DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

from his pockets, ready to swing and to hell with the consequences. ‘Who are you calling a wally, you drunken slob?’
    Quickly, Frost, the peacemaker, thrust himself between the two men. ‘Now cool it, lads. We’ve got more important things to attend to.’
    ‘You heard him, Inspector,’ appealed Ingram. ‘He called me a drunken slob.’
    ‘All he meant, Sergeant,’ said Frost soothingly, ‘is that you’re a slob, and you’re drunk. No disrespect was intended.’ Over his shoulder he ordered Webster to wait for him in the car.
    Ingram, swaying, spoiling for a fight, glowered as Webster stamped off. Allen decided to continue as though nothing had happened. Somehow, Frost always got the best of these unsavoury encounters.
    ‘You reckon the victim is this teenager, Karen Dawson?’
    Frost hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s possible. We’re getting the father over to the hospital to identify her.’
    ‘Let me know as soon as it’s confirmed. I’ll be there later.’ Then, seeing Frost was making no attempt to move, he added, ‘Thank you, Inspector, that will be all.’
    Back in the car, Webster waited, seething. Frost slid into his customary position. ‘Denton General Hospital . . . first on the left, then follow the main road.’ As Webster jarred the car into gear, Frost radioed through to the station requesting them to contact Max Dawson and ask him to meet them at the hospital. That done, he slouched back in his seat, digging deep for a cigarette before he said, ‘Ingram’s a provocative bastard, son. He’s out for trouble. Try not to rise to his bait.’
    Webster growled a noncommittal reply, his eyes straight ahead, looking for the left turnoff.
    ‘What you must remember,’ Frost continued, ‘is that one punch and you’re not only out of the division, you’re off the force. You should also remember that Ingram is a great big bastard who could probably knock the living daylights out of you.’
    ‘Spare me the sermon,’ muttered the detective constable, spinning the wheel to turn into the main road.
    ‘It’s not a sermon,’ said Frost, ‘it’s the gypsy’s warning.’
    Webster was well down the wrong road before Frost added, ‘Sorry, did I say left? I meant right . . .’

    Denton General Hospital had originally been a workhouse and was built, like the public toilets, in the reign of Queen Victoria, when things were meant to last. So it was as strong and solid as a prison, but not as pretty and nowhere near as comfortable. Over the years it had sprouted additional wings and outbuildings and was now a sprawling mélange of various styles of municipal architecture. It stood on the outskirts of Denton and was dominated by the huge, factory-type chimney poking from the boilerhouse, where, according to Frost, the incinerator was fuelled by amputated arms and legs.
    They waited for Max Dawson in the porter’s lodge, a small, partitioned cubbyhole just inside the main entrance. The night porter, a bright-eyed old man with a nicotine-stained walrus moustache, was pouring creosote-coloured liquid into three enamel mugs. Milk was added, then sugar was shovelled in from a tin marked Sterile Dressings. Frost always seemed to know where to get a free cup of tea at any hour of the day or night.
    ‘Get that inside you, Mr Frost,’ said the porter, sliding a mug over. ‘And you, young fellow.’
    Webster smiled his thanks.
    They sipped, blinked, and shuddered.
    ‘What’s it like, Mr Frost?’ asked the porter.
    ‘Delicious, Fred. Do we have to sign the poison register?’
    The old boy cackled, showing teeth browner than his tea. ‘Your lot are keeping us busy tonight, Mr Frost,’ he said, rolling a hand-made cigarette from a pouch of coarse, dark tobacco. ‘First the old tramp in the morgue, then the poor kid who was raped, and last, that old man who was run over by a hit-and-run.’
    ‘I hope we’re getting our usual discount for bulk,’ said Frost, steeling himself for another swig. ‘Hello, you’ve got a customer.’
    Someone was rapping on the frosted-glass panel over the counter. The porter slid it back to reveal a young woman in her early twenties, her bust in the high thirties, and her hair dark with a hint of auburn. She wore a light-blue raincoat over which was slung a white shoulder bag. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure when she saw the inspector.
    ‘Hello, Mr Frost.’
    Frost was up and out of his seat. ‘Good Lord, it’s sexy Sue with the navy-blue knickers. What are