R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

It was clear he could tell them nothing more, so Frost handed the bottle over and they took their leave. Like a good host, Desmond saw them out.

“I like your friend,” he whispered to the inspector.

“He’s not used to the ways of men,” said Frost, steering the scowling Webster out into the clean, fresh-tasting air.

They hacked their way back to the car.

“What time is it?” asked Frost.

Webster brought up his watch. “Four fifty-six.”

“Drop me off at my place and then let’s get some sleep. I’ll see you back at the station at noon.”

“Yes,” yawned Webster.

The sky was lightening. Somewhere, way off in the distance, a rooster crowed, then a dog barked. Lights were starting to come on in some of the houses. Denton was waking up. Frost and Webster were going to bed.

Police Superintendent Mullett looked once again at his watch and angrily reached out for the ivory-coloured telephone.

“No, sir,” replied Sergeant Johnson. “Mr. Frost still isn’t in yet.”

Mullett replaced the phone and snatched up his copy of the Denton Echo.

It was open at an inside page where the headline read fleeing jewel thief shoots policeman dead. Beneath it a recent photograph of David

Shelby smiled across four columns. But it wasn’t this story that was causing Mullett’s annoyance. It was the story that had relegated it to the second page. He refolded the paper to page one, where enormous banner headlines screamed

17-YEAR OLD GIRL RAPED. HOODED TERROR CLAIMS 7TH VICTIM

Alongside this story, in bold type, was an editorial which was headed “What is Wrong with the Denton Police?” The theme of the editorial was that, because of incompetence, after seven attacks Denton police were still without a single clue to the identity of the rapist. It suggested that perhaps an experienced officer from another division should be brought in to take over where the Denton force had so clearly failed.

On first reading the editorial, Mullett had marched with it into Frost’s rubbish dump of an office, only to find that the inspector had not yet deigned to report for work. On Frost’s desk, unread, was a report from Forensic on the previous night’s rape, suggesting that a full-scale search of the area would be advantageous. When he checked with Sergeant Johnson, Mullett was appalled to learn that no search of the area had been made, or planned. And, to cap this catalogue of incompetence, Frost, the investigating officer, hadn’t even bothered to interview the rape victim!

He slumped down in Frost’s chair, shaking his head in dismay. And that was when he saw, in the middle of the desk, weighted down with an unwashed tea mug, the crime statistics that Frost had assured him had gone off the previous day.

Back to his office, where he scribbled down notes of all the matters he wished to take up with the inspector. That done, he buzzed Inspector Allen and asked him to come to the office.

Inspector Allen, immaculately dressed and coldly efficient, so different from the wretched Frost, drew up the offered chair and sat down.

“Have you seen this?” asked Mullett, pushing the newspaper across, jabbing the offending editorial with his finger.

Allen smiled thinly, thanking his lucky stars that he had dumped the case on Frost before the newspaper story broke. “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“I want you back on the rape case as soon as possible.”

Allen reminded the Superintendent that he had to bring the murder inquiry to a satisfactory conclusion first.

“Yes, of course,” sighed Mullett. “That must be our number-one priority. What progress so far?”

Allen brought him up to date on the finding of the Vauxhall.

“Any fingerprints?”

“No, sir. No prints and, so far, no bloodstains.”

Mullett looked up from polishing his glasses. “No bloodstains? But Shelby’s wounds would have been simply pouring with blood.”

The inspector explained his theory about the waterproof sheeting taken from Shelby’s patrol car..

Mullett looked worried. “No blood, no fingerprints. But that makes it impossible to link Shelby’s body with the getaway car.”

Allen smiled. “We tie Shelby to the car by his notebook, sir. We found it on the other side of the hedge where the Vauxhall was abandoned.”

“Were Eustace’s prints on that?”

“No, sir. Like the car, it had been wiped clean. But that doesn’t matter. It’s solid evidence. All we’ve got to do now is catch Eustace, and that shouldn’t take long a day or two at the most. He won’t have much money. All he’s got are the cheap pieces of jewellery he stole from Glickman, and we’ve put tabs on all the local fences.

We’ve also put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on his house, and

I’ve arranged for his phone to be tapped. We’ll get him, sir, and soon, I promise you.”

Mullett leaned back in his chair and relaxed. He almost felt like purring. How marvelous to have some good news for a change. A speedy result on the murder inquiry would take much of the heat off the rape cases. Thank goodness he had one officer he could rely on. He thanked Allen and sent him out to speed up the hunt for Stan Eustace.

As Allen left the office, Mullett jabbed the button on his internal and again asked if Mr. Frost had arrived yet.

The minute hand of the clock in the lobby gave a convulsive twitch and clunked nearer to twelve noon. The tall, thin, angular woman in the green coat, clutching the handbag, shifted her position on the uncomfortable seat and focused hard black eyes on Sergeant Johnny Johnson, who was doing everything possible to avoid her piercing gaze. Come on, Jack Frost, he said to himself. The Super wants you, this old dear wants you, and we all want you, so where the hell are you? He must have murmured this aloud, because the woman was now staring at him suspiciously. He grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think he’ll be too long, madam.”

Her sharp chin thrust forward. “It just isn’t good enough. A woman is brutally assaulted and then completely ignored by the authorities.”

“If you’d like to leave details, I’ll pass them on to Mr. Frost the minute he arrives,” suggested Johnson.

“Leave details?” She pushed herself up from the bench, her voice rising with her. “Am I hearing you correctly, Sergeant? I demand to be allowed to talk to a senior policeman, and I insist that a woman police officer be present.”

Mullett, crossing the lobby on his way back to his office, paused. This sounded like trouble. He walked over to the sergeant.

“Who is this lady?” he asked.

“A Miss Norah Gibson, sir. She claims she has been raped.” Johnson stressed the word ‘claims,” but Mullett failed to take the hint.

“Raped? And you’re making her sit out here and wait?” he gasped incredulously. “Good Lord, Sergeant, where’s your common sense? If the Demon Echo got hold of this…”

“Er, if I could have a quiet word, sir,” said Johnson, lowering his voice so the woman couldn’t hear. But Mullett was already on his way over.

“Good morning, madam. I am Police Superintendent Mullett, the Denton Divisional Commander. Do I understand you’ve been…” He hesitated for a second before bringing himself to say the word ‘raped?”

Her knuckles tightened on the strap of her handbag. “That is correct, but it seems no-one wants to know.”

At that moment, Frost breezed in, saw the Superintendent, saw the woman, and quickly backed out. But not quickly enough… “Inspector Frost!” bellowed Mullett.

“Sir?” said Frost, coming in again as if for the first time. He acted surprised to see the woman. “Hello, Norah. What are you doing here?”

Her eyes iced over. “Miss Gibson to you,” she spat.