R. Wingfield - Winter Frost

'Not quite so simple, sir,' protested Wells. 'Fenwick seem in no hurry to collect them.' He smiled hopefully. 'I was wondering if you might have a word with their Divisional Commander on our behalf…?'

Mullett gave his superior smile. 'That would be an admission of your own failure, Sergeant, and as someone always pressing for promotion, I am sure that is the last thing you would want.'

'Yes, sir,' seethed Wells, moving to the door. 'Anything else, sir?'

'There is one thing,' beamed Mullett. 'Do you think you could rustle me up a cup of coffee… I'm parched.' He frowned as the sergeant's closing of the door seemed a little more vigorous than was necessary, then picked up his internal phone to find out what pathetic excuse Frost had for not providing him with the crime statistics.

'Working on them this very minute, Super,' said Frost, hanging up quickly. He returned his attention to Wells who was half-way through telling Frost what a nit-picking bastard Mullett was. 'What flaming figures is the silly sod talking about?'

'The unsolved crime return,' Wells told him. 'He's got to take them to County with him in the morning. He sent you a memo.'

'He knows I don't read bloody memos.' Frost called across to Morgan. 'Any chance you'll finish them tonight, Taffy?'

'As long as they don't have to be accurate, guv.'

'Statistics don't have to be accurate,' said Frost. 'Just give me something to keep him quiet.' The internal phone rang again. 'You'll have them in ten minutes, Super,' said Frost. 'Just checking them for accuracy. What…? I'll tell him.' He put his hand again over the mouthpiece and looked up at Wells. 'Mr Mullett says would you hurry up with his coffee and he'd like some custard creams.'

Wells exploded. 'He can get stuffed. What the hell does he think I'm running here — a bloody cafe?' Frost took his hand from the mouthpiece. 'The sergeant suggests you should get stuffed, sir.'

Wells went as white as a sheet until he realized Frost had long since terminated the call and was speaking into a dead phone. 'You bastard, Jack! You frightened the life out of me.'

Frost beamed and looked over to Morgan. 'Hurry up, Taffy. The sooner he gets these figures, the sooner he'll go home and we can take the phones off the hook, flop down in the rest room and watch the big fight you're going to video for us.'

The outside phone rang. Fenwick division for Sergeant Wells. As Wells listened his face grew redder and redder. 'Tomorrow?' he shrieked, scarcely believing what he was hearing. 'No damn fear — you pick them up tonight. I haven't got room… I… And you, too, mate!' He slammed the phone down with such force Frost's paperclip trap leapt in the air and shed its contents all over the desk.

'Everything all right?' asked Frost innocently.

'No, it flaming well isn't. They haven't got anyone available to pick them up tonight so they want us to hang onto them until the morning.' A crashing sound, the shattering of more broken glass and a drunken cheer from the crowded lobby made him grit his teeth. 'They're wrecking the place. What am I going to do with them?'

'Bung them back in the coach,' suggested Frost. 'Then they can pee and puke to their hearts' content and Fenwick can have the pleasure of shovelling it out when they collect them tomorrow.'

Wells' face lit up. 'That, Jack, is genius… pure genius.' He rushed out of the office to make the arrangements as Mullett buzzed again demanding his coffee.

Liz Maud swung her car into the High Street, mentally disembowelling Sergeant Bill Wells for dropping her in it with the alleged rape. The illuminated 'Open' sign outside the all-night chemists flared red in her windscreen as she slowed down and stopped the car on the opposite side of the road. Carefully checking there was no-one to see her, she dashed across and entered the shop. The pregnancy kit, small enough to fit snugly in her handbag, cost Ј11.90. About to cut back across the road again, she had to jump back hurriedly to avoid a speeding car which was lurching from side to side. Flashing blue lights and the wail of a siren signalled the approach of a pursuing area car, hot on its tail. Jordan and Simms. She ducked back in the shadow until it sped past, then slunk over to her own vehicle and on to the scene of the armed robbery.

Wells gawped in disbelief as Jordan and Simms escorted the violently protesting drunken driver into the lobby. Most of the football hooligans were in the coach, but a hard core had refused to co-operate and were lying on the floor, having to be manhandled one by one by perspiring police officers. All a flaming game to them, but Wells was close approaching the end of his tether and now another bloody drunk.

'We've arrested him for drunken driving, Sergeant,' reported Jordan.

'Thank you very much,' croaked Wells. 'Another bleeding drunk — just what I'm short of.' He kicked out savagely at one of the prostrate football fans who was tugging at his trouser leg, trying to topple him over.

'He was veering all over the road, Sergeant — a danger to other motorists — and he refused to be breathalysed.'

The man squinted at Wells through drink-bleared eyes. 'I was coming here anyway, officer. I want to report a serious crime.'

Wells turned the page of the charge book. 'Hard luck — we've got all the crimes we can handle tonight… Name?'

'Never mind my name,' slurred the man. 'I've been robbed… over four hundred quid. I pay my rates — you bloody investigate.'

'Yes — you bloody well investigate,' yelled the man on the floor staggering to his feet. 'We're all witnesses. The gentleman's made a genuine complaint. He's entitled to justice.'

'You'll get justice round the bleeding ear-hole if you don't shut up,' snapped Wells, signalling for Collier to drag the man out to the coach before he flopped down again. He turned to the drunken driver. 'All right. What's your name?'

'Hughes. Henry Hughes.'

'And what happened?'

'She stole my wallet, all my credit cards and over four hundred quid in cash.'

'Who stole them?'

'This tom… this flaming tart.'

Frost, darting through the lobby on his way to the canteen, stopped and turned back. This sounded good for a laugh. 'A prostitute?' he asked.

Hughes nodded. 'The cow pinched my wallet.'

'Tell me about it.'

'She was swinging her handbag on the corner of King Street. She wants forty quid. I say OK, so we drive back to her place.'

'And where was her place?'

'Clayton Street.'

Frost nodded. A lot of toms did their business in short-let rooms in Clayton Street. 'What number?'

'I don't know. I just followed her in. I didn't look at the number. I wasn't going to write her a bleeding letter.'

'Then what?' prompted Wells who wanted to get this over.

'We had it away. Forty quid She wasn't worth forty bleeding pence. I've had inflatable dolls with more reaction than her. Sod forty — I gave her twenty and that was generous.'

'I bet that pleased her?' murmured Frost.

The man blinked at the inspector. 'The cow started screaming and shouting. The names she called me… Anyway, I didn't want the hassle of clouting her one, so I ignored her and stamped out.'

'Then what?' asked Frost.

'I gets into my car and drives off. I'd just turned the corner when I realized my naming wallet was missing. That cow had taken it!'

'Are you sure it was her who took it?' asked Wells.

'There was only me and her in the bleeding room. She must have nicked it from my jacket pocket while I was putting on my shoes.'

'What did you do then?'

'I was back there like a streak of greased lightning. She must have known I was coming back because the door was locked. I kicked and banged and swore, but she wouldn't open up.'

'Probably thought you were a Jehovah's Witness,' said Frost.