Mullett hesitated. He preferred not to get involved in any thing unless he knew what it was about. Then his face lit up with recognition. ‘Good lord! It’s Councillor Knowles. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m making an official complaint against this police officer,’ said Knowles, ‘and I’m being treated abominably. That man…’ and his lip curled at Frost, ‘has been incredibly rude. He has threatened me, sworn at me and made me the subject of a false charge.’
Mullett looked suitably shocked. His lips tightened. ‘You’d better come to my office, councillor. I’m sure we can sort this out.’ He glowered at Frost as he spun on his heel. ‘Two coffees to my office at once, please, Sergeant.’
Frost jerked forked fingers to the door as it closed behind his Divisional Commander. ‘Pompous git!’ he bellowed impotently to the ceiling.
‘Did you hear that? Two coffees!’ croaked Wells. ‘What does he think this is — an all-night flaming cafe?’
Young PC Collier was white-faced. ‘What will happen, Sarge? It was a proper arrest. The man was drunk and he ran into me.’
‘Go and make their coffee,’ said Wells, ‘and do one for me.’
The internal phone buzzed. Inspector Frost to report to the Divisional Commander… at once! ‘When I’m ready,’ said Frost, after he had hung up. Slowly he finished his cigarette, then ambled off to obey the summons. Mullett was waiting for him in the passage outside. He took Frost by the arm and drew him away, beaming a smile of smug satisfaction. Hello, thought Frost. What’s the slimy sod been up to?
'I’ve managed to get the councillor to drop his complaint against Collier, Inspector.’
‘What bloody complaint?’ demanded Frost, his voice rising with anger. ‘The drunken slob rammed into him then refused to take a breath test.’
Waving a hand for Frost to keep his voice down, Mullett led him away from the office door, then leaned forward to talk to Frost in his ‘man to man’ voice. ‘Young Collier is inexperienced. Mr Knowles is a councillor. He is also on the Police Committee. It will be his word against Collier’s. Who ‘do you think will be believed?’
‘Collier will be believed — especially when the urine test shows Fat-guts is as pissed as a newt.’
Mullett winced. He deplored Frost’s too-frequent crudities. He carefully composed his face into a brittle smile and looked at the far wall across Frost’s shoulder. ‘Ah… there won’t be a urine sample. We won’t be proceeding with the charge…’ His hand jerked up to silences Frost’s explosion of outrage. ‘Politics, Inspector. It pays to have a man of his influence on our side, instead of us.’
Frost jerked his arm free from Mullett’s grasp. ‘You can have him on your bloody side. I don’t want him on mine. And if I ever arrest the bastard for anything, I’ll make the charge stick, politics or no bloody politics.’
The brittle smile slipped and shattered. ‘There will be no vendettas,’ hissed Mullett. ‘And before you go, Inspector, there’s one more thing. In order to persuade the councillor to drop his complaint against Collier, I agreed that you would personally apologize to him for your rudeness.’
‘Up your shirt!’ shouted Frost, ready to march back up the corridor.
Mullett’s whole body was quivering with anger. ‘That was not a request, Inspector. That was an order.’
‘Very good, Super,’ replied Frost, with an expression of such sweet reasonableness that Mullett was instantly uneasy.
Knowles was sprawled in one of Mullett’s special visitor’s chairs, his piggy eyes agleam at the prospect of Frost’s impending humiliation. He looked up from his cup of Sergeant Wells’ instant coffee in mock surprise as Frost entered, looking very contrite. ‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘I’d like to apologize’, said Frost, ‘for calling you a big, fat, ugly bastard.’
Knowles frowned and looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t hear you say that.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Frost innocently, sounding genuinely apologetic. ‘It must have been what I was thinking.’
Knowles rose from his chair, eyes bulging, ready to erupt. Then he gave an evil smile. ‘I shall remember this, Inspector.’ As he spoke the threat, he swayed from side to side like a snake ready to strike.
‘You’re too kind,’ cooed Frost.
With a furious, laser beam glare, Mullett ordered the inspector to wait for his return, then ushered his visitor out. Left alone in the old log cabin, Frost riffled through Mullett’s in-tray, but found nothing of interest. He was delighted to discover that Mullett’s cigarette box had been newly replenished for the recent visitor, so helped himself to a few, just managing to stuff them in his pocket and put on his contrite expression as the Divisional Commander stamped back, slamming the door behind him.
‘That’, said Mullett, ‘was unforgivable. Mr Knowles is a councillor, a member of the Police Committee and a personal friend of mine.’
And a big, fat drunken bastard to boot, thought Frost. But he hung his head and tried to look ashamed of himself.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Frost, trying to console a gloomy PC Collier with one of Mullett’s cigarettes. ‘You just misinterpreted the law. The law is that if you’re a friend of Mr Mullett’s, then you can get away with bloody murder.’
Collier squeezed out a smile, but was still upset. Frost inhaled deeply, then dribbled out smoke. Something propped against the desk caught his eye. He bent to examine it more closely. It was a brief-case. “What’s this?’
Sergeant Wells stretched over the desk to take a look and immediately panicked. ‘Flaming heck, it could be a bomb.’ His hand shot out for the phone.
‘Hold on,’ muttered Frost, crouching on his haunches to examine the object. ‘Collier, did that fat sod have a brief-case with him when you brought him in?’
‘Yes,’ answered Collier, relieved to provide the explanation. ‘He clung to it like grim death.’
With a grunt, Frost heaved it up on to the desk. ‘I wonder if there’s anything worth pinching inside.’ He tried the catch. It was locked, so he produced his bunch of skeleton keys.
‘You’re not going to open it, are you?’ ask Wells, his head anxiously flicking from side to side in case the Divisional Commander caught them in the act.
'Why not?’ grunted Frost, trying to force a clearly unsuitable key to turn.
Wells backed away. ‘I want nothing to do with it, Jack. Mullett’s still in the building.’
‘A suspected bomb,’ said Frost, his concentration all on the lock. ‘At great personal risk to life, limb and dick I am trying to defuse it… ah!’ The lock yielded with a click. He lifted the flap and looked inside. His jaw dropped and he emitted a long, low whistle. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’ He produced a handful of banknotes. Dirty, creased, well-used banknotes of mixed denominations, fives, tens, twenties, fifties… The sort of money that rarely saw the inside of a bank, or was declared on an income tax return. He dived in and produced a second handful, then riffled his thumb through them. At a rough guess there was something in ex cess of?5,000. ‘I wonder how much of this he gave to Mullett for letting him go? Right, let’s share it out.’ He proceeded to deal out the notes in three piles as if they were playing cards.
‘Put them back, Jack,’ pleaded Wells, now very agitated, his ears straining to catch the first sounds of Mullett’s approaching footsteps.
‘Why?’ asked Frost. ‘The sod’s obviously been up to no good. This is crooked money. It sticks out a mile.’
‘You’ve got no proof.’
‘The man’s a bastard, that’s all the proof I need.’ Reluctantly he stuffed the money back and let Wells lock the brief case away for safe-keeping. A quick peep up the corridor. The light was still on in Mullett’s office. ‘Ah well. No-one will dare commit a crime while Hornrim Harry’s still here, so I’m going off home.’
He poked his head round the door of his office where Gilmore was pecking away at a typewriter. ‘Come on, son. You can surprise your wife in bed with the lodger. We’re having an early night.’
Gilmore didn’t really consider nearly three o’clock in the morning to be an early night, but he didn’t argue. He scooped up his coat and hurried out after the inspector.