DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

George Cross, you know.” He smiled at Allen. “Yes, Frost is definitely the best man for this job.”
    Allen took his leave hurriedly before Mullett changed his mind. Mullett dashed back to his office and told Miss Smith to get out the best coffee cups. Only the best was good enough for Sir Charles Miller.

    Frost was at his desk, rummaging through mounds of paper like a housewife searching for bargains at a jumble sale. He didn’t find any bargains, only the overtime returns and the crime statistics which should have gone off the previous night. He piled them on top of the other papers in his in tray. Somehow or other he would have to find time to do them. He picked up the latest burglary report, and skimmed through it, ready to lay it to rest with all the others in the filing cabinet.

    Householder’s name: Lil Carey (Mrs)
    Address: 26 Sunford Road, Denton
    Scene of crime (if different from address above): As above.
    List of goods (not money) taken (with approx. value): Nil
    Value of cash taken: £79

    At first glance it appeared little different from all the others. A quick in-and-out job with seventy-nine pounds in cash being taken. The thieves always took cash - it was instantly negotiable, it couldn’t be traced and it made the task of the police almost impossible. Frost sniffed. He knew Lil Carey. She was an unregistered money lender, lending out small sums of money, usually to housewives, at exorbitant interest rates. She’d never miss seventy-nine pounds. He wished the thieves had got away with more. But then he realized the '£' had been scratched through by the reporting officer and the word ‘sovereigns’ added. Seventy-nine sovereigns! Frost wasn’t sure of the current rate for sovereigns, but that quantity must surely be worth much more than four thousand pounds for the gold content alone; even more if they were Victorian and in mint condition. He stuffed the report in his pocket. They would call on old mother Carey this morning without fail.
    The door was kicked open and Webster entered with the two cups of tea, his expression making it quite clear how much he relished being asked to perform these menial tasks.
    “Thanks, son,” muttered Frost, who had learned that it was best to ignore the constable’s repertoire of frowns, scowls, and grimaces. He disturbed the mud of sugar with his ballpoint pen and took a sip. “Tastes like cat’s pee.” He swivelled in his chair. “Something important we had to do this morning. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was.”
    “The dead man in the toilets. You had to break the news.”
    “That was it!” exclaimed Frost.
    “Mr. Dawson phoned,” Webster told him.
    “Dawson?” Frost screwed up his face. “Who’s he?”
    “The father of the missing schoolgirl. He wanted to know if there was any news. I told him we’d circulated her description.”
    Frost nodded. “Ah yes. Young, clean-cut, clean-shaven Karen. If she doesn’t turn up soon, I’ll have to try and sneak a chat with the mother without the father being present. There are one or two things about Karen that don’t quite add up.” His attention was caught by a note in his own writing which he had circled in red as important. He studied it with a puzzled frown. “PM 10.00? We’re not expecting Mrs. Thatcher are we?”
    “The post-mortem,” explained Webster wearily.
    Frost tipped the remainder of his tea into the waste bin and reached for his mac. “Life is one round of constant pleasure. Come on, son, we mustn’t be late.”
    There was a brisk knock at the door. “Not today, thank you,” called Frost.
    The door opened and Mullett walked in. His expression didn’t indicate that his life was one round of constant pleasure. Frost quickly pulled the crime statistics from his in-tray and put them in the centre of his desk as if he were working on them. “Sorry, Super. Didn’t know it was you.”
    Mullett gazed stiffly around the room. What a shambles the place was. Piles of paper everywhere, even on the window ledge, where the piles were held down by unwashed teacups. There were even salted peanuts and bits of potato crisp dotted around the floor. “This office is a mess, Inspector. An utter and disgusting mess!”
    “We were just about to tidy it up as you knocked, sir,” lied Frost cheerfully. “Shift the muck off that chair, son, so the Super can sit down.”
    Webster removed the dog-eared stack of files, looked for somewhere to put them, then decided his own