R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“I’m not bloody in charge. Frost is in charge… or he should be.

He’s the senior officer.” Again his hand reached out for the phone. Again he hesitated. Thanks to Frost, Wells was back in his familiar no-win situation. If he phoned Mullett he’d be castigated for disturbing him and for not using his initiative. And if he didn’t phone, Mullett would say, “Where’s your common sense, Sergeant? If someone as important as Sir Charles Miller is involved surely it doesn’t need a modicum of common sense to realize that I would want to know about it.” In either event, it would give the Superintendent a tailor-made excuse for turning down the sergeant’s latest promotion application.

Wells felt like breaking down and weeping at the injustice of it all when suddenly he was dragged away from his self-pity by a most unpleasant smell, which elbowed its way across the lobby. The sergeant’s head swivelled slowly until he located the source.

“Clear off,” he said, happy to have someone to snarl at. “Get out of here before I turn the hose pipe on you.”

A brown over coated figure clutching a carrier bag tottered toward him.

“I’ve come to be arrested,” said Wally Peters. “Mr. Frost sent me.”

As Wells searched for a suitable expletive, Ridley called out excitedly from Control. “There’s Mr. Frost, Sarge.” Wells spun around in time to see Frost and Webster pushing through the main doors.

“I’m here, Mr. Frost,” the tramp announced proudly.

“Yes,” agreed Frost, ‘we smelled you from the top of Bath Hill. But I must dash,” and he went charging through the other door and up the corridor.

“Hold it a minute, Inspector,” yelled Wells, chasing after him.

The light was on in Frost’s office. Relieved, Wells hurried forward and opened the door, but inside he saw only Webster, frowning at the car licence plate lying across Frost’s desk.

“What’s this, Sergeant?” he asked, picking it up.

Wells waved it aside. “None of your business. Where’s the inspector?

We’ve got a bloody crisis on our hands.”

Webster put down the licence plate and sat at his own desk. “He said something about going scavenging.”

“Scavenging?” Wells sank down in Frost’s chair. “What’s he playing at? The man’s supposed to be an inspector; why doesn’t he start acting like one?”

“You sound just like our beloved Divisional Commander,” said Frost, staggering back into the office bearing a tray piled high with goodies: sausage rolls, sandwiches, crisps, pork scratchings, and salted peanuts. A clinking noise came from his bulging mac pockets. “It’s party time, folks,” he announced, pushing papers and the licence plate to one side to clear a space on his desk for the tray.

From pockets that seemed far too small to contain them came can after can of lager, a seemingly endless supply of miniature spirit bottles, and even a box of expensive cigars. “You shall go to the ball, Sergeant,” he said.

Wells’s eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”

“From the canteen the party.” He still hadn’t finished off-loading, pulling more bottles from his inside jacket pockets. Proudly, he surveyed his haul. “They didn’t invite us to their stinking party, so we won’t invite them to ours.”

In the top drawer of his filing cabinet he found three chipped enamel mugs and slopped in three generous helpings of seven-year-old malt whisky. One mug went to the sergeant, the other to Webster. “Help yourself to tonic and salted peanuts. Sorry we haven’t got any ice.”

Webster glared at his mug and pushed it away. “Are you trying to be funny?”

Frost could only look puzzled. Then the light dawned. “Sorry, I forgot. You’ve signed the pledge, haven’t you, son? The beard that touches liquor will never touch mine.”

This had the effect of sending Wells into a fit of uncontrollable giggling, a fit that Webster’s scowl only seemed to amplify.

Frost shared the contents of Webster’s mug between the sergeant and himself. He pushed the tray toward the constable. “Well, at least have a sandwich or some peanuts.” Webster flicked a hand in curt refusal.

“If you’re not going to join the party, go and look after the lobby,” Wells ordered. When Webster stamped out, the sergeant slipped into his chair and washed down some cheese and onion crisps with a long swig from his mug. He felt warm and happy. It wasn’t such a bad shift after all. He was trying to remember why he had been feeling so miserable before Frost came in.

Frost buzzed Control on the internal phone. “Mr. Ridley? If you wish to attend a booze-up, report immediately to Mr. Frost’s office.” He hung up and lit one of the cigars. “This is great, isn’t it, Bill? All we want now to make it complete are some pickled onions and a naked woman.”

“I wouldn’t object if there were no pickled onions,” giggled Wells, unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. Frost’s office seemed very warm. He felt the radiator, but it was stone cold. As he was trying to puzzle this out he remembered what he had wanted to talk to the inspector about.

“Jack, we’re in a crisis situation. Do you know anything about this hit-and-run?”

“Yes,” said Frost, puffing out smoke rings almost as large as car tyres. “We saw the poor sod spewing blood at the hospital.”

“Is he still alive?”

Frost removed the cigar and shot a palmfril of salted peanuts into his mouth. “Just about. I don’t think they’ll be cooking him any breakfast, though.”

“Damn,” said Wells, his worst fears realized. He emptied his mug in a single gulp. “We’ve had the computer feed-back on the licence plate. The car belongs to Roger Miller.”

Frost stopped in mid sip He put the mug down slowly. “Sir Charles Miller’s son?”

“Yes,” agreed Wells dolefully, regarding the interior of his empty mug. “It’s tricky, Jack, flaming tricky. If we don’t play this one right we could end up in the soft and squishy.” It took him several attempts to say ‘soft and squishy.”

“Roger Miller,” repeated Frost, his eyes gleaming. “Well, if we can chuck that little sod in the nick, the night won’t be entirely wasted.”

Tapping at the door, Ridley looked in. “You said something about a drink, Mr. Frost?”

“More than a drink Frost told him, pouring out a quadruple shot of whisky’ — a party, a celebration. We’re going to arrest an MP’s son tonight. Help yourself to nosh.”

Ridley thanked him and took his drink and a ham sandwich back to the control room.

“Plenty more when you’ve finished that,” called Frost, biting into a sausage roll and coating both himself and the desk in a snowstorm of flaky pastry crumbs. The phone on his desk rang. “Shut up,” he ordered. “We’re having a party.” It rang on and on until he shook it free of food crumbs and picked it up. “Frost… OK, put them through.” He listened. “Thanks for telling me. Good night.” He fumbled the phone back on the rest. “That was the hospital, Bill. The hit-and-run victim just died.”

Wells stood up. “You’d better phone Mullett, Jack. This could be dynamite.”

Frost waved him back into the chair, then refilled the sergeant’s mug. “Sod Mullettj Bill. I want to handle this my way.” He went to the door and yelled for Webster to come in. “Put your coat on, son, we’re going walkies. We’ve got to arrest a piece of puke called Miller.”

“Miller?” said Webster, as he unhooked his coat from the rack. “You don’t mean Roger Miller?”

“What do you know about Roger Miller?” asked Wells.

“I saw the name on a car-theft report on Collier’s desk. When he went off he left a lot of his work unfinished, as I expect you know, Sergeant.”