Clive sat and waited. The bench got harder, his suit louder. Then an icy blast as the swing doors crashed back on their hinges and a scruffy individual in a dirty mac, un-pressed trousers, and a long trailing maroon scarf burst in. He was in his late forties, with a pink, weather-beaten farmer's face flecked with freckles, warm blue eyes, and a freckled balding head, the pate surrounded by fluffy light brown hair. He went straight over to the board, picked up the chalk, and increased by one the number of accidents.
'What happened?' asked Sergeant Wells, watching this with concern.
'Hit the back of a bloody car as I drove in,' said the scruffy man. 'Some silly sod had poked it in my parking space. Who owns a blue Jaguar?'
Wells went white. 'Not a blue Jaguar, Jack? You didn't hit a blue Jaguar? That's Mr. Mullett's car. Brand new… delivered Saturday.'
The scruffy man was unimpressed. 'Mullett's? At this hour of the morning? Come off it, he's at home polishing his buttons.' He sniffed. 'Hello… either meat pudding for dinner or Mabel's boiling her drawers.'
'This is serious, Jack,' insisted the sergeant. 'That is Mullett's car. He's here for the briefing meeting on the search for the missing kid. You were phoned about it last night. He's been asking for you.'
The man paused, then smote his brow in horrified 'The meeting! Blimey! I forgot all about it.'
The station sergeant, who appeared to find happiness in other's misfortunes, tried to reassure him. 'Never mind, Jack, after smashing up his car, missing his meeting will seem trivial. Did you do much damage?'
He thought about it. 'Not much… a slight knock on the rear wing. Hardly noticeable. His rear lamp's a bit smashed and there's the odd scratch and a couple of dents… Pity it was so new, actually.' He hitched up his scarf. 'Look, Bill, you haven't seen me; I haven't been in yet. I'm going to hide my car round the corner.' He scuttled out a side passage.
'Who was that?' asked Clive.
'That, Detective Constable Barnard,' replied the station sergeant stiffly, 'was Detective Inspector Jack Frost.'
A detective inspector? That slovenly mess? Clive began to feel much happier about his future prospects. After all, if they made tramps like that up to inspectors…
The phone rang. Stringer stopped his typing and answered it. He listened then muffled the mouthpiece against his tunic.
'Sergeant. It's the Divisional Commander. He wants to know if Inspector Frost is in yet.'
'Tell him no,' said the sergeant. 'And tell him there's a gentleman in a PS107 suit waiting to see him.'
'Send him in,' snapped Mullett and banged down the phone. He stuck the 'Private and Confidential' envelope back in his drawer. He had hoped to get the unpleasant interview with Frost over before he saw the new man. He shook his head in despair. How could you run an efficient station with men like Frost? And now, because of Inspector Allen's involvement with the search, Mullett was going to be forced to put the Chief Constable's nephew- the Chief Constable's actual nephew-under the dubious care of Inspector Jack Frost. It could spoil everything. True, the Chief Constable had a soft spot for Frost, but then he didn't have to work with him, to tolerate his appalling lapses, the unforgivable untidiness of his office, the tat tered clothes he wore, his hatred of paperwork and the system, his forgetfulness… But why go on? He was only working himself up. So long as the Chief Constable had faith, albeit misplaced, in Frost, then Mullett would conceal the man's true nature from him.
Mullett, like Clive, was a career man, determined to rise to the top of his chosen profession. He'd joined the Force as a constable and, according to his charted plan, had steadily and diligently worked his way up the ranks, passing with ease all the necessary exams. In his spare time he, too, had taken a law course and was now a qualified solicitor.
Because of his flair for leadership and organization, which he had taken pains to bring to the right people's notice, he'd been promoted three years ago to superintendent and given command of Denton Division. But this was but a stepping stone. In a few years' time the station would be demolished to make way for the enlargement of the new town and the force would move to a modern building currently under construction and would cover a much enlarged division. Whoever was in charge of the new division would be promoted to chief superintendent and would be in line for an even more glittering position when the Assistant Chief Constable retired.
Mullett had planned that he would be the next Assistant Chief Constable. He was only too aware how easy it was to slip from grace when so near the summit, but this was not going to happen to him. The decisions and actions he took were made solely in the light of what was best for his career. Sometimes this was not the best thing for the division. But the division would survive: one wrong move and he wouldn't. For this reason, having the Chief Constable's nephew here was a bonus to be cherished. The chief was definite that he wanted the lad to be shown no favors, but Mullett knew how to interpret that. He would see that Barnard was recommended for early promotion entirely on his own merits. It might upset some of his own men with stronger claims, but it was a tough world and there was always another time.
In the meantime he could congratulate himself on running a good division with some fine men under him; morale and discipline were excellent and crime figures were dropping. If only the division didn't include Detective Inspector Frost.
A knock at the door interrupted his meditations.
'Detective Constable Barnard. Welcome to Denton. Sit down, sit down.'
Clive blinked in astonishment at his first sight of the Divisional Commander's paneled office. Its opulence contrasted with the rest of the building like a silken patch on a manure sack. It was easy to see how the limited maintenance budget had been spent.
Career-man Barnard shook hands with career-man Mullett, each liking what he saw. The Divisional Commander pressed a button, a bell tinkled faintly in the adjoining office, and his efficient secretary, Miss Smith, scurried in with a tray on which rattled a coffee pot and the bone-china cups that were reserved for important visitors.
Mullett poured for both of them and was just raising his cup appreciatively to his lips when he caught sight of Clive's suit. He blinked, slipped on his reading glasses from his pocket, and peered again.
'Ahem. Er…' Must play it carefully, it might be his uncle's choice. 'I suppose the rest of your luggage is on its way with your-er-proper suit?'
'Yes, sir, 'lied Clive.
The superintendent beamed and sipped happily from his cup. 'I've been looking through your file… most impressive. And I see you're studying law. Couldn't do better. If I can help you in any way, lend you books- Archbold's Criminal Pleading and Practice, Green's Criminal Costs, plenty of others…'
'Thank you very much, sir.' Clive's stomach wished there were some biscuits to go with the coffee. 'I'm looking forward to working under Mr. Allen.'
Mullett's face changed. He replaced his cup on its saucer and spooned in some more sugar. 'Ah… There's been a slight change of plan I'm afraid. Inspector Allen is in charge of our missing-girl inquiry. We've a big search on. You wouldn't know about it, of course.'
Clive knew how to name-drop. 'Young Tracey Uphill, sir? I was at the mother's last night with the chaps from Able Baker four.'
'Were you indeed? And before you'd officially joined us! That's what I like to see-keenness. But, as you'll appreciate, Inspector Allen won't be able to spare you any time at the moment, so I've arranged for you to work with our other Detective Inspector-Detective Inspector Frost.'
Oh no! Not that old tramp in the filthy mac!
'He's a very experienced man.' He stared past Clive and considered the grim vista of Eagle Lane framed in his picture window. 'He… he had a personal tragedy last year… his wife. Devoted couple… very sad. He took it badly.' Mullett's face saddened and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Cancer. Nothing they could do, absolutely nothing. Shocking business.'
Clive nodded glumly and made appropriate noises of sympathy.
'As I said, he took it badly. Naturally. You can't expect a tragedy like that not to leave its scars. I make allowances of course.
…' He picked up his stainless-steel paperknife and tapped the blade on his palm, racking his brains for something to say in his inspector's favor.
'I'm sure he can teach me a lot,' said Clive, without conviction.
Mullett brightened up. 'Yes. Sometimes just knowing the wrong way to do things helps. It shows the pitfalls
