interrupted Frost. “I’m not at my brightest at this time of night. What was the row about?”
    The youth gave a sheepish grin, blushed, and moved his hand vaguely. “You know, just trivial stuff - a difference of opinion.”
    “And she made you stop