DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

Eustace.
    As Allen left the office, Mullett jabbed the button on his internal and again asked if Mr. Frost had arrived yet.

    The minute hand of the clock in the lobby gave a convulsive twitch and clunked nearer to twelve noon. The tall, thin, angular woman in the green coat, clutching the handbag, shifted her position on the uncomfortable seat and focused hard black eyes on Sergeant Johnny Johnson, who was doing everything possible to avoid her piercing gaze. Come on, Jack Frost, he said to himself. The Super wants you, this old dear wants you, and we all want you, so where the hell are you? He must have murmured this aloud, because the woman was now staring at him suspiciously. He grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think he’ll be too long, madam.”
    Her sharp chin thrust forward. “It just isn’t good enough. A woman is brutally assaulted and then completely ignored by the authorities.”
    “If you’d like to leave details, I’ll pass them on to Mr. Frost the minute he arrives,” suggested Johnson.
    “Leave details?” She pushed herself up from the bench, her voice rising with her. “Am I hearing you correctly, Sergeant? I demand to be allowed to talk to a senior policeman, and I insist that a woman police officer be present.”
    Mullett, crossing the lobby on his way back to his office, paused. This sounded like trouble. He walked over to the sergeant. “Who is this lady?” he asked.
    “A Miss Norah Gibson, sir. She claims she has been raped.” Johnson stressed the word ‘claims,” but Mullett failed to take the hint.
    “Raped? And you’re making her sit out here and wait?” he gasped incredulously. “Good Lord, Sergeant, where’s your common sense? If the Denton Echo got hold of this . . .”
    “Er, if I could have a quiet word, sir,” said Johnson, lowering his voice so the woman couldn’t hear. But Mullett was already on his way over.
    “Good morning, madam. I am Police Superintendent Mullett, the Denton Divisional Commander. Do I understand you’ve been . . .” He hesitated for a second before bringing himself to say the word ‘raped'?”
    Her knuckles tightened on the strap of her handbag. “That is correct, but it seems no-one wants to know.”
    At that moment, Frost breezed in, saw the Superintendent, saw the woman, and quickly backed out. But not quickly enough . . .
    “Inspector Frost!” bellowed Mullett.
    “Sir?” said Frost, coming in again as if for the first time. He acted surprised to see the woman. “Hello, Norah. What are you doing here?”
    Her eyes iced over. “Miss Gibson to you,” she spat.
    “She’s been raped,” said Mullett.
    “She should be so lucky!” said Frost.
    Mullett’s face went red. He had to compress his fists to control himself. He inched his face very close to Frost’s and said through clenched teeth, biting off and spitting out each word, “Get a woman police officer and also someone capable of taking a statement, and join me immediately in the interview room.”
    He turned to the woman. “If you would kindly accompany me, madam?” As he led her to the interview room she turned and beamed Frost a thin, tight smile of smug satisfaction.
    Frost looked up at the ceiling for sympathy. “Why does that stupid, horn-rimmed bastard always want to interfere?” He lowered his head as Webster, engrossed in conversation with Detective Constable Susan Harvey, pushed through the swing doors.
    “Hold it, you two,” he called. “We’re wanted in the interview room. A lady’s been raped.”

    Mullett sat the woman down, phoned for a cup of tea to be brought in for her, stressing that he wanted a cup, not a chipped enamel mug, then looked at his wristwatch to time how long it took Frost to obey a direct order. He didn’t have to wait very long. The tea arrived, followed closely by Frost with that reject from Braybridge and the good-looking Susan Harvey. Frost had a blue folder tucked under his arm.
    Susan drew up a chair next to the woman to give her moral support. Frost leaned against the wall, a cigarette drooping from his mouth. Mullett wished he would smarten himself up a bit. And he wished the man wouldn’t slouch in that slovenly manner. He looked more like a street-corner layabout than a detective inspector.
    When Frost was satisfied that Webster was ready with his shorthand notebook he dropped his cigarette end on the floor, then gave Miss Gibson a disarming smile. It failed to disarm her.
    “If you’d like to tell us what happened,