DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

directly in the eye. “I believe him, Mr. Frost.”
    He smiled ruefully. “My wife used to believe me, love, but most of the time I was bloody lying.” For some reason he was beginning to feel uneasy. As if someone was watching him. He let his eyes wander around the adjacent tables. People were more concerned with their food than with him. Then he realized Sadie had been talking and he hadn’t been listening.
    “Stan wants to see you, Mr. Frost. He wants to arrange a meet.”
    “He’s been in touch?”
    She nodded.
    “Listen, Sadie. When he gets in touch again you can tell him that I don’t want to know. I believed him at first, but today we found the dead copper’s notebook smack bang next to Stanley’s getaway car. Unless he can explain that away, he can forget all about meets as far as I’m concerned.” He was all ready to slide off the bench and get the hell out of there when a shadow fell across the table. Someone was standing there, looking down at them. He slumped back and groaned. No need to raise his head. He knew who it was.
    Detective Inspector Allen, his lips twisted into a knowing, superior smile, his eyes glinting with the pleasure of having caught Frost out.
    “Well, well, well, and what have we here?”
    Shit! thought Frost, his eyes scanning the cafeteria. Plainclothes men everywhere. No wonder he had felt uneasy.
    “We thought she was meeting her husband,” Allen explained. “We followed her from the house.”
    “I’m sorry, Jack,” said Sadie. “I didn’t know the bastards were lurking.”
    Frost slouched back on the bench and sought the solace of a cigarette.It gave him something to do while he pulled his thoughts together. “I should have realized,” he said. “I’m bloody stupid.”
    “I would say criminally stupid,” said Allen, dumping himself down on the bench. “Just what do you think you are doing here, Frost? A prearranged meeting with the wife of a man who has murdered a young police officer?”
    “I asked Mr. Frost to see me for a private talk,” snapped Sadie.
    “Private?” asked Allen mockingly. “So, some parts of a murder investigation are suddenly private?” His head snapped around to Frost. “You had no business seeing this woman without my express permission.”
    Frost said nothing. The trouble was that Allen was one hundred percent right and bloody knew it, and was going to squeeze every last drop of advantage from it. But what the hell. He leaned across the table and pressed Sadie’s arm. “Try not to worry, love.” He stood up and pushed past Allen.
    “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” shouted Allen. But Frost was weaving his way through the tables.
    All right, thought Allen. You can walk away from me, Frost, but just wait until Mullett learns about this little caper of yours.

    “What joy?” asked Webster when Frost returned to the office and bundled his mac on the hat stand.
    “More misery than joy, son. I was caught red-handed by Old Clever Balls.”
    Serves you damn well right, thought Webster. “What did she want?”
    “Stanley wants to have a meet. I said no.”
    “She must know where he is then.”
    “I’m sure she does, son.”
    “Did you tell Mr. Allen?”
    “No. He’s so bleeding clever, let him find out for himself.” He chucked himself in his chair and shoved all the incoming post, unread, into his out-tray. “Any news from Arthur Hanlon on our dead tramp?”
    “He was asking for you,” Webster reported. “He says he’s spoken to all the unwashed and flea-ridden in Denton and can’t come up with anyone who saw Ben Cornish later than four o’clock.”
    Frost uttered a little sigh of disappointment. “We’re not getting very far with that case, are we, son? No-one seems to have their heart and soul in it. Hundreds of flatfeet looking for poor old Stan Eustace and all I’ve got is little fat Arthur Hanlon looking for the bastard who stamped Ben to death.”
    The door handle rattled and someone kicked one of the panels. Webster opened it to admit Sergeant Ingram, his arms full of files.
    “I was asked to bring you these,” he said. “They’re Mr. Allen’s files on the Denton rapist investigation.”
    “Put them on Webster’s desk,” said Frost, who certainly didn’t want them on his. He noticed how tired and drawn the sergeant looked. “Mr. Allen working you hard, is he?”
    “Hard enough,” said Ingram. “Mr. Allen said will you please keep his files in good nick.”
    “I’ll treat