DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page B

feet, his breath redolent of whisky fumes, was a thickset, charmless man of twenty-nine, cursed with a foul temper and a vindictive streak. He hated the newcomer, Webster, and delighted in giving him menial tasks to perform. If Webster hesitated to comply, he invariably taunted him with his stock response: ‘Too lowly for a detective inspector, is it? Well, you’re a detective constable now, Sunshine, and a bloody rotten one at that.’ It was rumoured that Ingram was currently having domestic trouble, which everyone thought served him damn well right. He certainly had a cracker of a wife, much lusted after by all the red-blooded station personnel and, by general consensus, far too good for him.
    ‘You’ve let the damn ambulance men take her away,’ complained Allen. ‘I wanted to see her.’
    ‘Then you should have got here quicker,’ said Frost.
    ‘Fill me in,’ said Allen curtly.
    Don’t tempt me, thought Frost. He told Allen how they had found her and the extent of her injuries.
    Allen listened intently, his eyes flicking from side to side, missing nothing. When he saw that Webster, contrary to his instructions, was holding the girl’s school hat in his hand, he raised an eyebrow to Ingram and jerked his head toward the detective constable. Used to his master’s sign language, Ingram swaggered over to Webster and snatched the hat away.
    ‘You bloody wally, don’t you understand English? You were told not to touch anything.’
    Webster snatched his hands from his pockets, ready to swing and to hell with the consequences. ‘Who are you calling a wally, you drunken slob?’
    Quickly, Frost, the peacemaker, thrust himself between the two men. ‘Now cool it, lads. We’ve got more important things to attend to.’
    ‘You heard him, Inspector,’ appealed Ingram. ‘He called me a drunken slob.’
    ‘All he meant, Sergeant,’ said Frost soothingly, ‘is that you’re a slob, and you’re drunk. No disrespect was intended.’ Over his shoulder he ordered Webster to wait for him in the car.
    Ingram, swaying, spoiling for a fight, glowered as Webster stamped off. Allen decided to continue as though nothing had happened. Somehow, Frost always got the best of these unsavoury encounters.
    ‘You reckon the victim is this teenager, Karen Dawson?’
    Frost hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s possible. We’re getting the father over to the hospital to identify her.’
    ‘Let me know as soon as it’s confirmed. I’ll be there later.’ Then, seeing Frost was making no attempt to move, he added, ‘Thank you, Inspector, that will be all.’
    Back in the car, Webster waited, seething. Frost slid into his customary position. ‘Denton General Hospital . . . first on the left, then follow the main road.’ As Webster jarred the car into gear, Frost radioed through to the station requesting them to contact Max Dawson and ask him to meet them at the hospital. That done, he slouched back in his seat, digging deep for a cigarette before he said, ‘Ingram’s a provocative bastard, son. He’s out for trouble. Try not to rise to his bait.’
    Webster growled a noncommittal reply, his eyes straight ahead, looking for the left turnoff.
    ‘What you must remember,’ Frost continued, ‘is that one punch and you’re not only out of the division, you’re off the force. You should also remember that Ingram is a great big bastard who could probably knock the living daylights out of you.’
    ‘Spare me the sermon,’ muttered the detective constable, spinning the wheel to turn into the main road.
    ‘It’s not a sermon,’ said Frost, ‘it’s the gypsy’s warning.’
    Webster was well down the wrong road before Frost added, ‘Sorry, did I say left? I meant right . . .’

    Denton General Hospital had originally been a workhouse and was built, like the public toilets, in the reign of Queen Victoria, when things were meant to last. So it was as strong and solid as a prison, but not as pretty and nowhere near as comfortable.