DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

the inner sanctum. “Come in!”
    Mullett sat stiff and straight behind the satin mahogany desk, Frost’s personal file open in front of him. It was his intention to bring up again all of the inspector’s past misdeeds and to suggest without equivocation that Frost should look elsewhere for employment as he clearly lacked the attitude and discipline necessary to be a police officer. He kept his eyes down, ignoring Frost’s ambling entrance. But before he could pull the pin out of his first grenade, Frost got in first.
    “Sorry about this morning, Super, only I suddenly remembered it was my wife’s birthday. I thought I should put some flowers on her grave.”
    A brilliant pre-emptive strike which put Mullett completely off his stroke. “My dear chap,” he said, ‘do sit down.” He made a mental note to ask Miss Smith to check the files to ensure the date was correct, then he paused and bowed his head for a few seconds to show respect for the dead. That down, he steeled himself for the unpleasant task in hand.
    “Operation Mousetrap, that un authorised fiasco of last night. You knew my permission was essential and would only be given if I was assured the plan was viable. Why didn’t you ask me?”
    “Sorry about that, Super,” said Frost, his legs crossed, his unpolished shoe waggling. “I tried to see you, but you’d sneaked off somewhere.”
    Mullett’s lips tightened. “I was at County HQ. You only had to pick up the phone, but instead you flagrantly disobeyed standing instructions and went ahead regardless, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you gave Sergeant Johnson the impression that I had agreed to it.”
    “He must have misunderstood me,” said Frost brazenly. “Still, no harm done.”
    Mullett leaned back in chair, wide-eyed with incredulity. “No harm done? A police woman was injured.”
    Frost shrugged. “A few bruises and a black eye. I’ve seen brides come back from their honeymoons with worse than that.”
    “She could have been killed, Inspector.”
    “She could have won fifty thousand pounds on the pools, sir, but she didn’t.”
    Burying his face in his hands, Mullett felt like crying. How could you reason with a man like this? He picked up a newly sharpened pencil from his pen tray and twiddled it between his fingers. “I’m taking you off the case, Inspector.”
    Frost’s jaw dropped. He looked disbelievingly at Mullett as if the man had taken leave of his senses. “You’re bloody what?”
    The pencil snapped in two between Mullett’s fingers as he stiffened with fury. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, Frost,” he croaked, anger making his voice barely audible.
    “Sorry, Super,” said Frost in the tone of a man pulled up on some minor and obscure breach of etiquette, ‘but I want to stay with this one. I think I’m close to cracking it’
    “Yes . . . the plastic mac and the door key,” said Mullett, referring to his notes. “Pass them all over to Mr. Allen. It’s his case from now on. By the way, how are you getting on with your murder inquiry that drug addict?”
    “Not too well,” said Frost, mentally adding ‘as well you know, you four-eyed git.”
    “Then you’ll have more time to concentrate on it now you’re off the rape case, won’t you?” smiled Mullett, showing the interview was at an end by pulling his in-tray toward him and taking out the letters for signature. “One last thing. The Chief Constable is very concerned at our mounting number of housebreakings Let that be your number-one priority. That will be all, Frost.” He unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and began signing his letters only to see his pen jump and splutter ink all over Miss Smith’s pristine typing as Frost left, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.
    He put the letter to one side for retyping, then buzzed Miss Smith for some aspirins. There had to be some way he could get rid of the man.

    The door slamming was repeated as Frost fumed back into his own pigsty of an office, where he further vented his rage by giving his in-tray a right-hander, sending the contents flying all over the floor. He spun around on Webster, who was regarding his tantrum with amused tolerance. “Don’t just sit there plaiting your beard, Constable. Help me pick this lot up.”
    Without a word, Webster began gathering up the papers, smirking with inward satisfaction at Frost’s rage. Obviously he had been given a roasting by the Divisional Commander for last