R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“They seem to be enjoying themselves up there, Sergeant Wells,” he shouted over the din. “Not too loud for you, is it?”

“No, sir,” lied Wells as he pushed the phone to Collier so the constable could take over the call. “Nice to hear people enjoying themselves… for a change.”

Mullett nodded his approval, his gaze wandering around the dingy lobby with its stark wooden benches and the Colorado Beetle Identification poster flapping on the dark grey walls. “I never realized just how dreary this lobby looked, Sergeant. It’s bad for public relations. Do you think you could see about cheering it up… get in some house plants, or flowers, or something?”

“Yes, sir. Good idea, sir,” mumbled Wells, raising his eyes to the ceiling in mute appeal. Bloody flowers indeed! He was a policeman, not a bloody landscape gardener.

“Is Inspector Frost about?” asked Mullett anxiously. He was hoping the answer would be no. He preferred that Frost, with his impressed clothes, his unpolished shoes, his rudeness, and his coarse jokes, should be well out of the way when the Chief Constable arrived.

“Out on an inquiry, sir. Body down a public convenience off the Market Square.”

A public convenience! Mullett flinched as if he had been hit. It sounded just the type of distasteful inquiry that Frost would get himself involved in, but at least it had the advantage of keeping him out of sight when the V.I. P arrived.

He leaned across the desk to the sergeant, taking him into his confidence with great news: “The Chief Constable said he might look in, Sergeant, to say goodbye personally to George Harrison. You might ask one of your spare constables to keep an eye on the road outside.. ”

“I haven’t got anyone spare, sir,” cut in Wells hastily. “I’ve only got one constable with me to help run the entire station.” He indicated young Collier, who didn’t seem to be making much progress with the caller on the phone.

“He’ll do fine,” beamed Mullett, who had no intention of getting involved in these minor staffing problems. “The instant the Chief Constable’s car turns that corner, I want to be told. I’ll be upstairs with the lads.” He paused. “Sorry I had to put you on duty tonight, Wells, but there are so few men I could really trust to do a good job when we’re short-handed.”

Wells gave a noncommittal grunt.

Mullett pushed open the door to the canteen and steeled himself. He was not a very good mixer as far as social ising with the lower ranks was concerned and would never have attended were it not for the promised visit of the Chief Constable. He squared his shoulders, then, like a front-line soldier going over the top, he bravely charged up the stairs.

Wells glowered after him, speeding him on his way with a blast of mental abuse. “That’s right… go and enjoy yourself. Never mind us poor buggers sweating our guts out down here.” He became aware of Collier’s worried face looking helplessly at him, the phone still in his hand.

“What is it now, Collier? Surely you can handle a simple phone call on your own?”

“She won’t talk to me, Sarge, and she’s getting stroppy. She says she wants a high-ranking officer.”

A loud burst of sound and the crash of breaking glass from overhead.

Wells hoped it was Mullett falling over the beer crates.

“She can’t have a high-ranking officer, Collier. All the high-ranking officers are upstairs getting pissed.” He snatched the phone from the constable’s hand. “Go out and keep an eye open for the Chief Constable’s Rolls… and get some bloody flowers.”

“Flowers?” queried Collier, but seeing the look on his sergeant’s face, prudently decided not to wait for an answer.

Wells stuffed a finger in his ear and put on his polite voice. “Yes, madam, can I help you?”

“What are you going to do about that bloody noise?” screeched the woman caller. “I’ve got three children in bed and they can’t get to sleep!”

“We’ll look into it, madam,” promised Wells.

The sliding panel that connected the lobby to the control room slid back and PC Ridley, the controller, poked his head through.

“I’ve got Dave Shelby on the radio, Sarge. He’s trying to get a body to the morgue. The ambulance men refuse to touch it. They reckon it’s too mucky for the ambulance.”

“Mr. Frost is handling that one,” said Wells.

“I can’t contact Mr. Frost, Sarge. He doesn’t answer his radio.”

“Typical,” snorted the sergeant. “Trust him to hide when there’s trouble.” He consulted a typed list of funeral directors. “Tell Shelby to try Hawkins in the High Street. They’re cheap, they’re not too fussy, and they keep begging us for work.”

“Right, Sarge.” The panel slid shut.

Wells was logging the last call in the phone register when he became aware of” an irritating tap, tap, tap. He raised his eyes. Someone had the temerity to be rapping a pencil on the desk to attract his attention. He jerked up his head and there was the new man, that sulky swine, the bearded Detective Constable Webster, with the usual scowl on his face, tap, tap, tapping away. Furiously, Wells snatched the pencil from the man’s hand and hurled it to the floor. Pushing his face to within an inch of the constable’s, he said, “Don’t you ever do that again, Webster. If you want to attract my attention you address me by name, then wait until I am ready to respond. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant, I understand.” Webster almost spat the words out.

“So what do you want?”

“I want to know where the hell this Frost character has got to. I’m supposed to be working with him. Two hours ago he dumps six months’ filing on me and says he won’t be a tick. I’m still sitting in that pigsty of an office, waiting.”

A malicious smile slithered across the sergeant’s face. “You want something to do then, Constable?”

Webster gritted his teeth, trying to stop his irritation from showing. The way these yokels took a childish delight in emphasising the word ‘constable’. But he wouldn’t let them see they were getting through to him.

“Yes, Sergeant. I want something to do.”

“Right,” said Wells, smiling. “You can make the tea.”

“Make it?”

“We won’t get any tea from the canteen, Webster. It’s out of bounds to the workers. So you’ll have to make it manually, which I trust is not beneath the dignity of an ex-inspector? There’s a kettle and o’her stuff in the washroom. Brew up enough for six.” He lowered his head and returned to his entry in the log book.

Webster didn’t move.

Wells raised his head. “Is there a problem, Constable, something in your orders that you don’t understand?”

Webster’s face was rigid with fury. “You want me to make the tea?” He said it as if he had received an improper suggestion.

Wells chucked his pen down and bounced back Webster’s glare with a scorcher of his own. “Yes, Constable. Any objections?”

“Yes,” snapped Webster, jerking a thumb at young Collier, who was hovering by the lobby door, anxiously peering out into the road. “What about him? Why can’t he do it?”

“Because he is doing a very important job for Mr. Mullett. And anyway, why should he be the tea boy instead of you? You’re both the same rank… you’re both constables… or have you forgotten?”

“No,” snarled Webster, “I haven’t forgotten.” As if the buggers would let him forget! He spun on his heel and barged out of the lobby, slamming the door behind him.

That’s put the bastard in his place, thought Wells, feeling better now he had syphoned off some of his pent-up frustration.

Collier raced over excitedly. “The Chief Constable’s car, Sarge.”