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 to avoid. Not that Inspector Frost's ways are necessarily wrong, of course…" Realizing that the water was getting dangerously deep he struck out on a more promising tack. "Do you see much of your uncle?"
Clive's answer was drowned in a roaring vibration of sound that made the building throb in sympathy. The two men ran to the window and craned their heads up to the sky.
There it was, disappearing over the roofs of the three storied houses opposite. The promised helicopter.
Detective Inspector Frost swung his head to follow the flight of the helicopter as it thundered over the Market Square. He was making his way over to the doorway of Bennington's Bank where the beat constable and a stout little C.I.D. sergeant were examining signs of an attempted break-in. Crouched, with their backs toward him, they did not notice his approach. Frost paused. The tightly trousered posterior of the fat C.I.D. man was an irresistible target. He thrust forward a carefully aimed, stubby finger.
"How's that for center?"
The reaction was hair-trigger. The C.I.D. man shot up and spun around, his face glaring and crimson. Then he saw Jack Frost and all annoyance evaporated.
"Oh. It's you, Jack!" He turned to the smiling beat constable with mock indignation. "Did you see what this dirty devil did?"
Frost looked at his hand. "I wish you hadn't jumped up so suddenly, Arthur. You nearly bit the end of my finger off. Now move your pregnant stomach out of the way and let me have a look."
The heavy wooden door to the bank showed raw gouges near the lock, as if something had been forced between the door and the jamb.
Frost straightened up and scratched his head. "Something wrong here, Arthur. You don't try to break into a bank by jemmying the front door. Even a burke like me knows that."
"It looks as though someone's had a go, though," insisted the fat sergeant, Arthur Hanlon, a jolly little Pickwick of a man without an enemy in the world.
"No, Arthur," replied Frost, firmly. "Crooks aren't that stupid, and if they were it wouldn't be our luck to have them: they'd all be over at Bridgely Division signing confessions like there was no tomorrow." Bridgely Division, the blue-eyed boy of County Headquarters, had the lowest crime rate and the highest detection rate in the county.
"Kids," suggested the constable, who didn't waste words.
Frost considered this. "What time was the damage spotted?"
The constable studied the report left by his colleague from the previous shift. "4:00 a.m., sir."
"And when did he last notice it was all right?"
Another consultation. "1:56 a.m., sir."
Frost dug his hands deep into his pockets and sniffed. "There you are, then. It happened between two and four this morning. You won't get kids mucking about with banks at that time-too busy reading Noddy under the bedclothes or having gang-bangs. Did you have gang-bangs when you were a kid, Arthur?"
Arthur giggled and shook his head.
"Me neither. I used to count myself lucky if I had sex more than six times a night. Any prints?"
"Millions of them, right back to the bloke who made the door."
"You're never satisfied. Which reminds me, how's the wife and kids-looking forward to Christmas?"
"Yes thanks, Jack," beamed Hanlon. "But what do you reckon we should do about this lark?" He indicated the door.
"Forget it, Arthur. I'll ask the station sergeant to get his beat boys to keep their eyes open. They'll just have to sleep off-duty. Look out… the fuzz!"
A police car hurtled across the road from Eagle Lane and squealed to a shivering halt outside the bank. The uniformed driver ran over to them.
"It's this fat man, Constable," said Frost, grabbing Hanlon's arm. "He was trying to break into the bank. You can see the marks."
The driver grinned dutifully. "Lot of panic at the station, sir. I think the Divisional Commander wants to see you."
A blur of maroon scarf dashed across the road.
Sergeant Wells let out a sigh of relief as the panting figure staggered in, wheezing and gasping for breath.
"I forgot all about the old sod, Bill."
Wells licked a stub of pencil and pretended to make an entry in his notebook. "When cautioned, the prisoner replied 'I forgot all about the old sod.' "
Another blast of cold air whooshed in as again the swing doors opened, this time to admit a ragged shriveled figure wearing an ex-army greatcoat many sizes too big and stiff with dirt. He shuffled over to the desk as if on crippled feet and brought with him a thick, disgusting smell.