R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

"You know you like it, Arthur," replied Frost. "What's this then-another attempted break-in?"

The fat detective gave his head a puzzled scratch.

"Looks like it. Two nights running now and roughly at the same time. I think I'll get the duty chap to rearrange his beat so he's waiting for him."

"Good idea, Arthur-you don't have to be thin to have brains, do you?…" Frost's voice trailed off. He was looking over Hanlon's shoulder into the bank where Mrs. Uphill was having a wad of notes counted out to her by the cashier. Excusing himself, he slid inside, pressed himself into a corner and pretended to study the astronomical figures, with infinite noughts, contained in the bank's Annual Balance Sheet, framed on the wall. The click of heel across the tiled floor was Mrs. Uphill leaving. He sped over to the cashier and flashed his warrant card. The cashier looked to left and to right, then leaned across and spoke in a low voice. Frost nodded his thanks.

Back to the car where Clive was fighting with sleep.

"The station, son."

Clive reversed and the car bounced over the cobbles.

"What do you think, son," said Frost. "Your girlfriend has just drawn out two thousand quid in fivers."

"Two thousand?" Clive whistled softly. "What do you think, sir? Blackmail?"

Frost gave him an old-fashioned look. "At the risk of soiling your lady's good name, she's more likely to be the one doing the blackmailing. No, son, I don't think so. But what about ransom money?"

The station sergeant's internal phone buzzed. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. He knew who it was. Mullett had buzzed five minutes earlier and five minutes before that.

"Wells. No, sir, I'm afraid Inspector Frost still hasn't arrived."

Mullett droned and crackled in the earpiece. The sergeant held the phone away from his ear until the sound had finished. "Yes, sir, of course, sir, the minute he arrives." He'd heard it all before. But where the hell had Frost got to?

P.C. Stringer, looking out of the window to the snow-covered car park, reported the prodigal's return.

"Inspector Frost's car pulling into the car park, Sarge."

Wells swiveled his chair to confirm this sighting and saw the car door open and a single figure, scarf streaming behind him, streak over to the rear entrance of the station. Then the car backed up, turned, and drove off.

"After him-don't let him escape," roared the sergeant, and Stringer darted up the corridor to head off the inspector. He returned with Frost at his heels, the pride of capture on his face.

"What's all the fuss about?" asked Frost, taking off his coat and shaking snow all over the newly swept floor, "The briefing meeting," said the sergeant in a voice charged with significance.

Frost sagged and his eyes widened in horror. "Blimey! Oh Gawd, I forgot it again."

"You were supposed to be running it-in Inspector Allen's absence," said Wells.

"Yes, I know," sighed Frost. He got out his cigarette packet. "Mr. Mullet reminded me last night. I suppose he's upset."

"Upset," cried Wells, "he's spitting blood. It was a shambles. And to make matters worse, the Chief Constable turned up."

"Oh Gawd!" said Frost again.

The internal phone buzzed and Frost backed away as if it were a bomb. Stringer picked it up, listened, and then handed it to Sergeant Wells.

"Yes, sir, his car has just come in… this very minute. He's on his way, sir." He dropped the phone and smiled sweetly. "Our Divisional Commander wonders if you could spare him a few minutes of your valuable time?"

"I shall wear my medal," said Frost. "He's too much of a coward to sack a gallant hero."

He darted up the corridor to Mullett's lair and bumped into three men coming the opposite way, two in uniform. The man in the middle wore a crumpled suit and peered with frightened eyes through thick steel-rimmed spectacles.

"Hello, hello, hello… and what have we here? A visitor gracing our presence?"

The trio stopped. "This is our friendly neighborhood child molester, sir. You asked us to invite him in."

It was Mickey Hoskins, missing from his digs since Sunday.

"Now what's this all about?" he squeaked, his eyes darting from side to side as if seeking a way of escape.

"We appreciate your co-operation, Mickey," said Frost, opening the door of the interview room and bowing him in. "Won't be a minute, make yourself at home." He closed the door and turned to the two constables.

"Good work, lads. Where did you find him?"

"In the public library, sir."

"The library?"

"Yes, sir. It's warm in there. I imagine he's been sleeping rough to keep out of our way. The snow's driven him out of cover."

Frost nodded. Sleeping rough… like that poor old tramp. He wondered if the station sergeant knew old Sam was dead.

"Have you told him what it's all about?"

"No, sir."

"That's right, let him sweat. Give him a cup of tea and leave him on his own. I've got to see the Divisional Commander to have my goolies chewed off, so I'll chat him up as soon as that treat's over." A cheery wave and he ambled off to Mullett's room.

As dogs grow to look like their masters, so his secretary emulated Mullett's varying moods. Miss Smith's face was sour, with drawn-together eyebrows and tightly pursed lips. If only that coarse Inspector Frost would show some signs of contrition for the distress he caused the commander she could soften toward him. She understood he was very well liked in the station, but all she could say was they must see an entirely different side of the man.

Frost barged in cheerfully and asked if Santa was in his grotto.

"He's waiting for you, Inspector." She spat out the words in a manner she felt would merit the full approval of her master and resumed her finger-blurring typing.

"You look beautiful when you're angry, Ida," chirped Frost, sailing into the Divisional Commander's inner sanctum.

Mullett was furious. He was shaking with the anger and the humiliation of it all. The meeting had been a complete and utter shambles. They'd started late after waiting twenty minutes for Frost, and then the Chief Constable had turned up, unannounced and unexpected. "Didn't want you to lay anything special on for me, Commander, just want to see the normal run of things." Lots of forced laughter and increased perspiration levels as the fiasco blundered on. The various progress reports and detailed instructions for the search parties couldn't be found. Eventually Detective Sergeant Martin located them buried under other papers on Inspector Frost's desk. By then, the outside volunteers had decided that the weather would preclude searching for the day, and most of them had drifted off, while the Chief Constable's snorts were becoming more and more pointedly audible.

The meeting finally died horribly. The Chief Constable had taken Mullett quietly to one side and suggested that he ought to get a little more involved in detail instead of leaving everything to others. And as a parting shot he had made that ridiculous suggestion about the spiritualist woman. A shameful, degrading morning and all because of that untidy shuffling figure before him.

He fixed Frost with an icy stare. "We started the meeting without you, Inspector-your meeting, your briefing meeting. I hope you didn't mind? We waited twenty minutes in case you decided to come, but had to go ahead. Everyone else was there on time, you'll be glad to know, including the Chief Constable." He paused to compose himself as the bitter recollection of his humiliation fueled the flames of his fury.

Frost composed his face into what he hoped was an expression of penitent contrition and did his best to look attentive while switching off his ears. He could kick himself for missing the lousy meeting, but all the screaming and shouting in the world wouldn't put it right now. And look at Mullett, his mouth opening and shutting, his eyes popping, just like a bloody fish. Anyway, it was just as well he hadn't turned up if the Chief Constable had been there, with all the others toadying up to him, lighting his fags, fetching his tea, laughing at his jokes, and making polite conversation, while he, Frost, would have been stuck in the corner seat at the back, deeply conscious of the fact that his suit hadn't been pressed for a week.