“Can I go now?” asked Thorley.
“Take his statement, then chuck him out,” said Frost. “And get that mac over to Forensic’
He left the interview room and drooped across the lobby, shoulders down, his scarf dragging behind him.
“You all right, Jack?” asked Wells. “You don’t look too good.”
“Just tired,” Frost told him. “I need some kip.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got to see Mr. Mullett at nine o’clock sharp.”
“I won’t,” said Frost, stepping out into the cold, dark, friendless night.
Friday day shift
He took the key from the black plastic mac and tried it in the lock. It slid in easily. He turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open on to a long, narrow passage. At the end of the passage was a woman, young, stark naked, her arms wide open, warm, welcoming. He ran to her, but there was Mullett barring his path. An angry, snarling Mullett.
Frost woke with a jolt and opened his eyes to blazing sunlight. Sunlight? He sat up in bed and snatched up the alarm clock, staring in disbelief at what it was telling him. 11.30 a.m. It couldn’t be! The alarm was supposed to have woken him at seven. He had an interview with Mullett at nine. He tested the winding key. It was fully extended. Either he had forgotten to wind it last night or it had rung itself to exhaustion and he had slept right through it. Damn.
Swinging his bare feet to the floor, he screwed shut his eyes against the harsh probing jab of the morning sunshine. Who wanted sunshine on a day like this? If he was going to get a bollocking, let it pee with rain.
He broke all speed records dragging on his clothes, which were in a heap on the floor. Then he stopped, sat on the bed, and lit up one of
Mullett’s cigarettes. What the hell? There was no point hurrying. If he skipped a shave, skipped breakfast, and roared nonstop to the station he would still be nearly three hours late.
So why not be four hours late? A leisurely wash and shave, followed by a fry-up and plenty of time to try and think up some novel excuse, some heart-rending sob story that would stop Hornrim Harry stone cold in his tracks.
Whistling happily, he bounced down the stairs, scooping up two letters from the mat, and taking them into the kitchen. The first was a statement of account from Bennington’s Bank. He wasn’t ready yet for more bad news, so he tossed it, unopened, into the kitchen bin. The second envelope was a mystery with handwriting he didn’t recognize. Propping it against the bread bin, he filled the electric kettle and switched it on. Two dubious-looking rashers of bacon sweated and cowered in the corner of the fridge. He took them out, sniffed them, and decided to chance it.
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.