R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

Mullett nodded sympathetically as if distancing himself from any criticism that might be levelled against the police. “Don’t talk to me about the press, Inspector. My phone’s been ringing nonstop about this wretched hit-and-run business… the press, the Chief Constable

… even Sir Charles Miller himself.” He looked at Allen, hoping that the recital of this all-star cast would impress him.

Allen again looked pointedly at his watch. “What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?”

The Superintendent adjusted his gaze to a spot a few inches above the inspector’s head. “What cases are you working on at the moment?”

Allen’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t intend dumping anything else on my plate, sir. I’ll be working all the hours God sends on this rape investigation and there’s going to be no time for anything else.”

“I fully appreciate that,” said Mullett, twisting his neck to look at the large-scale wall map, avoiding having to look the detective inspector in the eye. “I want you to hand the rape case over to Frost.”

Allen stared at Mullett as if he were mad. “Over my dead body!”

“Only for a few days, Inspector.”

“Not even for a few minutes and that’s just how long it would take Frost to sod everything up.” In his agitation he began to stride up and down, pounding his palm with his fist. “Why, sir? Please tell me why!”

Mullett raised a placating hand. “I’ve got another case for you one that requires all your skill, tact, and expertise.”

“Oh yes?” said Allen warily, knowing that it would be a real stinker.

“Do you know anything about this hit-and-run?”

“Only that Roger Miller was involved.”

“That isn’t certain. He claims he wasn’t driving, that his car had been stolen.”

Allen straightened the papers inside the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Balls!” he said bluntly.

Mullett, who could never stomach crudity, winced. “His father, Sir Charles Miller, is convinced of his son’s innocence.”

“I. hardly think Sir Charles is that stupid, sir.”

Pulling a chair forward, Mullett sat down after hitching his trousers legs to preserve the lethal edge of their creases. “This is all top-level stuff, Allen. Sir Charles phoned the Chief Constable this morning, and, as a result of that call, the Chief Constable phoned me at my home. If this case goes to court, Sir Charles intends to engage a top-flight QC

“Rich man’s privilege,” sniffed Allen.

“Precisely, Inspector. But a good QC would tear a badly prepared case to ribbons, and that would reflect badly on this division. I do not intend for that to happen.”. “If we get a good prosecuting counsel, then it won’t happen,” said Allen.

“All right,” said Mullett, “I’ll put my cards on the table. There’s a slim chance that Roger Miller is telling the truth and that his car was stolen. If we can prove that he’s innocent, it would buy us a lot of goodwill with Sir Charles. He’s always been anti police what a feather in our caps if we could turn this man our way.”

“But supposing our investigation proved his son to be guilty?” asked Allen.

“Then at least we’d go to court with a watertight case. In either event the investigating officer would come out of the affair with credit.”

“Would he?” asked Allen shrewdly. “With respect, sir, you’re being naive. This case is a political hot potato. Sir Charles Miller isn’t short of enemies, also in very high places. Feelings are bound to be running high… a poor old boy knocked down and killed by a rich man’s son. If we clear Roger, there’ll be screams of “Police cover up,” and if we prove him guilty, well, it’s no secret that Sir Charles can be a vindictive swine when he likes. He’d use every dirty trick to get back at the man who nailed his beloved boy. Each way we lose, so I’m having no part of it.”

Mullett sucked in his cheeks. It was time to exert his authority. “What you want, or don’t want, doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. By arrangement with the Chief Constable, Sir Charles Miller is calling here this morning. He has been promised that a senior officer will carry out this investigation, and that means you. I can’t give it to a rank lower than inspector.”

Sir Charles calling here this morning! thought Allen. So that’s why the virgin uniform has come out of mothballs. “You don’t have to give it to a rank lower than inspector. Give it to Frost.”

A scornful laugh. “Frost? On a case as delicate as this?”

Allen moved nearer to the Superintendent and lowered his voice. “Consider this, sir. If there’s got to be a loser, Frost is the ideal man.” He paused, then added significantly, “He’s the one we can spare the most.”

Mullett chewed this over and liked the taste. A chance of getting rid of the troublesome Frost. It was tempting. Very tempting. But how could he possibly introduce that scarecrow to Sir Charles and claim he was the best they had. “No way Inspector. No way at all. I’m sorry. I’m ordering you to do it.”

Allen quietly produced the trump card he had been holding back for such an emergency. “You know, sir, if the story were leaked to the press that a senior officer was taken off a serious rape case in order to try and clear an MP’s spoiled brat of a son, it could be very nasty. Very nasty indeed.”

Mullett looked at Allen. Allen looked at Mullett. Mullett’s look said, “You wouldn’t dare’, Allen’s said, “Just try me.”

The Superintendent was the first to lower his gaze. He stood up and started to stride around the room, scratching his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger. He stopped as if struck by a brilliant thought and turned slowly to the inspector. “Come to think of it, Allen, Frost would be the ideal choice. He’s got bags of local knowledge, he’s got, er…” He paused because he had run out of things to say in Frost’s favour.

“He’s got the George Cross,” said Allen.

The George Cross! Incredible but true. The previous year Frost had blundered into a hostage situation at Bennington’s Bank, where an armed robber, high on drugs, was holding a gun on a woman and her baby. Believing the man was bluffing, Frost had tried to take the gun away, getting himself shot in the face for his pains but managing to overpower the robber in the process. For this he was awarded the George Cross, the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross. Frost rarely spoke about it, and the medal was jumbled up with other debris in one of the drawers of his untidy desk. But it would very much impress Sir Charles, thought Mullett…! “Yes, Sir Charles, one of my best men he’s got the George Cross, you know.” He smiled at Allen. “Yes, Frost is definitely the best man for this job.”

Allen took his leave hurriedly before Mullett changed his mind. Mullett dashed back to his office and told Miss Smith to get out the best coffee cups. Only the best was good enough for Sir Charles Miller.

Frost was at his desk, rummaging through mounds of paper like a housewife searching for bargains at a jumble sale. He didn’t find any bargains, only the overtime returns and the crime statistics which should have gone off the previous night. He piled them on top of the other papers in his in tray. Somehow or other he would have to find time to do them. He picked up the latest burglary report, and skimmed through it, ready to lay it to rest with all the others in the filing cabinet.

Householder’s name: Lil Carey (Mrs)

Address: 26 Sunford Road, Demon

Scene of crime (if different from address above): As above. list of goods (not money) taken (with approx. value): Nil

Value of cash taken: 79

At first glance it appeared little different from all the others.