R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

He climbed out of his car, leaning against it for support. The other driver, an indignant woman in her late fifties wearing a full-length mink coat, came striding over to confront him. The coat looked as expensive as her car, a Bentley, all gleaming paintwork and stainless steel. It couldn't have been more than a few months old, but now the front wing was crumpled and the headlight smashed.

She looked ready to scratch his eyes out before getting down to more savage violence. "You stupid, silly bastard. What's your flaming game? Are you blind or something — didn't you see the bleeding traffic lights?"

The woman and the Bentley blurred out of focus, suddenly clicking back sharp and clear, with every detail of the damage screaming at him. The cold air and the shock of what he had done served to sober him up. "I'm sorry, love," he mumbled. "All my fault."

"You bet it's all your fault. You could have killed me!"

Her nose quivered. She leant forward and sniffed. "You're drunk! You're bloody drunk! No wonder you drove straight past the red light. I'm calling the police." She fished a mobile phone from inside the Bentley. "Bastards like you ought to be locked up."

His dejection was complete. As if he wasn't in enough trouble! His medal wasn't going to get him out of this little lot. Mullett would have a field day. But why was the woman studying him, staring at his face? He stared back. Something about her pressed a buzzer, but not loudly enough.

She poked an accusing finger at him. "I know you, don't I? You're a cop. A bloody cop!" She snapped her fingers as a name came up. "Frost… Sergeant Jack Frost."

"You'll never believe this, madam," he said, leaning heavily against his car as his legs didn't seem to want to support him, 'but it's now Detective Inspector Jack Frost." He focused his eyes on her. A faint ripple of recollection. "Do I know you?"

"You ought to, you old sod, the number of times you've run me in for soliciting."

"Soliciting?" It was difficult to say the word without slurring. He closed his eyes. A mental picture of a thinner, much younger version of the woman, this time wearing a cheap, imitation leopard skin coat. He opened his eyes as the filing index of his mind obliged with a name. "Kitty Kitty Reynolds. And you haven't changed a bit. Are you still on the game?"

She grinned. "A different branch of the business. I'm in management now. I run a little specialized house — four girls. I won't tell you where, though."

"I don't want to know, love," said Frost, holding up his hand. "I can't even cope with the cases I've got." He took a squint at the Bentley and walked as steadily as he could over to it. Now he could see it properly the damage looked even worse. "I seem to have put a tiny dent in your motor." He wet a finger and rubbed it over the wing as if that would put it right.

"A tiny dent, you drunken pig? There's nearly a thousand quid's worth of damage there." She gave a conspiratorial grin. "But have it on me. I'll tell the insurance company the other motor didn't stop and I couldn't get its number."

The wind wasn't so cold. The night wasn't so dark. His guardian angel had come back from holiday just in time. "You're a saint, Kitty, a bloody saint."

She grinned again. "I owe you a few favours, Jack — that blind eye you turned when I could have got into serious trouble."

Frost tried to recall the circumstances, but couldn't. There had been so many blind eyes. "Don't remember it, Kitty, but whatever I did, it was a pleasure." He gave her a wave. "I'd better get off back home before the filth start sniffing around." He tried to walk back to his own car, but found his legs weren't interested in taking his orders and he had to grab the Bentley for support.

Kitty threw back her head and laughed. "You're too bloody drunk to drive. Hop in my car. I'll park your heap down that side street, then I'll take you back to my place and try to sober you up."

Her place was down a murky side road leading off Vicarage Terrace. From the outside it looked down at heel and scruffy, just like Frost, but the front door was fitted with the most sophisticated security lock, a lock which looked as if it cost more than the house.

"Through here, Jack." The hall light was on and the inside was a revelation, everything new and expensive… very expensive. She took his arm and steered him through to the lounge where she sat him down on a deeply cushioned chesterfield and pushed a solid silver cigarette box towards him. She retired to the kitchen while he sat, feeling warm and happy, savouring the rich coffee smell that floated through the open door. Kitty emerged carrying a tray holding cups, saucers and a percolator. Two cups of hot, steaming black coffee were poured and then she settled down in the armchair opposite him, sipping from her cup and watching him drink.

"It's flaming hot," said Frost.

"Stop your bloody moaning- just drink it."

He spooned in a shovelful of sugar and stirred. He hated black coffee. "So you packed the old game in then, Kitty?"

"I had to, Jack. I was getting past it."

He sipped and swallowed. "I'm well past it, but I'm still carrying on."

"My," she said, pulling a face, 'we are feeling sorry for ourselves, aren't we?"

A wry grin. "I was, but not any more." He unwound his scarf and unbuttoned his mac, then drained his cup in one gulp and shuddered as if he had taken a dose of medicine. To his dismay she leant over and immediately refilled his cup. He ladled in more sugar and took a sample sip. "Whatever men found irresistible about you, Kitty, it certainly wasn't your lousy coffee… It tastes like horse pee."

"You're always moaning. Just drink it down and sober up. I'm not sending you back to your wife in that state."

"My wife's dead."

Her expression changed. "Oh Jack, I am sorry. It must be lonely for you without her."

"I was lonely with her, love. We didn't get on too well, I'm afraid." He loosened his tie and tugged at the tight, petrified knot. The heat was counteracting the sobering effects of the coffee.

She shook her head sadly. "You poor old sod. You can stay here tonight if you like."

"Eh?" said Frost, feeling everything coming back to life again.

"If you're going deaf, Jack, forget it. I don't sleep with deaf men." Rising from the armchair she collected the coffee cups and carried them back to the kitchen. When she returned, she studied him, her head to one side, hands on well-padded hips. "You wouldn't look so bad if you got yourself a decent suit."

Frost looked down at his jacket and scrubbed away a patch of spilt coffee. "I thought this was a decent suit. I paid a bomb for it."

"When before the First World War? Look at it — frayed cuffs, your trousers all shiny. And there's a button coming off your sleeve. I'll sew it on for you if you like."

He fingered the loose button. "You sew as well?"

She gave a smile full of meaning. "You'd be surprised at the little services I can perform."

He was in the mood for being surprised. Sod the kidnapper. Sod Mullett. Sod everything. He stood up and moved towards her and that was the moment Control chose to page him.

"Control to Inspector Frost. Come in, please."

The sudden strange voice made Kitty start. "What the hell is that?"

Frost fished the radio from his pocket and sighed deeply. "It's an electronic chastity belt." He pressed the transmit button. "Frost here, over."

"Can you come back right away, inspector. We've got a man on the phone claiming to be the kidnapper. He's demanding to speak to the investigating officer… Hold on." There was a brief pause, then Lambert was back sounding excited. "We've traced the call to the public phone box outside the main post office. He's still on the line. Jordan and Simms are investigating."

"I'm on my way," said Frost. He stuffed the radio back in his pocket, then looked regretfully at the Woman. "Sorry, love. It's not only my button that's going to be left dangling. Duty calls."