R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Yes, I heard you the first time,’ said Frost. ‘I was defending myself. He came at me with a knife.’

‘To kick a man in the head, he would have to be down on the floor, Frost. You hardly needed to defend yourself when your assailant was on the floor.’

‘He was reaching for the bloody knife.’

‘You could have kicked it out of the way. The press are going to have a field day over this, and you can’t expect me to back you.’

‘That’s the last thing I would expect,’ said Frost. ‘I only had one free hand.’ He held up the strapped wrist. ‘This one was useless. I was groggy after hitting my head on the floor. This mad bastard had already taken a slice out of my ear and my cheek, just in case you think I cut myself shaving.’ He touched the sticking plaster and wished it was bigger.

Mullett dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘Excuses, excuses. If Lewis dies…’

His phone rang. Mullett frowned at it for daring to interrupt, then picked it up. ‘Mullett!’ The frown vanished. He straightened himself up in his chair, smoothing his hair and straightening an already immaculate tie. ‘Good morning, Chief Constable. Yes, I’ve heard, sir.’

Mullett covered the mouthpiece with his hand and hissed to Frost, ‘He’s heard about your brutal arrest – I’m not going to cover up for you.’ Then back instantly to the phone. ‘Yes, sir. I’m dealing with that right now. I have Frost in the office with me… I – ’ He stopped dead. As if a switch had clicked, his expression changed. ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, sir… a very brave thing to do… tackling a man with a knife in the pitch dark… and he suffered minor injuries himself, did you know? Yes, sir… Funnily enough I was telling him that as you phoned… a credit to the Denton force.’

Frost leant back in his chair and smirked.

‘One minor problem,’ Mullett went on. ‘I’ve had the local TV station on accusing us of police brutality… Yes, sir, I shall certainly put them in their place. As you know, sir, I back my men to the hilt.’ He ignored Frost’s exaggerated expression of disbelief. ‘His transfer request?… I’m doing my best to talk him out of it, sir, but his mind seems to be made up… Yes, sir, I’ll try again. .. I agree we need men like him in the division… Thank you, sir.’ He hung up and shuffled some papers on his desk, trying to reassemble his thoughts.

‘No need to talk me out of it, Super,’ beamed Frost. ‘To help you out, I’ll stay.’

‘The Chief Constable is unaware of your forgeries and your obtaining money by false pretences, Frost. If he found out, there would be no question of you staying anywhere in the force you would be out on your ear and nothing I could do would stop it.’

‘I’m sure of that,’ said Frost He stood up. ‘Anything else?’

Mullett waved him back into his chair. ‘There is something else, Frost. I’ve had DCI Skinner on the phone. He’s still tying up loose ends in his old division, but he should be able to return to Denton permanently in a week or two. And when he does he wants to bring his own Detective Inspector with him. So we want you to be ready to move out instantly. What have you done about selling your house?’

‘I’ve thought about it,’ said Frost.

‘You’ve got to do more than think about it. You’ll need somewhere to live in Lexton. DCI Skinner has kindly given your details to estate agents there, who will be contacting you.’

‘DCI Skinner’s kindness overwhelms me at times,’ said Frost. ‘And there was me thinking he was a lousy bastard.’

‘I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said Mullett. ‘As time is of the essence, Frost, I suggest you take the rest of the day off and get your house tidied up into a fit condition for estate agents to value it.’

Back in his office, Frost phoned Taffy Morgan at the hospital. ‘How’s Lewis?’ he asked.

‘He’s all right, Guv. He was only stunned.’

‘Oh dear. Mullett was hoping he’d die so he could boot me out. Are they keeping him in?’

‘Only for another twenty-four hours for observation.’

‘Right. I’ll get Sergeant Wells to send you a relief. I need you down here.’

‘The doctors are worried about his mental state.’

‘That’s funny, Taff. I’m worried about yours. What are they going to do about it?’

‘They reckon they should get him sectioned.’

‘Bloody good idea… he’s not going to be fit to plead and it will get him off our backs. I’ll get Bill Wells on to it.’

He hung up. His head was hurting. His wrist was hurting. It wasn’t time for the next lot of painkillers, but he shook out a double dose and swallowed them dry. Dangerous to exceed the stated dose, it said. Well, he’d live dangerously. They weren’t doing any bleeding good anyway. He yawned and scrubbed his face with his hands. Why was he so bloody tired? Was it the tablets? He read the manufacturer’s warnings… the tablets could evidently cause everything from exploding eyeballs to heart failure… Should you experience any of these symptoms, stop taking the medication instantly and consult your GP. And yes, they could cause tiredness – Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.

He yawned again. Of course he was flaming tired. What with all the sodding about with Lewis, he’d barely had half an hour’s sleep. Well, he wasn’t fit for work in this state. He’d obey his thoughtful Divisional Commander and go home for a couple of hours and have a kip.

As he yawned his way through the lobby, Bill Wells called after him, ‘Mullett wants you again, Jack.’

‘He can bloody want,’ said Frost.

The minute his head touched the pillow, thoughts started whirling round his brain – all the things he had to do, all the things he hadn’t done – and he knew there was no chance of sleep. He lit a cigarette and lay there, staring upwards, watching the smoke writhe its way to the nicotine-stained ceiling. What was that song Peggy Lee used to sing – ‘Don’t Smoke In Bed’? There was supposed to be a danger of dropping off to sleep and burning yourself to death when the bedclothes caught fire. The worst thing about smoking in bed as far as he was concerned was that the ash kept falling on his chest. He brushed away the latest deposit, stubbed the cigarette out and shut his eyes, willing sleep to pay him a visit. He was just drifting off when…

The bloody hall phone rang.

He tried to ignore it, but it rang and rang and rang.

Cursing softly, he padded downstairs and snatched up the handset. ‘Frost.’

‘My name is Richard from Ripley’s estate agent’s. When would it be convenient to call to value your home?’

‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Frost sweetly.

‘Richard.’

‘Then piss off, Richard.’ He slammed the phone down, making the hall table shake. Sod it. Sleep was impossible now. And he’d have to face up to the fact that, like it or not, they were going to boot him out of Denton and he’d have to sell this place. An estate agent would have to call and put a price on it. Prospective buyers would come to have a sniff around, shake their heads and say, ‘We were looking for something bigger, cheaper, less scruffy; and in a better state of repair.’

As he turned to go back upstairs a package plopped through the letter box. A plastic sack from Oxfam, who were inviting householders to fill it with unwanted clothing.

If he was going to move into somewhere smaller he would have to chuck away a whole batch of stuff. The wardrobe was jam-packed with his late wife’s clothes. They could all go for a start. He made a detour to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face to chase away the last vestiges of tiredness, rubbed his chin and decided a shave could wait, then went back into the bedroom. There were so many dresses, coats, blouses, skirts, going back years. His wife had never thrown anything away. He shook them off their hangers and started stuffing them into the bag.