R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Pathetic!" snapped Mullett.

Frost nodded wryly. This time Hornrim Harry was right.

"You will not, I am sure," continued Mullett, 'be surprised to learn that there has been no such contact. Cordwell is convinced it is because of your clumsy intervention after promising to stay out of it." He leant forward. "You assured me nothing could go wrong. You gave me a categorical undertaking."

Frost did a mental playback of his conversations with the superintendent and was damn sure he had given no such assurance.

Mullett removed his glasses and polished them sadly. "I can't save you from the wolves this time, inspector." He oozed insincerity.

When have you ever? thought Frost.

"Now that he's laid out the money, Cordwell wants his pound of flesh. He was hoping to be feted as the saviour who paid the ransom and saved the child, but now that is no longer possible, he is settling for the benefactor whose excellent intentions were thwarted by police bungling. He has called a press conference for ten o'clock to tell everyone about the fiasco."

"There was no fiasco last night," said Frost. "We didn't show ourselves until long after the kidnapper had left with the money. The fact that the old boy Finch turned up on the scene with his fleabag of a dog had nothing at all to do with us."

A thin wintery smile from Mullett. "I imagine Sir Richard will tell the story slightly differently. But hear this, Frost," and he jabbed his finger at the inspector. "You are not dragging me down into the mire of your foul-ups." He waved a sheet of paper filled with his neat handwriting. "I am already drafting my report to the Chief Constable."

Frost nodded curtly as he stood up. "Don't take too much of the blame on yourself, sir, just to get me out of trouble… and don't overpraise me you know how embarrassed I get."

Mullett shrugged as he pulled the cap from his Parker fountain pen. He would let it go. With luck, the inspector wouldn't be with Denton Division much longer.

In the outer office the clatter of the typewriter suddenly started up as Ida Smith, Mullett's devoted private secretary, quickly returned to her typing after straining her ears to hear the music of her boss giving Frost a dressing down. She was loyal to Mullett and if he didn't like the inspector, then neither did she. In any case, the man was uncouth. That filthy seaside postcard! And she certainly wasn't bending down anywhere within jabbing range of that stubby finger. If it wasn't so embarrassing she would have put in an official complaint. She gave a malevolent smirk as Frost ambled past her. To her surprise he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. "It's good to know I've got at least one friend in this place, Ida," he said, giving her a little squeeze.

Like her boss, it took her a little time to recognize sarcasm. She returned to her typing, hammering the keys as if they were nails to be driven into Frost's coffin.

Sergeant Johnnie Johnson waylaid him as he was on his way to his office. "Jack guess who's here to see you?"

Frost furrowed his brow as if giving this serious consideration. "Not Princess Di again I told her never to bother me at work."

"No."

"Then I give up." He was in no mood for guessing games.

"Tommy Dunn. He wants to see you."

"Well, I don't want to see him. He's dropped me right in it thanks to his bloody sticky fingers."

"He says it's urgent," insisted Johnnie, trotting behind him into the office.

Frost dropped into his chair, flicked through his in-tray and weeded out the two latest memos from Mullett, which he consigned to the rubbish bin. "What does he want?"

"He was charged with stealing last night. He wants you to get him off the hook."

"I want someone to get me off the bleeding hook. Tommy knows damn well I can't help him." He sighed. Dunn was a shit and a bastard, but he had done Frost one or two good turns in the past. "All right wheel him in… but for Pete's sake don't let Cassidy know he's here."

Dunn was an overweight, useless-looking man. A red-faced Oliver Hardy without the little moustache, and in his late forties. He waited for Johnnie Johnson to leave before sitting down. "Sorry about last night, Jack."

"You dropped me right in it, Tommy. Right flaming in it!"

"Wouldn't have had it happen for the world, Jack," mumbled Dunn. "Look you've got to help me. I don't want to go to prison. You know how they love ex-cops inside."

"You won't go to prison for a first offence."

"It's not a first offence, Jack. I had a similar unhappy experience when I was security guard over at Casheasy's in Lexton, then there was '

Frost cut him short. "Then how did you get a job with Savalot? I thought they vetted their security staff?"

"I fiddled my reference. I got some of their letter heading."

Frost held up a hand. "Spare me the details, Tommy. So what happened this time?"

"Silly mistake. I came out without any money so I took a couple of bottles from their spirits store. It wasn't pinching — I intended buying two bottles to replace them, but they caught me before I could do it."

"And what happened when they searched your house?"

"Another misunderstanding. They found some bottles of spirits and tried to make out I'd nicked them. But I'd bought them, Jack days ago."

"If you had bottles in the house, then why did you have to take two more without paying? I'm sorry, Tommy. You're not only a silly sod, you're a lying bastard as well. I'm pretty gullible, but even I can't swallow that."

Dunn pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "I can't go inside, Jack. I couldn't face it. You're in with Cordwell. You've got to get him to drop these charges."

Frost gave a scoffing laugh. "Me in with Cordwell? He wants my head and my private parts on a platter, and with Mullett's help he's probably going to get them."

Dunn looked round to make sure the door was shut, then leant across the desk to Frost, his voice lowered. "A deal, Jack. I've got some dirt against him that you can use as a lever."

"I'm not getting involved in your bloody blackmailing capers," said Frost. "Forget it, Tommy. I can't help."

"At least listen to what it is, Jack."

Frost chucked him a cigarette and poked one in his own mouth. "All right, but make it quick."

Dunn took a long drag at the cigarette, squirted a stream of smoke then perched it on the edge of Frost's ashtray. "Do you remember that spate of forged ten and twenty pound notes we had in the town about eighteen months ago?"

Frost nodded. Some 30,000 worth had been passed before the bank twigged and the shops were put on the alert. They had never caught the gang, who had moved on to somewhere else and were eventually arrested in Manchester. "Mr. Allen's case. What about it?"

"Savalot got lumbered with about twenty thousand quid's worth of the forgeries."

"Too bad," said Frost, not giving a damn.

"If you remember, the gang started passing on a Friday Savalot's big shopping day. We whammed the takings into the bank on the Saturday morning. Monday was a bank holiday and we were open on the Sunday as well — three days of peak trading. Tuesday morning, first thing, the bank phones us the money we paid in on Saturday morning included four thousand quid's worth of forgeries. They told us how to spot them so we wouldn't take any more, but it was a bit bleeding late. We'd another three days' worth in the safe ready to pay in. Cordwell did his nut."

"I'm glad it had a happy ending," said Frost.

"You haven't heard the punch line yet, Jack. We didn't even get the forged notes back they were confiscated. So we checked the weekend's takings and there it was — another fifteen thousand quid's worth of phoney tens and twenties."

"There's going to be some point to all this, I hope," said Frost.