"Certainly, Doc," said Frost, wondering where the hell he could obtain useless information like that. He gave orders for the earth to be crated, then quickly tiptoed out with Clive before the pathologist could think of any more stupid jobs.
The wind hurled handfuls of snow at them as they trudged back to the car, where Hazel was waiting. There had been calls galore for the inspector, she reported. Would he report back?
"Control here, Inspector. Can you return to the station at once, please? The Divisional Commander wishes to see you urgently."
Frost groaned. Gawd, he thought, what have I done wrong now?
Mullen was boiling with rage. He couldn't wait for Frost to close the door behind him before he started.
"I found this on your desk, Inspector," and he held Up the envelope containing the crime statistics. Frost looked at it with horror, then dropped wearily into a chair and swore to himself as vehemently as Mullett was shouting at him. The bloody crime statistics! In the ecstacy of getting the sodding things completed last night, he'd completely forgotten to post them off… nosey bastard had to find them on his desk…
Mullett was beside himself. He, the Divisional Commander, had made a promise to County, had instructed Frost that the statistics must go off, and now. he had to bear the odious, stinging humiliation of being shown incapable of getting his own men to carry out a specific order.
Frost half closed his eyes and let the scalding tirade wash over him. Didn't the bloody tailor's dummy have better things to do than poke his ugly nose in other people's desks? And if he was so bloody clever, how come he didn't know who had smashed the rear of his car?
A timid tap at the door halted the lashing tongue in mid invective, and Miss Smith looked in to wish the commander goodnight. No need to look at the clock-the hands would be quivering at 6:10 exactly. Mullett snatched up the envelope and handed it to her. "As Inspector Frost is incapable of obeying the simplest order, perhaps you would kindly drop this in the County postbag on your way out." Frost blew her a kiss behind the commander's back and she scuttled out with a brick-red face.
Mullett returned to the attack. "I also happened to notice, Inspector, that the file for the electronics theft case was still on your desk. As far as I can see, you've made no progress on it."
You had a bloody good look round, thought Frost. Aloud he said, "I'll get around to it when I find time, Super."
"Make time, Inspector, it's urgent. Now what happened at Dead Man's Hollow? I promised to ring the Chief Constable." His face darkened with annoyance as he was told about the skeleton. "We could have done without this," he snapped, as if it was all Frost's fault.
"If you like I could stick it back again and we can dig it up when things get slack," said Frost, adding, "do you want me any more?" He pre-empted Mullett's reply by pushing up out of his chair.
"Anything further from the kidnapper?"
"I haven't looked in on Search Control yet. I came straight here when I got your message-at the time I thought it was urgent."
And he was gone before Mullett could think of a suitable rebuke.
All was peace, calm, and orderliness in Search Control. The odd telephone rang apologetically and a few routine messages purred from the loudspeaker. Frost wandered over to George Martin who was rearranging schedules for the following day in case the weather worsened.
"All quiet, Jack. We had a couple of teams searching the uncompleted section of the new Burghley Estate, but they found nothing."
"Then they had more luck than I had," said Frost. "What about the phone tap?"
"Dead quiet."
"Are we still watching that phone box?"
"Yes."
"Heard about my bloody skeleton?"
Martin laughed. He had heard. Then he turned his head away as if he was embarrassed about something. "Have you had a word with Johnnie Johnson?"
"No, why?"
"He-er-wanted to see you."
And Frost knew there was more trouble.
He was queuing for tea in the canteen when he spotted the handlebar mustache at a table in the far corner. He took his cup and ambled over.
"Hello, Johnnie."
"Hello, Jack-sit down." Yes, definitely trouble. The sergeant wasn't meeting his eye. Johnnie stirred his tea deliberately, then, "What was that business this afternoon with young Stringer?"
"Oh… a private chat, Johnnie, nothing that would interest you. Is that what you wanted to talk about?"
"No, Jack." He pushed his tea to one side. "Did the C.I.D. overtime return go off to County last night?" Frost froze, the cup an inch from his lips. "Oh God!" "For Heaven's sake, Jack, it's the second month running. I phoned County this evening to check. It hadn't arrived. They had to make special arrangements to get your men's overtime paid last month-had to get someone in specially to feed the figures to the computer at three o'clock in the morning. They said they'd never do it again."
Frost rubbed a weary hand over his face. His scar was hurting. "You know how good I am with paperwork, Johnnie. It was different before. I used to pass all overtime claims through without checking-I trust everyone-but that silly sod Davidson at H.Q. found out and I got a rollocking. Now I'm supposed to check each and every one, but it takes time."
Johnson took out his tobacco pouch. "But you've had time, Jack."
"All right-but it's not a job I like doing," and his head whirled as he thought of all the other jobs he had left undone for the same reason. "I suppose they wouldn't like two lots next month?"
Johnnie Johnson lit his homemade cigarette. "They wouldn't, Jack, and you can't blame them. The men have already missed two months this year because you forgot to send off the forms and its not fair they should have to suffer. They work all hours and they don't do it for charity. Besides," and he looked away, "there's been an official complaint."
Frost flinched as if he had been struck. "Who to?" "To me, Jack. I'm the Police Federation man." "Am I such a shit they couldn't come to me?" Johnnie shook his head. "The opposite, Jack. They like you too much and you would have joked your way out of it and they wouldn't have got their money." His cigarette wasn't drawing well and he had to suck hard to keep it lit. "As it's been made official, I'm taking it up with the Divisional Commander tomorrow morning," and he studied the scanty Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters.
Frost spoke quietly with the barest hint of pleading. "You'd be the answer to his prayers, Johnnie. He's just waiting for a legitimate excuse to bounce me."
The sergeant stood up. "I had to tell you first, Jack. I couldn't do it behind your back." He hesitated, then gripped Frost's shoulder tightly. "Sorry, Jack…" and was gone.
Frost buttoned his coat. It was cold in the canteen. He sighed. All he seemed to do these days was stagger from one crisis to the next. Overhead, the P.A. system cleared its throat and asked Inspector Frost to go to the nearest telephone.
Clive Barnard, sharing a table with Hazel, heard the message and saw the inspector leave. He pressed the key of his digs in her hand and rose to follow the inspector. "I'll probably be late, but wait for me. Promise?"
He found Frost on the phone outside the canteen and waited until he had finished. Frost grunted, scribbled some hieroglyphics on the back of the telephone directory, then hung up.
"That was Forensic, son. They've sifted through the crates of earth and found some coins from our skeleton's pockets. The latest coins were dated 1951, so we can forget about his being killed in the war. They've also cut open the steel case chained to his wrist and it contained absolutely sod all. So what was he doing with an empty steel case double-locked to his wrist?"
"Perhaps whatever was in the case had been delivered," suggested Clive.