It was the hit-and-run victim.
At four forty-five in the morning Denton Police Station was a dreary mausoleum, and the flowers Mullett suggested would have made it look more funereal than ever. It echoed with cold emptiness. Only two men were on duty, Police Sergeant Wells and Police Constable Ridley, the controller. Wells, slumped at the front desk, stared at the ticking time bomb the computer had presented him with. The licence plate found at the scene of the hit-and-run had been trotted through the massive memory banks of the master computer system at Swansea. The print-out read:
Registration Mark: ULU 63A
Taxation Class: Private! Light Goods
Make/ Model Jaguar 3.4
Colour: Blue
Registered Keeper: Roger Charles Miller Address: 43 Halley House, Demon.
What the computer didn’t say was that Roger Miller was trouble. Big trouble. He was the son of Sir Charles Miller, member of Parliament for the Denton constituency. And Sir Charles was even bigger trouble. He had money and he had influence, owning businesses as diverse as security organisations, newspapers, and commercial radio stations. He constantly criticised the police in his newspapers, and he was a permanent thorn in the side of the Chief Constable. And it was his son, Roger, a twenty-year old spoiled brat, who had brought seventy-eight-year-old Albert Hickman to the brink of death.
Wells twisted his neck to see what luck Ridley was having in contacting Detective Inspector Frost. “Control to Mr. Frost, come in please.” Over and over, Ridley repeated the message, flicking the receive switch and getting only a mush of static in response. “Still no answer, Sarge.”
“Damn!” said Wells, reaching for the phone. He dialled the first two digits of Mullett’s home number, then changed his mind and banged the receiver down. “Do you think I should phone Mullett?”
“That’s for you to decide, Sarge,” was Ridley’s unhelpful reply.
“You’re in charge.”
“I’m not bloody in charge. Frost is in charge… or he should be.
He’s the senior officer.” Again his hand reached out for the phone. Again he hesitated. Thanks to Frost, Wells was back in his familiar no-win situation. If he phoned Mullett he’d be castigated for disturbing him and for not using his initiative. And if he didn’t phone, Mullett would say, “Where’s your common sense, Sergeant? If someone as important as Sir Charles Miller is involved surely it doesn’t need a modicum of common sense to realize that I would want to know about it.” In either event, it would give the Superintendent a tailor-made excuse for turning down the sergeant’s latest promotion application.
Wells felt like breaking down and weeping at the injustice of it all when suddenly he was dragged away from his self-pity by a most unpleasant smell, which elbowed its way across the lobby. The sergeant’s head swivelled slowly until he located the source.
“Clear off,” he said, happy to have someone to snarl at. “Get out of here before I turn the hose pipe on you.”
A brown over coated figure clutching a carrier bag tottered toward him.
“I’ve come to be arrested,” said Wally Peters. “Mr. Frost sent me.”
As Wells searched for a suitable expletive, Ridley called out excitedly from Control. “There’s Mr. Frost, Sarge.” Wells spun around in time to see Frost and Webster pushing through the main doors.
“I’m here, Mr. Frost,” the tramp announced proudly.
“Yes,” agreed Frost, ‘we smelled you from the top of Bath Hill. But I must dash,” and he went charging through the other door and up the corridor.
“Hold it a minute, Inspector,” yelled Wells, chasing after him.
The light was on in Frost’s office. Relieved, Wells hurried forward and opened the door, but inside he saw only Webster, frowning at the car licence plate lying across Frost’s desk.
“What’s this, Sergeant?” he asked, picking it up.
Wells waved it aside. “None of your business. Where’s the inspector?
We’ve got a bloody crisis on our hands.”
Webster put down the licence plate and sat at his own desk. “He said something about going scavenging.”
“Scavenging?” Wells sank down in Frost’s chair. “What’s he playing at? The man’s supposed to be an inspector; why doesn’t he start acting like one?”
“You sound just like our beloved Divisional Commander,” said Frost, staggering back into the office bearing a tray piled high with goodies: sausage rolls, sandwiches, crisps, pork scratchings, and salted peanuts. A clinking noise came from his bulging mac pockets. “It’s party time, folks,” he announced, pushing papers and the licence plate to one side to clear a space on his desk for the tray.
From pockets that seemed far too small to contain them came can after can of lager, a seemingly endless supply of miniature spirit bottles, and even a box of expensive cigars. “You shall go to the ball, Sergeant,” he said.
Wells’s eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”
“From the canteen the party.” He still hadn’t finished off-loading, pulling more bottles from his inside jacket pockets. Proudly, he surveyed his haul. “They didn’t invite us to their stinking party, so we won’t invite them to ours.”
In the top drawer of his filing cabinet he found three chipped enamel mugs and slopped in three generous helpings of seven-year-old malt whisky. One mug went to the sergeant, the other to Webster. “Help yourself to tonic and salted peanuts. Sorry we haven’t got any ice.”
Webster glared at his mug and pushed it away. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Frost could only look puzzled. Then the light dawned. “Sorry, I forgot. You’ve signed the pledge, haven’t you, son? The beard that touches liquor will never touch mine.”
This had the effect of sending Wells into a fit of uncontrollable giggling, a fit that Webster’s scowl only seemed to amplify.
Frost shared the contents of Webster’s mug between the sergeant and himself. He pushed the tray toward the constable. “Well, at least have a sandwich or some peanuts.” Webster flicked a hand in curt refusal.
“If you’re not going to join the party, go and look after the lobby,” Wells ordered. When Webster stamped out, the sergeant slipped into his chair and washed down some cheese and onion crisps with a long swig from his mug. He felt warm and happy. It wasn’t such a bad shift after all. He was trying to remember why he had been feeling so miserable before Frost came in.
Frost buzzed Control on the internal phone. “Mr. Ridley? If you wish to attend a booze-up, report immediately to Mr. Frost’s office.” He hung up and lit one of the cigars. “This is great, isn’t it, Bill? All we want now to make it complete are some pickled onions and a naked woman.”
“I wouldn’t object if there were no pickled onions,” giggled Wells, unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. Frost’s office seemed very warm. He felt the radiator, but it was stone cold. As he was trying to puzzle this out he remembered what he had wanted to talk to the inspector about.
“Jack, we’re in a crisis situation. Do you know anything about this hit-and-run?”
“Yes,” said Frost, puffing out smoke rings almost as large as car tyres. “We saw the poor sod spewing blood at the hospital.”
“Is he still alive?”
Frost removed the cigar and shot a palmfril of salted peanuts into his mouth. “Just about. I don’t think they’ll be cooking him any breakfast, though.”
“Damn,” said Wells, his worst fears realized. He emptied his mug in a single gulp. “We’ve had the computer feed-back on the licence plate. The car belongs to Roger Miller.”
Frost stopped in mid sip He put the mug down slowly. “Sir Charles Miller’s son?”
“Yes,” agreed Wells dolefully, regarding the interior of his empty mug. “It’s tricky, Jack, flaming tricky. If we don’t play this one right we could end up in the soft and squishy.” It took him several attempts to say ‘soft and squishy.”
“Roger Miller,” repeated Frost, his eyes gleaming. “Well, if we can chuck that little sod in the nick, the night won’t be entirely wasted.”