DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

drunken layabouts to keep the row down. Some of us are trying to work.’
    But before Collier could move, the lobby doors parted to admit the tall, straight-backed figure of Police Superintendent Mullett, Commander of Denton Division. The Superintendent, with his glossy black hair, clipped military moustache and horn-rimmed glasses, looked more like a successful businessman than a policeman. He was wearing his casual party wear: a tailored grey suit, a silver-flecked shirt, and a blue-and-silver tie. Wells and Collier immediately stiffened to attention but were waved at ease. The thump of the disco from above made Mullett wince, and he could feel his head starting to ache, but he put a brave face on it. After all, he was one of the lads tonight, like it or not.
    ‘They seem to be enjoying themselves up there, Sergeant Wells,’ he shouted over the din. ‘Not too loud for you, is it?’
    ‘No, sir,’ lied Wells as he pushed the phone to Collier so the constable could take over the call. ‘Nice to hear people enjoying themselves . . . for a change.’
    Mullett nodded his approval, his gaze wandering around the dingy lobby with its stark wooden benches and the Colorado Beetle Identification poster flapping on the dark grey walls. ‘I never realized just how dreary this lobby looked, Sergeant. It’s bad for public relations. Do you think you could see about cheering it up . . . get in some house plants, or flowers, or something?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Good idea, sir,’ mumbled Wells, raising his eyes to the ceiling in mute appeal. Bloody flowers indeed! He was a policeman, not a bloody landscape gardener.
    ‘Is Inspector Frost about?’ asked Mullett anxiously. He was hoping the answer would be no. He preferred that Frost, with his unpressed clothes, his unpolished shoes, his rudeness, and his coarse jokes, should be well out of the way when the Chief Constable arrived.
    ‘Out on an inquiry, sir. Body down a public convenience off the Market Square.’
    A public convenience! Mullett flinched as if he had been hit. It sounded just the type of distasteful inquiry that Frost would get himself involved in, but at least it had the advantage of keeping him out of sight when the VIP arrived.
    He leaned across the desk to the sergeant, taking him into his confidence with great news: ‘The Chief Constable said he might look in, Sergeant, to say goodbye personally to George Harrison. You might ask one of your spare constables to keep an eye on the road outside . . .’
    ‘I haven’t got anyone spare, sir,’ cut in Wells hastily. ‘I’ve only got one constable with me to help run the entire station.’ He indicated young Collier, who didn’t seem to be making much progress with the caller on the phone.
    ‘He’ll do fine,’ beamed Mullett, who had no intention of getting involved in these minor staffing problems. ‘The instant the Chief Constable’s car turns that corner, I want to be told. I’ll be upstairs with the lads.’ He paused. ‘Sorry I had to put you on duty tonight, Wells, but there are so few men I could really trust to do a good job when we’re short-handed.’
    Wells gave a noncommittal grunt.
    Mullett pushed open the door to the canteen and steeled himself. He was not a very good mixer as far as socialising with the lower ranks was concerned and would never have attended were it not for the promised visit of the Chief Constable. He squared his shoulders, then, like a front-line soldier going over the top, he bravely charged up the stairs.
    Wells glowered after him, speeding him on his way with a blast of mental abuse. ‘That’s right . . . go and enjoy yourself. Never mind us poor buggers sweating our guts out down here.’ He became aware of Collier’s worried face looking helplessly at him, the phone still in his hand.
    ‘What is it now, Collier? Surely you can handle a simple phone call on your own?’
    ‘She won’t talk to me, Sarge, and she’s getting stroppy. She says she wants a high-ranking officer.’
    A loud burst of sound and the crash of breaking glass from overhead. Wells hoped it was Mullett falling over the beer crates.
    ‘She can’t have a high-ranking officer, Collier. All the high-ranking officers are upstairs getting pissed.’ He snatched the phone from the constable’s hand. ‘Go out and keep an eye open for the Chief Constable’s Rolls . . . and get some bloody flowers.’
    ‘Flowers?’ queried Collier, but seeing the look on his sergeant’s face, prudently