Free First Frost by Henry James

clothes.
    Vanessa Litchfield couldn’t understand why no one had spotted it, had spotted him – it was hard to think of it as a him, as a human being – earlier.
    Looking up and down the towpath, and across to the far side, she realized, in growing panic, why of course. People seldom came this way. A violent housing estate one side of the canal, and scrubby, vacant land, interspersed with derelict warehouses on the other.
    Checking over her shoulder once more briefly, she sprinted off in the direction she had been going, hoping there’d be a call box soon.
    She paused to catch her breath a short while later, then lifted the receiver in a heavily vandalized phone box covered with graffiti – PAKIS GO HOME, KERRY IS A FAT SLAG, among other remarks scrawled everywhere. She couldn’t help wondering whether taking the job at St Mary’s had been a terrible mistake, and whether she should have accepted a more junior post at Cheltenham Ladies’ College instead.

Monday (2)
    Superintendent Mullett smoothed his moustache with his two forefingers, then drummed nervously on his newly installed mahogany desk. There’d been some tough times already at Denton. Now rabies? Surely to goodness not . The continent, yes, that was crawling with all sorts of diseases. God help the country if they ever built a tunnel. There hadn’t been a death from rabies in the UK since the turn of the century.
    Nevertheless he’d had a courtesy call from the very head of Denton General to say a young child was being tested for rabies. She’d been brought in yesterday by a DS Frost. She was in isolation and the tests were continuing.
    ‘Morning, sir,’ said Frost.
    At last, there he was in front of him, but what on earth was he wearing? A pair of faded, flared jeans and a strawberry-red jumper a couple of sizes too small. ‘DS Frost, I would remind you to knock before entering.’ Mullett quickly glanced at his watch: nine twenty.
    ‘I did, sir, but there was no reply.’ The DS helped himself to a visitor’s chair, and pulled a cigarette stub from behind his ear and poked it in his mouth.
    ‘Well, that doesn’t mean you can just stroll on in,’ said Mullett, finding himself shoving a heavy, cut-glass ashtray in the detective sergeant’s direction. He certainly didn’t want ash on the new Wilton. ‘Quite a catalogue to discuss already, Detective. First of all, though, where are the crime clear-up statistics? They were meant to be on my desk first thing. I don’t see them. Do you see them?’
    Frost made a big show of scanning the enormous, sparse desk.
    Mullett was not amused.
    ‘No, you’re right,’ said Frost. ‘I don’t see them either.’
    ‘Well, why not?’ bellowed Mullett, as Frost casually slumped back into the fine-leather chair. ‘And this had better be good.’
    ‘To be honest, sir,’ pleaded Frost, ‘I need clarification over a number of cases, from DI Allen. I thought he’d sorted this all out before he went on his hols. Not like DI Allen to be anything other than ruthlessly efficient. But it seems there are quite a few holes only he can fill: I guess it’ll just have to wait until he’s back.’ The detective took a couple of long drags on his cigarette before continuing, ‘He’s on a walking holiday, isn’t he? The Lakes? Offa’s Dyke? The Pennine Way?’
    ‘Let’s leave DI Allen out of it for the moment,’ sighed Mullett.
    ‘Fair enough,’ shrugged Frost.
    ‘A progress report is what I want.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Well, DC Hanlon and I interviewed the Aster’s manager, Mr Butcher, and—’
    Mullett cut him short with a raised hand. ‘Aster’s? I’m not interested in department stores! The little girl who’s being tested for rabies. What exactly is going on?’
    ‘Going on?’ Frost looked bemused.
    Mullett realized he’d always found it hard to take the detective sergeant seriously. ‘Yes, going on?’ he snapped. ‘I had a call from the head of the hospital who told me a little girl was being