DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

decided not to wait for an answer.
    Wells stuffed a finger in his ear and put on his polite voice. ‘Yes, madam, can I help you?’
    ‘What are you going to do about that bloody noise?’ screeched the woman caller. ‘I’ve got three children in bed and they can’t get to sleep!’
    ‘We’ll look into it, madam,’ promised Wells.
    The sliding panel that connected the lobby to the control room slid back and PC Ridley, the controller, poked his head through.
    ‘I’ve got Dave Shelby on the radio, Sarge. He’s trying to get a body to the morgue. The ambulance men refuse to touch it. They reckon it’s too mucky for the ambulance.’
    ‘Mr Frost is handling that one,’ said Wells.
    ‘I can’t contact Mr Frost, Sarge. He doesn’t answer his radio.’
    ‘Typical,’ snorted the sergeant. ‘Trust him to hide when there’s trouble.’ He consulted a typed list of funeral directors. ‘Tell Shelby to try Mawkins in the High Street. They’re cheap, they’re not too fussy, and they keep begging us for work.’
    ‘Right, Sarge.’ The panel slid shut.
    Wells was logging the last call in the phone register when he became aware of an irritating tap, tap, tap. He raised his eyes. Someone had the temerity to be rapping a pencil on the desk to attract his attention. He jerked up his head and there was the new man, that sulky swine, the bearded Detective Constable Webster, with the usual scowl on his face, tap, tap, tapping away. Furiously, Wells snatched the pencil from the man’s hand and hurled it to the floor. Pushing his face to within an inch of the constable’s, he said, ‘Don’t you ever do that again, Webster. If you want to attract my attention you address me by name, then wait until I am ready to respond. Understood?’
    ‘Yes, Sergeant, I understand.’ Webster almost spat the words out.
    ‘So what do you want?’
    ‘I want to know where the hell this Frost character has got to. I’m supposed to be working with him. Two hours ago he dumps six months’ filing on me and says he won’t be a tick. I’m still sitting in that pigsty of an office, waiting.’
    A malicious smile slithered across the sergeant’s face. ‘You want something to do then, Constable?’
    Webster gritted his teeth, trying to stop his irritation from showing. The way these yokels took a childish delight in emphasising the word ‘constable’. But he wouldn’t let them see they were getting through to him.
    ‘Yes, Sergeant. I want something to do.’
    ‘Right,’ said Wells, smiling. ‘You can make the tea.’
    ‘Make it?’
    ‘We won’t get any tea from the canteen, Webster. It’s out of bounds to the workers. So you’ll have to make it manually, which I trust is not beneath the dignity of an ex-inspector? There’s a kettle and other stuff in the washroom. Brew up enough for six.’ He lowered his head and returned to his entry in the log book.
    Webster didn’t move.
    Wells raised his head. ‘Is there a problem, Constable, something in your orders that you don’t understand?’
    Webster’s face was rigid with fury. ‘You want me to make the tea?’ He said it as if he had received an improper suggestion.
    Wells chucked his pen down and bounced back Webster’s glare with a scorcher of his own. ‘Yes, Constable. Any objections?’
    ‘Yes,’ snapped Webster, jerking a thumb at young Collier, who was hovering by the lobby door, anxiously peering out into the road. ‘What about him? Why can’t he do it?’
    ‘Because he is doing a very important job for Mr Mullett. And anyway, why should he be the tea boy instead of you? You’re both the same rank . . . you’re both constables or have you forgotten?’
    ‘No,’ snarled Webster, ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ As if the buggers would let him forget! He spun on his heel and barged out of the lobby, slamming the door behind him.
    That’s put the bastard in his place, thought Wells, feeling better now he had syphoned off some of his pent-up frustration.
    Collier raced over excitedly. ‘The Chief Constable’s car, Sarge.’
    ‘Well, don’t wet your knickers about it, Constable. Go upstairs and tell Mr Mullett, quick.’ Wells adjusted his uniform and made his back ramrod straight. He rapped on the panel and warned Control that the Chief Constable was on the way through.
    The phone on his desk gave a little cough. Wells glowered at it, daring it to ring. It defied him. So did the other phone. Damn and blast! He’d planned a quick exchange of dialogue