Fatal Frost by Henry James Page A

not the Ritz, I’ll grant you, but better than a B&B, one would hope.’ The two men nodded and left the superintendent’s office.
    Mullett leaned back in his chair. The evenings were definitely getting lighter. If things remained this quiet there was every chance he could get a game of golf in one evening after work, in celebration of Wednesday’s reopening. His sense of smug contentment barely lasted a moment as he fingered the note left by his wife and realized with a pang that he’d done nothing on it. But it was a bank holiday. Would the dry cleaner’s be open? The estate agents were. The Chinese gentlemen worked terribly hard in his experience. He’d give it a try. But first, where on earth was Frost?
    ‘Home, sweet home,’ Simms said.
    DS Waters followed DC Simms across the threshold of the police quarters in Fenwick Street. Judging from the hall, it was as grotty inside as it appeared to be from the outside – like a neglected council house, only dirtier.
    ‘There are four rooms upstairs. Only myself and Miller are here at the moment. The lounge is in here.’
    Waters peered in at a tatty leather sofa that appeared to have seen a lot of action, a huge Grundig TV, and a video recorder almost in the middle of the floor, leads trailing to the Grundig. An assortment of video cassettes was scattered around both.
    ‘Video, eh? But I thought you said … ?’ Waters was reflecting on this morning’s conversation with Mrs Hartley-Jones.
    ‘Yeah, yeah, I know what I said,’ Simms said dismissively. ‘That one isn’t officially ours, if you see what I mean.’
    He led on down the hall, along a hessian carpet that could best be described as filthy. ‘And down here is where we find mother.’
    ‘Great, I’m starving.’
    Sat at a cheap Formica table was a pasty PC in his uniform shirt sleeves. He was eating beans on toast, washed down with a can of lager, as he leafed through a newspaper.
    ‘Frank Miller, John Waters,’ Simms said.
    ‘Wotcha,’ Miller said, without looking up.
    Simms was a little embarrassed by his colleague’s curtness, Waters thought. ‘Frank’s had a double-shift; he’s feeling a bit tetchy,’ he improvised by way of explanation. Simms reached into an overhead cupboard in an effort to locate something to eat. ‘C’mon Frank, we’ve a guest,’ he said encouragingly.
    ‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ Miller grunted.
    ‘That’s the spirit.’ Simms placed several items on the kitchen work surface. ‘Well, John, lean times, I’m afraid. Spam and beans OK with you? I think there might be half a packet of Smash kicking around too if we’re lucky …’
    ‘Any chance we could dine out?’
    ‘At last!’
    Although it had gone eight o’clock, Superintendent Mullett was reluctant to go home to an empty house, so decided instead to remain at Eagle Lane to complete a report. It also meant he could wait for Jack Frost, who he had instructed to check in before the close of play. And here the shabby detective finally was, in a tatty short-sleeved shirt that would not have looked out of place on Ronnie Biggs in Rio.
    ‘The girl you found this morning, could this be her?’ Mullett passed him the school photo. ‘Samantha Ellis. Fifteen years old. Lives with her mother out on Bath Hill. Been missing for two days.’
    Frost frowned at the picture. ‘Not sure. This one has a nicer smile and bit more colour in her face.’
    Why did he affect not to care when Mullett knew damn well he did? Sardonic remarks like this did nothing more than irritate.
    ‘Is it the girl or not?’
    Frost turned to go. ‘Could be. I’ll have to get the family to ID,’ he said, his hand on the door handle.
    ‘That’s a start, then. I’ve alerted the lab, they’ll be expecting you.’
    ‘Very good of you, sir …’
    ‘Wait. Come back, Jack. Sit down. A word if you please, before you go.’
    ‘About the crime clear-up stats …’ Frost began, slouching in the chair opposite and busying himself with a