First Frost by Henry James

going round to Bert’s, won’t be long. I’ll come back for you after the briefing. I’ve just had my own private audience with his lordship so I don’t feel I need another earful already. Then we’ll pop into the bank, see what Steve Hudson’s uncle knows. Seems to be the only close relative around. And it strikes me money might be part of it.’
    Despite Mullett’s conviction about the Hudson case being nothing more than a simple domestic, Frost wasn’t going to drop this one.
    ‘What’s with the mufti, Jack?’ Hanlon shouted after him. ‘You auditioning for Saturday Night Fever , part two?’
    Betty Williams was on her fourth mug of Gold Blend, and her fifth B&H. She was staring out of the kitchen window, at the washing line. A couple of Bert’s shirts and some of her slips were flapping in the breeze. She was pleased she’d been able to get the washing outside. The weather this time of year was so unpredictable. She expected it would rain later. It usually did, if it hadn’t started out wet already.
    She had hoped to get round to a little gardening later. Get out while she could. The front garden was a mess and everything needed pruning before the winter really set in.
    Taking a large sip of coffee, she told herself off for being so negative. Always think the worst, that’s you, Betty. Pull yourself together . It wasn’t as if Bert hadn’t gone off on a binge before. Once he’d disappeared for four days, eventually returning with some tall tale about being stuck undercover in east London. He’d stunk of booze. The station had been calling incessantly, trying to track him down, saying they knew nothing about his whereabouts.
    Much like now, except the calls from Control hadn’t been so frequent, because, she supposed, they’d all grown used to Bert’s little disappearances, and were taking his misdemeanours less seriously. He only had a few weeks left in the job. They’d make allowances, let him bow out quietly.
    Betty wasn’t going to make allowances, however. Something else was niggling away at the back of her mind, and she was worried stiff. For her, for them, for him.
    As she was taking another sip of coffee, the doorbell rang, making her jump and spill Nescaf on the clean, Formica-topped kitchen table. Her limbs suddenly felt very heavy as she walked to the front door. She could see a man on the other side of the glass, of medium build and height, casually dressed. Window cleaner?
    She cautiously opened the door. ‘Jack,’ she gasped, immediately relieved, and then almost as quickly not relieved. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looked at him hard, at his clothes, and added, ‘And on your day off.’
    ‘Hello, Betty. Can I come in?’
    ‘Of course, of course. Come through to the kitchen. I was just having a coffee. Can I get you one?’
    ‘That’d be lovely. Two sugars.’
    Betty filled the kettle, while studying Frost. She couldn’t make out his expression, he was looking so intently through the window into the back garden. As if he was withholding something. ‘How have you been?’ she asked nervously.
    She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Jack, or Mary. There had been a period when the Frosts had often dropped by for a drink and a takeaway.
    ‘Busy, as ever, with this new super,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.
    ‘Oh, yes, him,’ she said.
    ‘No rest for the wicked, as they say.’ He coughed. ‘I’m not on my day off, either. To be honest, I had a slight accident with … actually you don’t want to know. Bert about?’
    ‘No,’ she said, also reaching for a cigarette. ‘Sorry, Jack. He’s not here.’
    ‘When did you last see him? Because the super’s on the warpath, and, well, I thought I’d do what I can. Get to him before Mullett does.’
    ‘Still trying to make his mark, is he?’
    ‘You could say that.’ Frost coughed again as he exhaled.
    ‘You should give up,’ Betty said. ‘Young man like you. Everything to live for.’ Betty had a