DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

away and heaved herself up out of the chair. "You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do." At the kitchen door she paused. "We don’t want him back here. The state can bury him. He’s caused us enough pain and misery." The door closed behind her.
    Frost squashed out his cigarette in a saucer. "We’ll need someone to do a formal identification," he told Danny.
    "Sod that," was the reply. "You don’t get me looking at dead bodies."
    Frost stood up wearily. "It’s got to be done, Danny. It’ll only take a couple of minutes." He signalled to Webster that it was time to leave.
    "I’ll think about it," mumbled Danny as he ushered them to the front door.
    From one of the upstairs rooms, Frost thought he could hear a woman crying, but, again, he couldn’t be certain.

    "Thank God that’s over," said Frost, grunting as they climbed back into the Cortina. Webster shifted about in the driving seat trying to make himself comfortable. All he seemed to be doing of late was climbing in and out of this battered car, listening to Frost droning his inanities.
    "Where to?" he asked mechanically. God, he was tired. It had been days since he’d had any proper sleep.
    “The lavatories where Ben was killed,” answered Frost. “We should have gone there first - people have been peeing all over the evidence since eight o’clock this morning.”
    Webster reminded him that the Divisional Commander was expecting him at the station to see the MP and his son.
    Frost gave his forehead a wallop with his palm. “Flaming rectums. Mullett will never forgive me for keeping dear old Sir Charlie-boy waiting. Right, son, this is what we’ll do. I’ll drop you off at the toilets. Turf everyone out whether they’re finished or not, and seal the place off. Then search it from top to bottom for any sign of Ben’s carrier bag, or blood or anything I should have spotted last night. And radio the station for a scene-of-crime officer to help. He can take photographs of the graffiti and dust the toilet seats for fingerprints. I’ll drive on to the station for the hit-and-run interview. Remind me when we meet up that we’ve got that other security guard to interview about the robbery - the one Harry Baskin duffed up. Oh, and remind me about seeing Karen Dawson’s mother.”
    Webster nodded wearily. He would never get used to Frost’s method of working. Webster liked order and forward planning. Frost seemed to thrive on chaos, lurching from one crisis to the next. He considered reminding the inspector that they still hadn’t started on the overtime returns, let alone finished the crime statistics, but what was the point?

    Frost shouldered through the swing doors of the lobby carrying, in a large polythene bag, the filthy, vomit-sodden clothes removed from Ben Cornish.
    “Bought yourself a new suit, Jack?” called Johnny Johnson. “I must say it’s an improvement on the one you’re wearing.”
    “It’s cleaner, anyway,” said Frost, holding the bag under Johnny’s nose and watching him recoil. “I might do a swap.” As he swung off to his office to make out the forensic examination request, the sergeant, reaching for the phone, called him back.
    “Mr. Mullett’s been screaming for you for the past half-hour. He wanted to know the minute you arrived.”

    “I can’t think what’s keeping the inspector, Sir Charles,” said Mullett for the sixth time, his lips aching from the effort of maintaining the false smile. His phone rang. He snatched it up. “What? No, don’t send him in. I’ll be right out.” He expanded the smile. “Mr. Frost has just arrived, Sir Charles. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll pop out and brief him.”
    As he passed through his outer office he instructed Miss Smith to make some more coffee. Strong this time. He felt he would need it.
    Even before he reached the lobby he could hear Frost’s raucous laughter bellowing down the corridor. And there he was, slouched over the counter, exchanging coarse comments with the station sergeant, completely indifferent to keeping his Divisional Commander, and an important V.I.P, waiting.
    “Your office, please, Inspector,” ordered Mullett brusquely, marching down the passage. When he reached Frost’s office he was extremely annoyed to find that he was alone and that he had to stand there, fuming, until Frost had finished relating some anecdote to the sergeant.
    “We’ve been waiting for you, Inspector. For over half an hour. Sir Charles Miller, his son,