DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

for God’s sake, be discreet.”
    “Of course, sir.” Frost stepped back so Kenny could take down names and addresses and details of the man’s driving licence.
    “Can I go now?” asked the man, zipping up his trousers. Frost turned inquiringly to Kenny, who was on the radio to Control, checking the driving licence details with the central computer. Kenny nodded. The details all tallied.
    The man stuffed the driving licence back into his pocket and peeked inside the car where the misted windows were now clearing. “Look at that,” he hissed. “She’s not even bothered to get dressed. Well, if she expects me to carry on where we left off after this fiasco, then she’s got another think coming.”
    He hurled himself inside the Mercedes and slammed the door. A querulous babble of conversation, followed by a snarl from the man, and the car jerked into gear and shuddered off.
    “We’ll hang on to her address,” murmured Frost, watching the dwindling taillights. “It might come in handy if time drags one night.” He pushed his hands deep into his mac pockets and stared up at the night sky. Operation Mousetrap was back to being a disastrous balls-up - the rapist clean away, a policewoman knocked about, the farce with the couple in the car, and to cap it all, he had no bloody fags left.
    A searching wind found where they were and punched away at them. Susan shivered. It was cold and everyone was feeling dejected. Frost told Kenny to take Sue and Webster back to her flat. He would go home in his own car.
    He was trying to find the Cortina when Collier called him on the radio. In the excitement he had forgotten all about the rest of his team.
    “We’re still searching, Inspector. Haven’t spotted anyone yet.”
    At first he considered telling them to pack it in. But, what the hell, there was nothing to be lost by letting them rummage around for a while longer. He radioed Jordan and Simms, asking them to join the other two and do a sweep of the section. If they found nothing in an hour, they should report back to the station. As senior officer he supposed he should really show willing and join them, but he wasn’t in the mood.

    The patrol car drew up outside the flat. Webster helped Sue out and slipped his arm around her. She was shivering. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.
    “I’m fine.” She smiled. “I’ll take a couple of pain killers when I get in and I’ll be as right as rain.”
    He took the flat key from her shoulder bag and opened the door for her, turning to wave to Kenny who had been summonsed to a reported break-in at Beech Crescent. His wave was acknowledged by a toot on the horn.
    The flat was warm and cozy. She had left the gas fire on and the bed had been made, the covers invitingly pulled back. No sign of a nightdress. Susan slumped into an armchair and held her hands out to the fire. She looked all in.
    “I’ll do you some hot milk,” said Webster, opening the fridge. There, on the rack, chilled to perfection, was a bottle of white wine, and on the shelf, a cold roast chicken. Everything laid on for a marvelous night that now wasn’t to be.
    She shook a couple of aspirins on to her palm and swallowed them down with the hot milk. She was hunched in front of the fire, still trembling, unable to get warm. “Run me a hot bath, please.”
    He turned on the taps and swished in the bath crystals. She was in the bathroom with him, peering at the steam-misted mirror, which she wiped clean with her hand. “Don’t I look a fright?”
    He wished he could say she didn’t. But she did. Her face was swollen, all greeny-black around the eyes.
    “You can stay if you like,” she said, testing the water and pulling off her T-shirt. “But I just want to sleep.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Webster.
    He let himself out.
    Rot in hell, Frost. Rot in bloody hell.

    Jack Frost sat in the car. His hands explored the door pockets, but there were no cigarettes. Damn. He scavenged the ashtray for a decent-sized butt and lit it, almost burning his nose with the match. The smoke from the resurrected cigarette tasted hot and bitter, but it suited his mood.
    Then he noticed the bulge in the door pocket on the passenger side. He hadn’t thought of looking there. His hand dived down to meet something cold and hard. He pulled it out. A bottle. Lots of bottles, the spoils from the party of two nights ago . . . the night they had found Ben Cornish’s dead body. The retirement party! Mullett