A Touch Of Frost by R. D. Wingfield Read Free Book Online

broke the uneasy silence.
    “This might come as a surprise to you, son, but you’re not exactly the flavour of the month around here.”
    Webster, in no mood to accept any form of criticism, especially from a twit like Frost, stiffened. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means, son, that you’ve been behaving like a spoiled brat ever since you arrived. I know we’re not God’s gift to the demoted, but why don’t you try and meet us halfway? The odd little smile twinkling through your face fungus wouldn’t come amiss.”
    “I treat people the way they treat me,” snapped Webster, slowing down to wait for the lights to change. “I’m sick of having to put up with all this ‘Thank you, Inspector’ . . . sorry, I mean ‘Constable’ crap.”
    “Young Collier’s harmless,” said Frost.
    “It’s not only Collier,” said Webster, accelerating as the lights changed, “it’s everyone, especially Sergeant Wells. He delights in making me look small.”
    “There’s a reason,” Frost said. “Bill Wells wants to be an inspector so badly it hurts. He’s passed all the exams but the Promotion Board keeps turning him down. So when he comes across someone who was an inspector, something he’s never going to be, and who chucked it all away, well, he’s bound to feel resentful.”
    “And there’s Inspector Allen,” began Webster.
    “Inspector Allen is a bastard,” Frost cut in. “Lots of inspectors are bastards. I bet you were one yourself.” He peered through the dirty windscreen. “Turn right here.”
    Webster spun the wheel, braking suddenly as the car head lights picked out a brick wall charging towards them. They had driven down a cul-de-sac.
    “Sorry,” said Frost. “I meant left.”
    Stupid bastard, thought Webster, backing out with great difficulty. “And another thing. Why was I deliberately excluded from that dead junkie investigation tonight?”
    “Because I’m a stupid old sod who never does the right thing,” replied Frost disarmingly. “I’m sorry about that, son, honest I am.”
    The reminder about Ben Cornish made him feel guilty. He knew he hadn’t been very thorough. All he had wanted to do was get out of that stinking hole and off to the party. And there was no mystery about it. Accidental death, like the doctor said. But something nagged, itched away at the back of his mind. He shut his eyes, trying to picture the scene . . . the filth, the body . . . the sodden clothes. Wait a minute, the clothes! He had the feeling that the pocket linings of the overcoat were pulled out slightly as if someone had gone through the pockets. Yet Shelby had said he hadn’t searched the body. It wouldn’t be the first time a copper had been through a dead man’s pockets and kept what he found. Immediately he discounted this possibility. Shelby might be a lousy copper in many ways, but he wasn’t a thief. Besides, what would Ben have had that was worth plunging your hands in vomit-sodden pockets to find?
    He shook his head and erased the picture from his mind. Then he realized he still hadn’t broken the news to Ben’s mother. He sighed. There were so many things he had left undone. Which reminded him—“Did you manage to finish the crime statistics?” he asked hopefully.
    “No,” said Webster, “your figures didn’t make any sense.”
    Frost nodded gloomily. They didn’t make any sense to him either, which was why he had passed them on to the detective constable. The returns were a monthly headache. This month Mullett had received a rocket from County Headquarters because, yet again, in spite of firm assurances, the Denton figures hadn’t been received on time. Fuming at his division’s failure, Mullet, in turn, had castigated Frost, and County had reluctantly agreed to extend the deadline by thirty-six hours. This deadline expired tomorrow.
    “First thing tomorrow, son . . . as soon as we get back from the postmortem . . . we’ll make a determined