DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

booking hall, dimly lit and empty. They'd promised someone would meet him, but what could you expect in a dump like this? Then, with a screech of brakes, Able Baker four pulled into the curb, its flashing blue light reproaching him for his unworthy doubts. The driver, P.C. Jordan, a tall, thin twenty-six year old with a black mustache, opened the rear door and with a jerk of the thumb motioned Clive to get in. He briefly introduced himself and his observer, P.C. Simms, the moonfaced man at his side. That ceremony over, the car jerked away, heading for the lodgings assigned to Clive. An icy reception, he thought to himself. He hoped his new digs wouldn't be equally cold.
    "What's up with your nose?" asked Simms after a couple of minutes of silence.
    It had been broken on Clive's first day out on foot patrol. He'd tried to act the peacemaker between two brawling drunks and had been set upon by both of them for his trouble.
    Simms grunted at the explanation. "I always let them fight it out to the bitter end, then I arrest the winner. It means hiding round the corner until they've finished, but at least it keeps your nose in one piece." A few more moments of prickly silence, then Simms slipped in his leading question. "How's your uncle?"
    Clive sighed. So it was out in the open, the cause of the hostility. He might have known he'd have trouble with the rustics. In London it had been treated as a big joke. The odd bit of leg-pulling, but they'd known he'd worked his way up to the dizzy heights of detective constable from scratch, expecting and getting no favors. But out here in turnip country he was the brash, spoiled kid from the big city, the one with the influential relative.
    "Are you referring to the Chief Constable?" he asked innocently.
    Simms feigned surprise. "Oh, is he your uncle? That would account for the similarity of the names, of course . . ."
    "And for the fact that we're acting as your bloody chauffeur," added Jordan, sounding his horn at a dog that was taking its time crossing the road. "We couldn't expect the Chief Constable's nephew to take the common bus, of course . . ."
    "Let's get this straight," snapped Clive hotly. "I never asked to be met, and if you think he gives me any favors, then I can assure you I'd have asked to be posted to anywhere but this one-eyed stinking dump."
    A pause, during which tension crackled. The two uniformed men exchanged glances. "One-eyed stinking dump?" said Simms. "You must have been here before." He offered around his cigarettes and the atmosphere thawed slightly. "You're quite right, Clive," he continued, and Clive noted with pleasure the use of his first name, "this place is a dump . . . in fact it's a dump and a half. It was a little dump before they started to develop it, now it's a big dump."
    "It's not so bad," said Jordan, as they waited for the traffic lights to change, although there was no other vehicle in sight. The road was deserted. It was not only criminals who preferred to stay indoors in this weather.
    "I understand I'll be working under Detective Inspector Allen," remarked Clive, trying to balance some ash on the overflowing ashtray. "What's he like?"
    "In a word, he's a sod," muttered Simms.
    Jordan was more generous. "He's not so bad - a stickler for the book, but do it his way and you won't go far wrong. Mind you, he's got a bit of a sharp tongue, which he has been known to use on the lazy and slovenly, as my friend and colleague here has discovered to his cost."
    "What about Mr. Mullett, the Divisional Commander?"
    "Superintendent Mullett is a stuck-up, pompous know-nothing sod," answered Simms.
    Again Jordan differed. "He's got his faults, but he's fair. How long were you in uniform?"
    "Twenty-four months."
    Jordan grinned. No one could be considered for C.I.D. until they had spent a minimum of two years in uniform. Clive had spent the bare minimum. "Couldn't you wait to get out of it?"
    "I joined the Force with one idea and one idea only - to go into C.I.D. No disrespect, but to my mind C.I.D. is what police work is all about."
    A left turn at a roundabout. "You'll never get me to change," said Jordan. "For my money you can't beat the uniformed branch. Mind you, it was different years ago. Then they reckoned the chap on the beat was thick, clumsy, and slow - like my mate here--employed by the C.I.D. elite to stand outside the door and bar unauthorized entry during their investigations. He might be allowed to fetch the tea and bring back the