DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

then things were very blurred. He recalled flinging a punch. An almighty punch which spun Hepton around, knocked him into a filing cabinet, and sent him crashing to the floor. Then the room was full of people, angry, shouting, holding him back. Someone must have taken him home because he next remembered waking in his own bed the following morning, his head split by wedges, hoping against hope that it had all been some ghastly drunken nightmare. But Janet wasn’t in bed with him. The house was empty, her clothes gone, and his fist swollen and hurting like hell.
    Suspension, Disciplinary Tribunal, demotion to constable, and transfer to Denton - and to Jack Frost, the cretin of the year.
    ‘Webster. How much longer are you going to be making that bloody tea?’ Wells’s voice, calling from the lobby, dragged him back to the present. The room seemed to be in a thick mist, outlines blurred and indistinct as the kettle boiled its head off. A roar of delight from the party upstairs. God, how he could do with a drink. Just one. But they’d warned him. Be drunk on duty just one more time
    He turned off the gas ring and made the tea.
    In the lobby, Frost and Wells were huddled together exchanging moans. Young Collier was at the Underwood, splashing correction fluid over a typed report as if he were painting a wall. Frost lowered his eyes guiltily as Webster handed him the mug of tea, knowing that he should have taken the detective constable with him on the Ben Cornish job. Indeed, it would have been better if he had - then Webster would have been the one floundering about in the wet and nasty instead of him. But he was finding the hair shirt of Webster’s permanent scowl a mite too much to take without the odd break. He pulled the mug toward him. ‘Thanks, son. Looks good.’
    Wells accepted his tea without comment, but Collier, looking up from his remedial work, said, ‘Thanks very much, Inspector . . . sorry, I mean Constable,’ which provoked a muffled snort of suppressed laughter from the sergeant.
    Webster’s face went tight. Laugh, you bastards. My time will come. He rapped on the panel, pushing the mug through as Ridley slid it open. The controller nodded his thanks, then called across to Wells: ‘That hit victim, Sergeant - they’ve taken him to Denton General Hospital. He’s not expected to live. Oh, and they’ve found the licence plate from the car that hit him.’
    ‘A licence plate from the car that hit him!’ exclaimed Frost in mock excitement. ‘Now that could be a clue!’ He sipped his tea. ‘It’s never been my luck to have a bloody licence plate left behind. I’m lucky if I find two witnesses who can agree on the colour of the car.’ Then he paused, the mug quivering an inch from his lips, and whispered, ‘Listen!’
    They listened - to comparative silence. No music. No stamping.
    Putting his mug down, Frost hurried over to the door that led to the canteen and pushed it open. Various voices called ‘Goodbye, sir . . . Thanks for coming, sir . . .’ The Chief Constable and Mullett were leaving. Frost smiled to himself. The minute they left, he’d be up those stairs like a sailor with a complimentary ticket to a brothel.
    Picking its moment, the phone rang. ‘Answer that, Collier,’ Wells ordered. He wasn’t going to miss his chance with the Chief Constable again. But Collier was doing his doorman act, standing to attention, holding the main door open for the VIPs to pass through. Crawling little sod, thought Wells disgustedly.
    Webster had skulked off to the office and Jack Frost had ducked out of sight as he always did when Mullett loomed into view. That left only Wells to answer the phone.
    Mullett and the Chief Constable shimmered into the lobby in a haze of whisky fumes and expensive cigar smoke. The Chief was talking, Mullett was listening, nodding vigorously and murmuring, ‘Couldn’t agree with you more, sir,’ whether he heard what the Chief was saying or not. At the door the Chief Constable paused, smiled approvingly at Collier, and said to Mullett, ‘You’ve got a smart man there, Superintendent.’
    ‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Mullett, wondering why Sergeant Wells was looking daggers in his direction.
    Wells shifted the phone to his other hand and took down the details. ‘I see, sir. Well, try not to worry. I’ll have a detective inspector over to you right away.’
    He hung up.
    Upstairs, whoops of delight. The record player started up again. Jack