real wood veneer. A striking contrast to the dark green paint and beige emulsion decor of the rest of the station.
He turned the pages of Gilmore’s personal file and nodded his approval. This was exactly the sort of man they wanted in the division, young, efficient and ambitious. He looked up as Station Sergeant Bill Wells tapped on the door and walked briskly in.
‘Mr Frost has gone home, sir,’ Wells announced. ‘I phoned his house, but there was no answer.’
Mullett tugged the duty roster from his middle drawer. Just as he thought, Frost was clearly marked down for afternoon duty.
‘He was on duty all last night and most of this morning, sir,’ explained Wells. ‘He’s probably grabbing some sleep.’
Mullett sniffed his disapproval. What was the point of having duty rosters if they were blatantly ignored? The envelope from County marked Strictly Confidential glowered up at him from his drawer as he replaced the roster. Frost was really in trouble this time.
‘I want to see the inspector the minute he gets in, Sergeant . . . the very minute.’ Let Frost try to wriggle out of this one.
‘I’ve left instructions, sir. I’m off home myself now.’ Wells yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes to show how tired he was.
Again Mullett snatched up the roster and jabbed his finger on the afternoon shift which showed that Wells was the station sergeant on duty until six o’clock. He studiously consulted his gold Rolex wrist-watch. Half-past three!
‘I’m on again at eight o’clock tonight, sir,’ explained Wells. ‘I’m filling in for Sergeant Mason. He’s down with the flu.’
Mullett flapped a hand impatiently. He didn’t want all the fiddling details. ‘If you must alter all the shifts around, Sergeant, do me the courtesy of letting me know.’ He grunted peevishly as his red biro neatly amended the roster. ‘I can’t run a station in this slipshod fashion.’
Wells bristled. There he was, working all the hours God sent, doing double shifts, and all this idiot was concerned with was his lousy duty roster. ‘This virus thing is making it impossible, sir. We need more men.’
‘We have one extra man,’ beamed Mullett, nodding towards Gilmore. ‘And I’m sure, like me, he would like a cup of tea.’ He flashed his teeth expectantly.
‘Tea?’ spluttered Wells. ‘I’ve got no-one I can spare to make tea, sir. As you know, the canteen’s closed . . .’
Mullett didn’t know the canteen was closed and he wasn’t interested. ‘Two teas,’ he said firmly, ‘and if you can find some biscuits . . . custard creams would be nice.’ What a sullen look the man gave him as he left. He would have to speak to him about it. He swivelled his chair to face Gilmore. ‘I’m having to plunge you straight in at the deep end, Sergeant. You’ll be working split shifts with Mr Frost, so you’re on again tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ echoed Gilmore in dismay.
‘That presents no difficulties, I hope?’
‘No, sir. Of course not.’ God, Liz would raise hell over this.
‘Good. One other thing.’ Mullett cleared his throat nervously and hesitated as he carefully picked his words. ‘If, when you are working under Mr Frost, you notice anything that you feel should be brought to my attention, you will find I have a very receptive ear.’ He lowered his eyes and began fiddling with his fountain pen.
Gilmore pulled himself up straight in his chair. ‘Are you asking me to spy on the inspector, sir?’
Mullett looked pained. ‘If you consider that what I have suggested constitutes spying, Sergeant, then of course you will forget I ever said it.’ He closed the green cover of the detective sergeant’s personal file. ‘You are promotion material, Sergeant, but to promote you, I need a vacancy.’
He stared hard at Gilmore. Gilmore stared back, holding Mullett’s gaze, then gave a tight smile and nodded.
They understood each other.
They were still smiling smugly at each other when Wells crashed in with the tea.
‘This will be your office.’ Detective Constable Joe Burton, stocky, twenty-five years old and ambitious, tried to keep the resentment out of his voice as he showed the new detective sergeant around. Gilmore stared in amazement. The poky room he was expected to share with that scarecrow, Frost, was a complete shambles with papers and files everywhere but in their proper place, dirty cups perched on the window ledge and the floor littered with cigarette stubs and screwed-up pieces of paper that had missed the target of the waste bin. ‘And this is your desk,’ added Burton.