'What rotten stinking luck,' snarled the man bitterly. 'I could have driven straight past… left her there to die and got away with it.'
'You couldn't, sir,' said Frost, softly, 'you're not that sort of person. You're very much like me. We do the right thing and get ourselves into trouble. You wouldn't have a cigarette on you by any chance, would you?'
Frost pressed down his stapler and impaled details of the evening's arrest in a prominent position on the front of the Electronics Theft file which he proudly dumped, with a two-fingered salute, on the Divisional Commander's barren desk. That would wipe the smile off Mullett's face I when he came in the next morning.
I What to do now? Barnard was still at the hospital waiting for Mrs. Uphill to regain consciousness, and no lone had time for a chat as they were all busy clearing their desks ready for the next shift to take over at 10:00 p.m.
Sounds of a commotion in the lobby promised a welcome diversion and he followed the unintelligible swearing, grunts, and calls for assistance to find young Keith Stringer struggling with a fat drunken Irishman from the local building site who'd apparently staggered out of a pub, slipped in the snow and broken a leg, and had then dragged himself through the slush to the station where he demanded immediate medical attention and flailed his fists at anyone who tried to get near. As Frost arrived the man was sprawled on the lobby floor, his hands locked round Stringer's legs, trying to crash him down.
Frost ambled over and kicked the laborer's hands away. Small, red-rimmed pig's eyes squinted up with unveiled hatred and the slobbering mouth spewed mindless obscenities. The inspector lit a cigarette and looked down with disgust. The man's clothes were Filthy and sodden and at some stage he had been sick down his coat. He stank of whiskey, vomit, and blind hatred. Anaesthetized by drink, the man felt no pain from the fracture and was able to heave himself up, pulling on Stringer's trouser legs for assistance then, looking slyly apologetic, suddenly swung a meaty fist at Frost which, had it landed, would have felled him. But Frost saw it coming. His foot shot out and hooked round the man's good leg, sending him crashing to the floor with a scream of pain which hinted it hadn't done the broken leg much good.
'What's his beef?' Frost asked Stringer.
'I'll tell you,' screamed the Irishman. 'He's pinched my wallet.'
Oh no! thought Frost, not again, and he turned to Stringer who shook a drawn face in mute denial.
'Fifteen pounds there was in it, sir. Fifteen pounds I had when I came in.'
'Shut up!' snapped Frost, steeling himself. He'd have to search the man and the thought of going through the pockets of that sodden jacket churned up his stomach. He wished the Chief Constable's nephew was here so he could give the job to him.
He walked behind the man who followed him with piggy eyes, screwed up to keep him in focus. What a ghastly sight, the enormous seat spread over the floor, the back seam of the trousers gaping where the thread had given up the struggle to contain the vast, flabby girth. And then Frost's eyes narrowed and he spotted a flat bulge in the back pocket.
'Is this your wallet, Paddy?'
The man squinted suspiciously at the brown leather object dangled in front of his face, then something like a smile revealed black stumps.
'Well… and how did that get there? I never keep it in my back pocket.'
Frost opened it and flipped through the thin wad of notes. 'Fifteen… All right you drunken sod, count them.'
'No need, sir, if you say they're all there…'
Frost's foot swung back threateningly. 'Count them, you sod.'
'Yes, sir, of course, sir, all there, sir. Thank you, thank you…'
The young constable expelled an audible sigh of relief.
'Right, son, now call the ambulance and see how soon they can get this stinking rat-bag out of here. If he shows his face again, think of a charge and book him. I'll support you.'
Stringer suddenly caught sight of someone behind the inspector's back and his face tic-tacked a warning. It was Mullett, resplendent in a beautifully tailored topcoat, white gloves in hand.
'What's going on here?' he asked, coldly.
Seeing a possible ally, a crafty look crossed the drunk's face. 'I broke my leg outside, sir, and I've had nothing but abuse since I've been here. And that man kicked me.', Frost caught Stringer's eye and jerked his head toward the phone. The young constable took the hint and slipped off to call the ambulance. The sooner they got the drunk off the premises, the better.
'Bit of a new development with that skeleton, sir,' ventured Frost, hoping to change the subject, but Mullett, deeply concerned with an allegation of police brutality toward a poor injured Irishman, waved the inspector to one side and moved forward to question the man on the floor. At which instant the laborer turned a pale shade of green, gulped, and was copiously sick all over Mullett's shoes.
Frost suddenly felt a warm, friendly, loving feeling toward the drunk and wished he'd been kinder. There's good hi all of us, he thought, as Mullett scuttled away to clean himself.
The diversion over, Frost returned to his office for a smoke and a bloody good laugh, when his phone summoned him to the old log cabin where Mullett, who had heard about the attack on Mrs. Uphill, proceeded to give him a roasting. How could Frost, an experienced officer, let her go out on her own with all that money? If that wasn't just asking for trouble- Frost countered by sniffing repeatedly, staring at Mullen's shoes, and asking if they could have the window open. The bloody man never let a wound heal without grinding half a pound of rough salt into it. Of course, he should have had Mrs. Uphill followed, but he couldn't think of everything. He wasn't bloody Gideon of the Yard, he was Detective Inspector Jack Frost, G.C., jumped up from being a lousy sergeant to a lousier inspector. He hadn't asked for promotion.
These silent thoughts were stopped from being put into words by the intervention of the telephone. Mullett handed it to him. It was Clive Barnard from the hospital.
Mrs. Uphill had regained consciousness.
'Right,' said Frost, 'I'm on my way.' Then he turned to Mullett. 'By the way, sir,' he said, trying to sound casual, 'I've put the Electronics Theft file on your desk. We caught the bloke tonight.'
'Oh yes?' said Mullett, giving it a curt glance and dropping it in his 'Out' tray. 'One of Inspector Allen's cases, wasn't it? He had it all but tied up before he went sick.'
Frost shut the door carefully behind him, then swore loudly, long, and ineffectively into the empty passage.
TUESDAY-6
As he pushed through the hospital entrance doors, it all came back to him. The smells-over-cooked food and disinfectant. The sounds-moans, muffled sobs, hushed worried voices. He'd had them, twice a day, for six months when his wife was slowly dying. The end bed with the screens, and 'You can stay as long as you like, Mr. Frost.'
Clive Barnard, slumped moodily on a hard wooden bench, rose at the inspector's approach and led him into a side ward where a white-faced Mrs. Uphill, head bandaged, lay propped up on plumped-up pillows. Frost dropped his eyes to the chart clipped at the foot of the bed. Temperature a trifle high, pulse slightly fast. She wasn't too badly damaged.
He gave her an encouraging smile. 'They're letting you to home tomorrow, Mrs. Uphill.'
Her head sank into the starched depths of the pillow. 'I want to go home now. I've got to be there when he phones again.'
Frost dragged a small wooden bench from under her bed and sat down. 'What makes you think he's going to phone again?'
'He's got the money, now he must tell me where Tracey is. That was the bargain.' She struggled up, eyes burning. 'She might even be back at the house now, waiting…'
'Easy, love, easy…' He pushed her down gently, then drew Clive to one side and whispered some instructions. Mrs. Uphill had pointed out something Frost had overlooked. The possibility-the extremely remote possibility-that
