DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

Relieved, Wells hurried forward and opened the door, but inside he saw only Webster, frowning at the car licence plate lying across Frost’s desk.
    “What’s this, Sergeant?” he asked, picking it up.
    Wells waved it aside. “None of your business. Where’s the inspector? We’ve got a bloody crisis on our hands.”
    Webster put down the licence plate and sat at his own desk. “He said something about going scavenging.”
    “Scavenging?” Wells sank down in Frost’s chair. “What’s he playing at? The man’s supposed to be an inspector; why doesn’t he start acting like one?”
    “You sound just like our beloved Divisional Commander,” said Frost, staggering back into the office bearing a tray piled high with goodies: sausage rolls, sandwiches, crisps, pork scratchings, and salted peanuts. A clinking noise came from his bulging mac pockets. “It’s party time, folks,” he announced, pushing papers and the licence plate to one side to clear a space on his desk for the tray.
    From pockets that seemed far too small to contain them came can after can of lager, a seemingly endless supply of miniature spirit bottles, and even a box of expensive cigars. “You shall go to the ball, Sergeant,” he said.
    Wells’s eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”
    “From the canteen the party.” He still hadn’t finished off-loading, pulling more bottles from his inside jacket pockets. Proudly, he surveyed his haul. “They didn’t invite us to their stinking party, so we won’t invite them to ours.”
    In the top drawer of his filing cabinet he found three chipped enamel mugs and slopped in three generous helpings of seven-year-old malt whisky. One mug went to the sergeant, the other to Webster. “Help yourself to tonic and salted peanuts. Sorry we haven’t got any ice.”
    Webster glared at his mug and pushed it away. “Are you trying to be funny?”
    Frost could only look puzzled. Then the light dawned. “Sorry, I forgot. You’ve signed the pledge, haven’t you, son? The beard that touches liquor will never touch mine.”
    This had the effect of sending Wells into a fit of uncontrollable giggling, a fit that Webster’s scowl only seemed to amplify.
    Frost shared the contents of Webster’s mug between the sergeant and himself. He pushed the tray toward the constable. “Well, at least have a sandwich or some peanuts.” Webster flicked a hand in curt refusal.
    “If you’re not going to join the party, go and look after the lobby,” Wells ordered. When Webster stamped out, the sergeant slipped into his chair and washed down some cheese and onion crisps with a long swig from his mug. He felt warm and happy. It wasn’t such a bad shift after all. He was trying to remember why he had been feeling so miserable before Frost came in.
    Frost buzzed Control on the internal phone. “Mr. Ridley? If you wish to attend a booze-up, report immediately to Mr. Frost’s office.” He hung up and lit one of the cigars. “This is great, isn’t it, Bill? All we want now to make it complete are some pickled onions and a naked woman.”
    “I wouldn’t object if there were no pickled onions,” giggled Wells, unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. Frost’s office seemed very warm. He felt the radiator, but it was stone cold. As he was trying to puzzle this out he remembered what he had wanted to talk to the inspector about.
    “Jack, we’re in a crisis situation. Do you know anything about this hit-and-run?”
    “Yes,” said Frost, puffing out smoke rings almost as large as car tires. “We saw the poor sod spewing blood at the hospital.”
    “Is he still alive?”
    Frost removed the cigar and shot a palmfril of salted peanuts into his mouth. “Just about. I don’t think they’ll be cooking him any breakfast, though.”
    “Damn,” said Wells, his worst fears realized. He emptied his mug in a single gulp. “We’ve had the computer feed-back on the licence plate. The car belongs to Roger Miller.”
    Frost stopped in mid sip He put the mug down slowly. “Sir Charles Miller’s son?”
    “Yes,” agreed Wells dolefully, regarding the interior of his empty mug. “It’s tricky, Jack, flaming tricky. If we don’t play this one right we could end up in the soft and squishy.” It took him several attempts to say ‘soft and squishy.”
    “Roger Miller,” repeated Frost, his eyes gleaming. “Well, if we can chuck that little sod in the nick, the night won’t be entirely wasted.”
    Tapping at the