DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

phone off the hook again, but Mullett couldn’t be told that.
    “I want to see him the second he gets in . . . the very second,” said Mullett grimly.
    “The very second,” echoed Johnson, who seemed to know this script by heart. He banged the phone down and yelled for Webster.
    “You went to Mr. Frost’s house, Constable?”
    “Yes, Sergeant,” replied Webster. “As I told you, his car wasn’t outside.”
    “Did you knock on his door?”
    “No point, Sergeant. If his car wasn’t outside, then he wouldn’t be in.”
    “You go straight back to that house, Constable, and you knock, kick, and bang at that bloody front door. If you get no answer, then go and find him. And next time I tell you to do something, do it properly!”
    “Hear, hear,” said a familiar voice. “Morning all.”
    “Where the hell have you been?” Johnson yelled at the inspector. “Mr. Mullett’s been having kittens?”
    “Kittens?” frowned Frost. “I thought we’d had him doctored.”
    The sergeant could only bury his head in his hands. “It isn’t funny, Jack. Look at the time! It’s gone twelve. You were supposed to see him at nine.”
    Frost made a great show of consulting his watch. “I can spare him a few minutes now if he likes.”
    Johnson snatched up the internal phone and punched out Mullett’s number. “Mr. Frost is here now, sir. Yes sir. Right away sir.” He turned to the inspector. “The Divisional Commander’s office, Jack. Now!” He replaced the phone, then clicked on a smile to greet a woman who wished to report strange goings-on at the house across the street.
    Frost spun on his heels to answer the summons when Collier called him back. “A call for you on your office phone, Mr. Frost. A woman. She wouldn’t give her name.”
    “Right,” said Frost, making a sharp right-hand turn toward his office.
    Johnson looked up from the complaining woman. “Where’s Mr. Frost gone?”
    “His office, I think,” answered Collier.
    “His office?” screamed the sergeant. “Mr. Mullett’s waiting for him. Attend to this lady, would you.” He pushed Collier toward the woman.
    The internal phone rang. Mullett was getting impatient.
    “Leave it!” yelled Johnson, too late. Collier answered it and held the phone out to the sergeant. “The Divisional Commander for you.”
    “Run and fetch Mr. Frost,” shrilled Johnson, pushing Collier in that direction.
    “What about me?” snapped the woman.
    “Be with you in a moment, madam,” replied Johnson, his head spinning. “Yes, sir,” he told the phone. “Yes, sir, I did tell him. I think he had another urgent call, sir. Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He replaced the receiver and wiped a hand wearily across his face.
    “They’re always at it, morning, noon, and night,” said the woman. “Here . . . where do you think you’re going . . .?”

    Frost pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “No, we haven’t got your sovereigns back yet, Lil. I know we’re a load of lazy good-for-nothing bastards. Have I ever denied it? When I have some news, I’ll tell you . . . and the same to you, Lil.”
    He hung up, looked at his desk and shuddered. It was awash with papers. Where did they all come from? He scooped up an armful and transferred it to Webster’s desk so he could have a frown at it when he came in. He poked a cigarette in his mouth and pressed the top of the gas lighter he had found in the kitchen drawer. A six-inch column of flame seared past his nose and reminded him why he had stopped using it.
    The door crashed open. A panting Sergeant Johnson. “For Pete’s sake, Jack!”
    “Oh blimey,” said Frost. “Hornrim Harry!” He sprang to his feet for the sprint to the Commander’s office and then saw the other shape behind Johnson. Mullett, his face tight with rage.
    “My office, Frost . . . now!” He spun on his heel and stamped out. The ambient temperature seemed to have fallen by thirty degrees.
    “I tried to warn you, Jack,” hissed Johnny Johnson. “I’ll start a collection for you.”
    “You worry too much,” said Frost, marching to the Star Chamber with his chin held high.

    Miss Smith, Mullett’s mirror, was at her typewriter, her face simmering with displeasure. His anger was her anger. With a passable impression of the Commander’s glare, she stared icily at Frost as he passed her.
    “The Commander said you were to go straight in,” she snapped.
    Frost had been caught out like that before. He knocked.
    A snarl from