Frost at Christmas by R. D. Wingfield Page A

straightened his uniform and smoothed back his hair. When he felt he was presentable, he dialed the Old Man's home number.
       "Sorry to bother you at this outrageous hour, sir. If anyone's entitled to some peace and relaxation, it's you. Me, sir? Oh - I'm still in the office. No rest for us Divisional Commanders, I'm afraid." He gave a modest, good-natured laugh and explained about Allen. ". . . Which means, of course, sir, I'll have to put someone else in charge of the Tracey Uphill investigation." He let his voice trail off, leaving a gap for the Chief Constable to fill with a suggestion to which Mullett could give his whole-hearted agreement.
       "Well," said the chief, after a pause, "we've got no one to spare at County - but you knew that, of course."
       "Of course," echoed Mullett sincerely.
       "But I don't see your problem. You've got Frost. I'm surprised you didn't put him in charge in the first place. He's a good man."
       "They come no better," croaked Mullett. "I'm glad we're of one mind, sir. I shall put Frost in charge right away." He put the phone down, then went over the conversation several times in his mind, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, then, bracing himself, he dialed the number of Frost's office.
       
    "Where's Jack Frost?"
       Clive looked up wearily from the jumble of papers from which he was supposed to ferret out details for the crime statistics return.
       The speaker was a uniformed sergeant, a hearty-looking man of forty with a weather-beaten face and a straggly handlebar mustache.
       "He is with the Divisional Commander, Sergeant. I'm his assistant, Detective Con - "
       He was cut short. "I know who you are, lad - flashy suit, wonky nose - the Chief Constable's nephew, right?"
       Clive bristled. "I also happen to have a name - it's Barnard."
       "And I'm Johnson - Johnnie Johnson, Station Sergeant." There was, of course, a station sergeant for each eight-hour shift.
       Johnson propped himself up against a filing cabinet. "How do you like working for our Jack?"
       Still smarting, Clive snapped, "I'm not used to working for idiots." He instantly regretted the tactless but honest answer and stiffened for the expected rebuke. To his surprise the sergeant smiled tolerantly.
       "Count your blessings, Barnard. He may be a fool but they don't come any better. Half the people here are jockeying for promotion, scrambling to get to the top, not caring who they tread on in the process. But not Jack Frost. He's a man who knows his limitations, who doesn't pretend to be what he isn't. You'll never find him trying to snatch the credit due to someone else - and if you worked for Inspector Allen, you'd know what I mean."
       Clive ventured another criticism "He's callous and crude. We're dealing with a woman whose kid is missing, probably dead, and all he can talk about is how he'd like to get into bed with her.''
       The sergeant rolled himself a cigarette. "Jack's trouble is, what he thinks, he says. You probably think the same as him but don't say it."
       This was true, but Clive hunched his shoulders sullenly. "He's a bloody mess, like his office," and he indicated the litter. "By the way, what was that medal I saw in his desk? I didn't recognize it. It must be a long-service award - obviously it can't be for good conduct."
       The sergeant's tongue traveled along the gummed edge of his cigarette paper and he gave the young man a pitying look. "Two years in the force and you know it all, don't you, Barnard? Well, two and a half years ago it was headline news. The medal that he keeps tucked away in the blue box so no one can see it is the George Cross."
       Clive's mouth opened and closed before he could croak the words out. "The George Cross?"
    "Yes - the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross, and it's his - that bloody mess you were talking about."
       They hadn't heard Frost's footsteps clattering up the corridor. The door burst open.