Free Winter Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page B

exactly what did happen," snapped Mullett.
        "Good for you!" nodded Frost approvingly. "I almost believe you myself and I can always see through a lie." He straightened up, fingering the car expenses form in his pocket, anxious to gauge the opportune time to present it to Mullett for his signature. "You wanted to see me, Super?"
        "Ah . . . yes." Mullett tried to sound disinterested. "This prostitute killing. Was she young . . . old . . . ?"
        "Early twenties," said Frost. "Dark-haired, medium height. Why—do you think you know her? We're trying to trace her regulars."
        "No, no . . ." said Mullett hastily, relieved that she didn't sound at all like the same one. "Of course I don't know her. I want this case cleared up quickly, Frost. We now have a second dead prostitute. We don't want panic because there's a serial killer on the loose."
        "We don't know it's the same bloke," said Frost. "The victims are toms but there seems no other connection."
        "I understand you've handed the case over to Acting Inspector Maud? You didn't think of clearing it with me first?"
        "I didn't believe it necessary. The first dead tom was investigated by Inspector Allen and she's taken over from him."
        Mullett waved a dismissive hand. "I know all about that, but we're talking serial murder. What are they going to say at County tomorrow when they learn that a woman—I mean an acting inspector is in charge of such an important case? No. I want you to take it over."
        "She can handle it," insisted Frost.
        "Allow me to be the judge of that," snapped Mullett. "She's an inexperienced woman officer."
        "Who's got to gain experience."
        "But not at our expense, Frost. If this blows up in our face it will be my head on the chopping block. She can work under you if you like, but you are in charge."
        Frost looked up as a grey Nissan bumped its way into the car-park. "There she is, Super. Shall I call her over so you can tell her yourself?"
        "No," said Mullett hastily. "Better if it comes from you. It will underline that you're in charge . . ." He tugged open the door of his Rover. "Got to go . . . early start tomorrow."
       "Hold it, Super." Frost grabbed the car door, preventing it from closing. "Before you go, would you OK my car expenses?"
        Mullett stared in annoyance at the claim form with its wad of scruffy petrol receipts attached. For some reason Frost never seemed to patronize petrol stations who provided a printed receipt. He fingered through them doubtfully.
        "Got a minute, Liz?" called Frost, beckoning her over. Mullett snatched the pen from Frost's hand and scribbled his signature. "Keep me posted," he muttered as he slammed the car door and drove off.
        She took the news badly, staring tight-lipped at Frost as if it was all his fault. "I presume you'll be covering the post-mortem tomorrow then?" she asked icily, before spinning on her heel and marching to her office.
        "Unless you'd like—" said Frost, his sentence cut off as the doors slammed behind her. "I'll take that as a no," he muttered. Shit. What a lousy bloody night. He looked at his watch. 3.15 in the morning. In five hours he would be watching Drysdale slice the dead tom up. But sod it. That was tomorrow. Mullett had gone. He had the station to himself. Nothing he could do about the dead tom until the morning. An Indian takeaway, a handful of Mullett's fags from the hospitality box and the recording of the big fight on the telly in the rest room. Things could be worse.

 

Chapter 4

    "I'm sorry, guv," mumbled Morgan. "I'm truly sorry. I don't know how it happened."
        "It happened, you Welsh nit," snarled Frost, "because you recorded the wrong flaming channel. We're all sitting there like a load of prats, expecting the big fight, and what are we watching? The flaming singing nuns in The Sound of bloody Music ."
        "Sorry, guv," said Morgan again.