A Killing Frost by R. D. Wingfield

was a shabby-looking, two storey property, standing all on its own on disused farmland. Parked in front of the house was a dilapidated caravan, its flaking cream and green paint showing large patches of rust, the wheels sunk deep in muddied ruts.
       PC Collier watched Frost pound on the front door with the flat of his hand and rattle the letter box. They could hear sounds from inside, but no one came to the door. Frost banged again, emphasising his knocking with a couple of hefty kicks.
       At last the door was opened by a squat little double-chinned man in his shirtsleeves.
       ‘Give us a flaming chance! Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it!’ Then recognition dawned. He poked a podgy finger at the inspector. ‘Detective Sergeant Frost! Cor, haven’t you aged?’
       ‘Detective Inspector ,’ corrected Frost.
       ‘Inspector?’ gasped King incredulously. ‘They’ve never made you a flaming inspector!’ He turned to PC Collier. ‘Frost was always a scream - a pleasure being arrested by him cos he always made you laugh!’ 
       ‘Then this will make you flaming wet yourself,’ Frost told him. ‘I’ve got a warrant to search your premises.’
       ‘Pull the other one,’ giggled King. ‘You think I don’t know what this is all about? Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ They followed him through to a small kitchen. ‘Have you caught the sod yet?’ 
       ‘What particular sod did you have in mind?’ asked Frost.
       ‘The burglar. The sod who pinched my stuff.’ Frost blinked at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
       ‘Don’t you know what is going on in your own flaming station? I was burgled, wasn’t I? Sod broke in while we were away in the caravan on holiday. When I came back, the place had been done over. I’d been burgled.’
       ‘Who’d burgle this bleeding place?’ said Frost.
       ‘You’d spend more on petrol driving here than you could nick. You’re saying you had a burglary and you didn’t report it?’
       ‘Of course I flaming well reported it. A little fat bloke came round.’
       ‘Detective Sergeant Hanlon?’
       ‘That’s him. And he was bloody useless. Nosed around, got some bloke to chuck fingerprint powder all over the place, then pissed off. That was the last I heard. I thought you were here to tell me you’d caught him.’
       ‘You used to do a bit of burglary yourself, Bill. This sounds like an insurance fiddle to me.’
       ‘Insurance fiddle? Don’t talk to me about insurance companies. They’re quick to take your flaming premium, but when you’re unlucky enough to be robbed, they won’t pay out. They want receipts. Who the hell keeps receipts?’
       ‘Especially when you nicked the stuff in the first place,’ said Frost, stuffing the search warrant back in his mac pocket. ‘What was taken?’
       ‘He turned the place over - made a right bleeding mess of it. Flaming amateur, if you ask me. All he took was an old wallet with a couple of quid in it.’
       ‘And the wallet was all you claimed for on your insurance policy?’
       Billy spread his hands and shrugged. ‘All right, Inspector Frost, I’ll come clean as it’s you. I might have exaggerated about the brand-new telly and DVD player and the wife’s designer clothes, but all he took was the wallet with a couple of quid in it.’
       ‘Was there anything else in the wallet apart from money?’
       ‘Condoms, you mean? No, the wife has her own method of birth control. She bolts the bedroom door.’ He wheezed heartily at his own joke.
       ‘What about a cashpoint card for the Fortress Building Society?’
       King screwed up his face in thought. ‘Might have been. I haven’t dealt with them for ages. I’m with the Woolwich now.’ He frowned. ‘Are you telling me the bastard took that as well?’ He reached for the phone. ‘I’m closing my account. There wasn’t much left in it, but that bastard isn’t going