Morning Frost by Henry James Page A

wounded club owner’s main concern was to keep his joint open. Waters was about to ask about her eye, then thought better of it; this woman was probably as tough as Baskin and would not welcome concern from a black copper she’d only just met.
    ‘I’d best be out of your way, then,’ Waters said, and slid his card across the table. ‘But if you think of anything, give me a call.’
    The street was deserted. Having claimed to know his way around Rimmington, Superintendent Mullett, head swimming with booze, was reluctant to tell his two companions that he hadn’t a clue where they were headed. They’d been wandering down leafy avenues and picturesque lanes for what seemed like ages. One thing is clear, though, he thought with a pang, Rimmington is certainly a desirable place. Mr and Mrs Mullett had been all set to move to Denton’s upmarket neighbour last spring, but unfortunately the sale of their house had fallen through. Mullett shuddered as he recalled the charges of robbery and murder against the estate agent who’d been handling it; it had tainted the whole business and they’d promptly taken their house off the market, cheering themselves up with a two-week vacation in the South of France.
    The area he now found himself in wasn’t even vaguely familiar. It was all very different on foot, he reasoned.
    ‘Down here, guv?’ said a wet DC Hanlon, indicating a cobbled lane to their left. ‘I seem to remember a pub being somewhere around here.’
    ‘I think you’re right, Art,’ Sergeant Wells agreed. ‘The Barley Mow, I reckon.’
    ‘Sounds plausible to me, gents,’ Mullett offered lamely.
    As they struck off down the lane, a relieved Mullett could indeed make out a pub sign creaking gently in the middle distance. It was at the superintendent’s insistence that the three of them left the Simpson place to look for a hostelry to round off the day. A bit of bonding with the rank and file was just what was required after sucking up to that bunch of snobs, although the attraction had somewhat worn off after half an hour of bumbling around in the dark.
    Once inside, however, Mullett felt better. The Barley Mow was a welcoming pub with a roaring fire, and somewhere there was a jukebox playing Elvis at a comfortable level. Hanlon went straight to the bar and got a round in with surprising alacrity, while Mullett and Wells took seats in the corner next to the fire, the heat of which compelled Mullett to loosen his tie and remove his jacket. They drank thirstily.
    ‘So, men,’ opened Mullett. ‘Tell me, how exactly did the Frosts get together?’ Emboldened by drink, he couldn’t resist asking how Frost had infiltrated such a fine upstanding family, one that he himself yearned to know socially. By the end of his pint, he wished he hadn’t bothered. To the everstriving, unjustly rebuffed Mullett this unlikely couple’s tale was as clichéd and unedifying as they come. Mary Simpson had, it seemed, fallen for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks mainly to annoy her father. Though William Frost was a policeman, ostensibly a respectable figure, Mary’s father saw merely someone shambolic, uneducated and unlikely to go far. The young Frost had been a tearaway too – no surprise there, Mullett thought – and even before they married there was turmoil relating to drinking and infidelity. Sadly, marriage to Mary did little to curb Frost’s wilder tendencies; instead Mary herself fell into increasingly bad ways – in fact, you might say Frost corrupted her.
    ‘And then the other one, Mary’s sister, she married a second-hand-car dealer!’ exclaimed Hanlon. ‘Now, there’s a rogue if ever there was one.’
    Mullett was distinctly nonplussed. Another round was in order. ‘OK, men, my shout.’
    ‘No, no, I’ll get these, guv,’ Hanlon piped up.
    ‘No, I insist,’ Mullett affirmed. ‘You got the last round.’
    Despite it being Mullett’s turn, Hanlon followed him to the bar and gave a nod to the