First Frost Read Free Page A

charge of this case. When he gets in. For the time being …’ Mullett quickly glanced about the tatty room. It was going to take a lot more than the addition of a few modern comforts to get the place up to a standard befitting a modern division. ‘For the time being,’ the station commander repeated slowly, ‘DS Frost will be handling the investigation.’
    Mullett doubted Frost could do a worse job than DI Williams, and he was, worryingly, the highest-ranking officer present. ‘I suggest, Frost,’ he added, ‘you and Hanlon get straight over to the Hudsons’ home and get this matter ironed out.’
    As he was heading for the exit Mullett suddenly stopped in his tracks, and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Oh, and I’d also like to remind everyone that the canteen will be shut as of tomorrow, when we embark upon the next stage in the station’s renovations. A replacement trolley service will be coming round throughout the day.’
    With that Mullett was out of the briefing room and marching down the corridor, only to feel a tap on his arm.
    ‘A quick word, Super.’ It was DS Frost. ‘Bert, sorry, DI Williams, had asked me to process the October crime clear-up stats for County, which, as you know, are due in tomorrow first thing. But with me taking over the Hudson case, I don’t see how I’m going to make this deadline. There’s an awful lot of paperwork.’
    There was a strong smell of tobacco, and cheap aftershave. The detective sergeant looked smart enough, if a little crumpled – suited, but the Paisley tie had seen better days. He was of medium height and build, with thinning, light-brown hair, intense dark eyes and an almost permanent grin on his face. Mullett could never be sure whether Frost was being mocking or friendly. ‘You’ll get it done, Frost,’ he said. Though dismayed, Mullett was not surprised to hear that Williams had tried to pass on yet another one of his duties.
    ‘Enjoy your golf, sir,’ Mullett heard Frost shout from the other end of the corridor.
    ‘Any sign of Inspector Williams?’ Mullett asked irritably, not even looking in Station Sergeant Bill Wells’s direction, as he was striding across the lobby.
    ‘No, sir,’ said Wells, from behind the front desk. He was quickly shuffling the duty roster over his Pools coupon. ‘No sign, sorry, sir.’
    ‘Keep trying.’ A few paces on, Mullett added, ‘Sunday morning or not, it wouldn’t do any harm if you looked a little more alert. And this lobby is a bloody disgrace. But not for much longer – the decorators will be starting in here too in the next few days. I want the public to feel not just welcomed when they visit the station, but to realize we’re in a properly organized division too. It’s not a tatty social club, you know.’
    With that Wells watched the tall, straight-backed Mullett, in his ridiculous golfing gear, delicately push his way through the lobby doors, which Wells had to concede could do with a lick of paint, and march across the yard to his gleaming Rover, neatly aligned in the super’s special parking slot.
    It’s all right for some, Wells thought, retrieving his Pools coupon: golf, Sunday dinner, followed, no doubt, by a long snooze. He looked down at the scruffy receipt. He definitely hadn’t won.
    The phone rang the second Wells was reaching for his tea mug. Control was putting through calls to the front desk because they were understaffed – part of Mullett’s bloody new cost-cutting regime, which was hitting the weekends worst.
    ‘Can you speak up,’ Wells said. ‘What was that? You’ve just seen a van circling Market Square?’
    ‘Yes,’ the softly spoken male voice replied. ‘At least half a dozen times.’
    Wells thought he could detect a trace of an Irish accent. His heart skipped a beat. ‘What colour was the van?’
    ‘White. It was white.’
    ‘Any idea of the make?’
    ‘Ford Transit. No doubt about it.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you got the licence number?’ Wells asked