The rashers were laid into the frying pan with a generous chunk of recycled dripping, then two eggs were cracked and dropped in, and everything started sizzling and spitting and filling the kitchen with greasy smoke. He turned his attention to making the tea. No tea bags left. Damn and flaming blast!
He ferreted around in the rubbish bin and found a swollen, soggy used bag looking like a drowned mouse. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought as he dumped it in his cup and drowned it again in hot water. Then he buttered some bread, tipped the contents of the frying pan on to a plate, fished a knife and fork out of the washing-up bowl, and settled down to eat.
Something white caught his eye. The letter. Sliding a greasy knife under the flap, he slit it open. A birthday card. He frowned and took another look at the envelope, which immediately explained itself. It was addressed to Mrs. J. Frost. Of course. Today was his wife’s birthday and the card was from someone who didn’t know she was dead. The handwritten message inside read “Happy Birthday from Gloria… still at the same address… would love a letter.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Gloria? Who the hell was Gloria? He thought he had let everyone know. Giving up, he replaced the card in its envelope.
He had forgotten today was her birthday. But then, he always did forget. Time after time that awful realization as he descended the stairs and saw the pile of cards on the mat.
He recalled her last birthday, when she was in hospital and looked nearly twice her age. And the birthdays when they were first married, when she was different, when everything was different, when his jokes made her laugh, when they were happy together. How had it all changed? He was no different. He never changed. And that was the trouble. She wanted him to change, to be a big success. But he couldn’t.
He jerked himself back to the present and to the cold food congealing on the chipped plate. “Happy birthday, love,” he muttered, dropping the card on top of the bank statement in the rubbish bin. He supposed he ought to put some flowers on her grave, pretending that this time he had remembered. Pushing the plate away, he lit up the last of Mullett’s Three Castles and decided no flowers. It would be hypocritical.
Mullett buzzed through on the internal phone yet again. “Is Inspector Frost in yet?” A routine that was fast becoming a regular feature of his day.
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Sergeant Johnny Johnson. As if there was any doubt! He knew darn well Frost wasn’t in. Hadn’t he been ringing his house continually since five to nine getting only the engaged signal? The inspector must have left his phone off the hook again, but Mullett couldn’t be told that.
“I want to see him the second he gets in… the very second,” said Mullett grimly.
“The very second,” echoed Johnson, who seemed to know this script by heart. He banged the phone down and yelled for Webster.
“You went to Mr. Frost’s house, Constable?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” replied Webster. “As I told you, his car wasn’t outside.”
“Did you knock on his door?”
“No point, Sergeant. If his car wasn’t outside, then he wouldn’t be in.”
“You go straight back to that house, Constable, and you knock, kick, and bang at that bloody front door. If you get no answer, then go and find him. And next time I tell you to do something, do it properly!”
“Hear, hear,” said a familiar voice. “Morning all.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Johnson yelled at the inspector. “Mr. Mullett’s been having kittens?”
“Kittens?” frowned Frost. “I thought we’d had him doctored.”
The sergeant could only bury his head in his hands. “It isn’t funny, Jack. Look at the time! It’s gone twelve. You were supposed to see him at nine.”
Frost made a great show of consulting his watch. “I can spare him a few minutes now if he likes.”
Johnson snatched up the internal phone and punched out Mullett’s number. “Mr. Frost is here now, sir. Yes sir. Right away sir.” He turned to the inspector. “The Divisional Commander’s office, Jack. Now!” He replaced the phone, then clicked on a smile to greet a woman who wished to report strange goings-on at the house across the street.
Frost spun on his heels to answer the summons when Collier called him back. “A call for you on your office phone, Mr. Frost. A woman. She wouldn’t give her name.”
“Right,” said Frost, making a sharp right-hand turn toward his office.
Johnson looked up from the complaining woman. “Where’s Mr. Frost gone?”
“His office, I think,” answered Collier.
“His office?” screamed the sergeant. “Mr. Mullett’s waiting for him.
Attend to this lady, would you.” He pushed Collier toward the woman.
The internal phone rang. Mullett was getting impatient.
“Leave it!” yelled Johnson, too late. Collier answered it and held the phone out to the sergeant. “The Divisional Commander for you.”
“Run and fetch Mr. Frost,” shrilled Johnson, pushing Collier in that direction.
“What about me?” snapped the woman.
“Be with you in a moment, madam,” replied Johnson, his head spinning. “Yes, sir,” he told the phone. “Yes, sir, I did tell him. I think he had another urgent call, sir. Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He replaced the receiver and wiped a hand wearily across his face.
“They’re always at it, morning, noon, and night,” said the woman. “Here.;. where do you think you’re going…?”
Frost pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “No, we haven’t got your sovereigns back yet, Lil. I know we’re a load of lazy good-for-nothing bastards. Have I ever denied it? When I have some news, I’ll tell you… and the same to you, Lil.”
He hung up, looked at his desk and shuddered. It was awash with papers. Where did they all come from? He scooped up an armful and transferred it to Webster’s desk so he could have a frown at it when he came in. He poked a cigarette in his mouth and pressed the top of the gas lighter he had found in the kitchen drawer. A six-inch column of flame seared past his nose and reminded him why he had stopped using it.
The door crashed open. A panting Sergeant Johnson. “For Pete’s sake, Jack!”
“Oh blimey,” said Frost. “Hornrim Harry!” He sprang to his feet for the sprint to the Commander’s office and then saw the other shape behind Johnson. Mullett, his face tight with rage.
“My office, Frost… now!” He spun on his heel and stamped out. The ambient temperature seemed to have fallen by thirty degrees.
“I tried to warn you, Jack,” hissed Johnny Johnson. “I’ll start a collection for you.”
“You worry too much,” said Frost, marching to the Star Chamber with his chin held high.
Miss Smith, Mullett’s mirror, was at her typewriter, her face simmering with displeasure. His anger was her anger. With a passable impression of the Commander’s glare, she stared icily at Frost as he passed her.
“The Commander said you were to go straight in,” she snapped.
Frost had been caught out like that before. He knocked.
A snarl from the inner sanctum. “Come in!”
Mullett sat stiff and straight behind the satin mahogany desk, Frost’s personal file open in front of him. It was his intention to bring up again all of the inspector’s past misdeeds and to suggest without equivocation that Frost should look elsewhere for employment as he clearly lacked the attitude and discipline necessary to be a police officer. He kept his eyes down, ignoring Frost’s ambling entrance. But before he could pull the pin out of his first grenade, Frost got in first.
“Sorry about this morning, Super, only I suddenly remembered it was my wife’s birthday. I thought I should put some flowers on her grave.”
A brilliant pre-emptive strike which put Mullett completely off his stroke. “My dear chap,” he said, ‘do sit down.” He made a mental note to ask Miss Smith to check the files to ensure the date was correct, then he paused and bowed his head for a few seconds to show respect for the dead. That down, he steeled himself for the unpleasant task in hand.
“Operation Mousetrap, that un authorised fiasco of last night. You knew my permission was essential and would only be given if I was assured the plan was viable. Why didn’t you ask me?”
“Sorry about that, Super,” said Frost, his legs crossed, his unpolished shoe waggling. “I tried to see you, but you’d sneaked off somewhere.”
Mullett’s lips tightened. “I was at County HQ. You only had to pick up the phone, but instead you flagrantly
