Free Winter Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page A

forward with interest.
        "Go ahead, Taff," urged Frost. "We're all friends here. What have you done—had it off with Mrs. Mullett?"
        "Nothing like that, guv. It's about Gladstone. When I took him back to the flat . . ."
        "Yes?" prompted Frost.
        "When I went back to the flat with him, he was up the stairs and in the room before I could stop him. By the time I got there he was shaking her and demanding to know where his wallet was."
        Frost's jaw sagged. "Are you telling me you let him touch the body?"
        "To be fair, guv, I didn't know there was going to be a body."
        "So any blood on his jacket could well have got there then?"
        Morgan nodded miserably. "I thought I'd better mention it."
        "Flaming heck," said Wells, dropping into the vacant chair. "I've heard some stupid things in my time—"
        "Yes," cut in Frost, "mainly about me. Your phone's ringing, Bill."
        Wells strained his ears. "I can't hear it."
        "Whether it's ringing or not—go and answer it!"
        Reluctantly, Wells left, taking his time, hoping to hear more, but Frost waited patiently until the sergeant was out of earshot.
        "A bit of a balls-up, Taff, to put it mildly?"
        Morgan nodded his dejected agreement.
        "We all make balls-ups, son. I've been known to make the odd one myself, but when it's a murder inquiry you don't keep it a bloody secret."
        "I know, guv . . . I'm sorry, guv . . ."
        The DC was the picture of misery. No point in nagging him any more, the damage was done. Frost chewed at his knuckles, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. "The thing is this, Taff. Are we dealing with a clever bastard who deliberately got in there first so there would be a reason for the blood on his jacket? He doesn't strike me as that clever, but you never can tell by appearances. Mullett doesn't look a complete twat, but he is." He stared up at the ceiling. "I think we've got to let him go."
        "Let him go?" echoed Morgan.
        "We've got nothing to hold him on. When his solicitor turns up he'll tear our case to shreds."
        "I'm sorry guv. It's all my fault."
        "No. In a way, you've helped, Taffy. You've made me look at it from another angle. If he was that bloody clever, why would he run away? Why would he give us a fake name and address?" He stood up. "I don't think he did it. We let him go. We can always pull him in again if we're hard up for another suspect." He yawned. "What a bleeding night; false gen about the missing kid, the pillow burglar strikes again, an armed robbery and a dead tom. If it wasn't for Mullett's car being smashed it would be a complete wash-out." He snapped his fingers. "Mullett! Let's see what he wants."
               
    Mullett was in the car-park examining what those drunken hooligans had done to his Rover. The wing was crumpled, the rear light smashed. It was in no state to be driven to County tomorrow. He'd be a laughing stock. He would have to borrow his wife's Honda. Ah, at last! Frost shuffling out of the station and coming over to him. The same scruffy mac, that same tired scarf. Hadn't the man anything else to wear? But that wasn't the main thing on his mind. He wanted to find out about the prostitute killing. He had the awful thought the victim could have been the harridan who approached him when he was stopped at the traffic lights. There weren't many blue Rovers in Denton. What if someone had seen her approach him? Headlines about kerb-crawling top policeman kept flashing in his mind.
        "Nasty," said Frost, nodding at the damage.
        "Yes," agreed Mullett through clenched teeth. That stupid Sergeant Wells. He was commanding a Division of incompetents.
        "It must be hard to say no to a drink at these County meetings," muttered Frost, bending to take a closer look himself. "Your best bet is to say it was parked and some drunken sod ran into it."
        "That's