a biggish van, dark-coloured, could have been blue.’
‘But it’s a lead,’ insisted Mullett. ‘Do a check on all blue vans.’
‘Do you know precisely how many blue vans there are in the Denton area alone?’ asked Frost, producing and waving a small notebook.
Mullett flapped a hand. He didn’t want to know, which was a relief to Frost as he had no idea himself, although he was fully prepared to pluck an astronomical figure out of thin air if Mullett called his bluff. ‘It doesn’t matter how many there are, Inspector. We’ve got a computer. It can churn out the information in seconds.’
‘But the computer can’t check through it and knock on bloody doors and question people,’ said Frost. ‘That’s what us poor sods would have to do and it could take weeks – months – and still lead nowhere.’
Mullett gave Frost a vinegary smile. ‘It’s easy to be negative, Inspector. I offer suggestions, you offer objections. I’m getting a lot of flak from the press on this one. I want him caught now. That’s your number one priority. We haven’t got many men, but take as many as you like.’ He frowned with annoyance as Sergeant Wells’ hand kept flapping, trying to attract his attention. Not more of the man’s moans, he hoped. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘With respect, sir. It’s all very well saying Mr Frost can have as many men as he likes, but I’ve still got a night shift to run and I’ve hardly any men to do it. This flaming flu epidemic doesn’t seem to have hit the criminal fraternity yet.’
‘I’m well aware of that, thank you, Sergeant, which brings me to my next point. We’re under strength so some things will have to go by the board. We are going to have to turn a blind eye to many of the minor crimes, even . . .’ and he flashed a paternal beam in Gilmore’s direction, ‘. . . suicides which look slightly doubtful. We will not go out of our way to look for trouble. I don’t want any arrests for drunkenness, rowdiness, soliciting, illegal parking, loitering – anything minor like that. We just haven’t got the time or the manpower.’ He smiled at Wells. ‘So that should lighten your load quite a bit, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Wells, doubtfully.
‘Fine,’ said Mullett, closing his notepad and turning to go. Then he remembered one other item. ‘Oh – Inspector Frost. I had a visit from the vicar of All Saints and Councillor Vernon this morning. They are very worried at this current wave of mindless vandalism in the cemetery. There was another incident over the weekend. How are the patrols going?’
‘What patrols?’ asked Frost.
‘The anti-vandalism patrols I asked you to organize. I sent you a memo.’
‘I never got it,’ said Frost hastily. It was probably buried somewhere in his in-tray together with all the other stupid rubbish Mullett kept sending him.
‘And I spoke to you personally about it.’
‘Ah – so you did,’ agreed Frost, vaguely remembering Mullett chuntering something about graveyards, ‘but as you so rightly said, Super, we can’t waste time on these piddling trivialities.’
Mullett gave Frost a pitying shake of the head. Hadn’t the man any common sense? ‘There’s no such thing as a piddling triviality when a member of the town council is involved, Inspector. See to it right away – the vulnerable time seems to be between ten and midnight.’
‘I’ve got no-one to send,’ said Frost.
‘Then attend to it yourself, Inspector. These are difficult times, so we act as a team. We’ve all got to pitch in.’ Mullett looked at his watch and yawned. It had been a long day and it was freezing cold in the Briefing Room. Time for him to get home to bed.
Monday night shift (1)
Rain dripped down the upturned collar of Frost’s mac. ‘How long have we been here?’ he asked peevishly.
Gilmore wriggled his watch free of his sleeve. ‘Five minutes.’
Frost hunched his shoulders against the cold, penetrating drizzle and wound his scarf tighter around his face to blunt the teeth of the wind chewing on his scarred cheek. As he stamped his feet to try and bring some feeling to his frozen toes, his wet socks squelched in his shoes. ‘This is all a bleeding waste of time,’ he muttered, rasping a match on a weather-eroded headstone. The match spluttered, then flared to show the moss-blurred inscription:
George Arthur Jenkins
Born and Died
Feb 6th 1865
Suffer the little children to come unto me
‘There’s one poor little sod who never drew his old age