DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

Mullett, replacing his cup on the saucer, ‘we all know how often, and how conveniently Mr. Frost’s radio breaks down. He’s to report to me the second he comes in, Sergeant.”
    When the sergeant left, Mullett relaxed enough to take from his drawer the envelope with the House of Commons crest. He drew out the gold-engraved invitation and the short note in Sir Charles Miller’s own hand thanking him for his assistance in the hit-and-run case and inviting Mullett and his good lady to a small social gathering at the MP’s house the following night at which the Chief Constable would also be present.
    Mullett’s pleasure at receiving this had almost outweighed his annoyance about the wretched business of the stolen police car. He had already had the press on the phone for his comments and he dreaded seeing the morning’s Denton Echo , which really seemed to have its knife out for the police these days.
    He ran his finger along the gilt edge of the invitation, and the contact made him feel better. Sir Charles Miller’s private telephone number was on the letter requesting that the Superintendent phone him personally to confirm his acceptance. He had dialled the number and was holding on while the butler went off to find his master when there was a knock at his door.
    “Wait!” ordered Mullett imperiously, but his command was ignored. The door opened and Frost ambled in, grinning from ear to ear.
    “I asked you to wait,” barked Mullett. Typical of the man. Never here when you wanted him, but ask him to wait and he comes bursting in regardless.
    “Hello, Mullett,” boomed Sir Charles at the other end of the phone.
    “I’ve just arrested Roger Miller,” Frost announced.
    Mullett’s mouth opened and closed. He looked at Frost, then looked at the phone in his right hand. “You’ve what?” he croaked.
    “Hello, Mullett, are you there?” asked a puzzled Sir Charles.
    “It was Miller who nicked that five thousand quid from The Coconut Grove the other night,” continued Frost proudly. “His girl friend was his accomplice; she’s given us a full confession.”
    Mullett forced a barely sustainable smile of commendation and then became painfully aware of the irritated voice barking out of the phone. He took a deep breath. “Hello, Sir Charles,” he said at last. “I’m afraid I might have a bit of bad news for you.” With his free hand he dropped the invitation into the waste bin. Its thud as it hit the bottom sounded the death knell of his current social climbing aspirations.

    “Well done, Jack,” called Johnny Johnson as the inspector trotted back to his own office. “How did Mr. Mullett take it?”
    “Well, he didn’t exactly kiss my feet,” replied Frost, "but at least it distracted his attention from the car I lost.”
    Frost had played his usual game of bluff and double bluff, aided by gambler’s luck, which was paying him one of its brief visits. First he and Webster had picked up the girl, Julie King, telling her that Roger Miller had been positively identified and had made a full confession implicating the girl as his accomplice. “The lousy bastard!” she said. “He promised to keep me out of it.” She then made a statement giving them everything they wanted. Armed with this, they arrested Roger, and, once he was in custody, Frost was able to issue instructions for his flat to be searched. To Frost’s Academy Award-winning act of stunned surprise, the exclusive handmade brown-and-cream shoes were found. These were later identified by Croll as those worn by his attacker. And tucked away, right at the back of a built-in cupboard, they found a Stan Laurel mask.
    Then the uninteresting bit. The paperwork and the tying up of the various loose ends. This was interrupted at one stage by a phone call from Harry Baskin, who had obviously been contacted by Sir Charles Miller. He said he didn’t want to prefer charges.
    “This isn’t a civil case, Harry,” Frost had told him. “It’s a criminal charge, so you’ve got no say in the matter.” It was another two hours of comings and goings with Miller’s solicitor and the director of the Public Prosecutions Office before Frost was able to turn his mind to more important matters.
    “The rape case, son,” he informed Webster, “I want to make a move on it tonight.”
    “Tonight?” repeated Webster, hoping he wasn’t hearing correctly. He had intended spending the night in the narrow El Dorado of Susan Harvey’s single