Wells said with a grin, before returning his gaze to the new rabies warning poster behind him. It had already lost its fixing in the top-left corner.
‘That’s one place I’ll be steering clear of, then,’ said Frost, heading for his office.
Wells had just finished re-sticking the corner of the poster when a call came through.
The woman at the other end of the line was hysterical. ‘Please calm down, love,’ said Wells, trying to open the call register and grab a pen. He was sick of having to man the phones alongside an understaffed Control. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he found himself shouting into the mouthpiece.
As she quietened a little, before explaining herself more clearly, Wells could hear a young child crying in the background.
‘Attacked?’ Wells finally said loudly. ‘In the garden? By a fox, you think?’ Wells looked up at the new poster, an uneasy feeling sweeping through him.
This morning was giving him the jitters: first there’d been an Irishman, giving him a registration number, which he immediately forgot, of a van being driven suspiciously round and round Market Square, and now here was a woman claiming her child had just been mauled by a wild animal.
Rabid was his sudden thinking, having just put up that damn poster. A stack of them had been lying in the cupboard under the counter for weeks, following a county-wide rabies warning. Except Wells had promptly forgotten all about them. Until he’d accidentally stumbled upon them that morning, while looking for a new biro. And now his mind was jumping to all sorts of worrying conclusions.
Many minutes later Wells had managed to write down an address and was attempting to reach Frost – to no avail. Pressing the button on the Tannoy and lifting the microphone to his mouth, he said, crossly, ‘Detective Sergeant Frost to contact the front desk at once.’
Where the hell was Frost? He’d only just been in the lobby and now he’d disappeared.
Sunday (5)
‘This is a call for uniform, surely,’ said Frost, grumpily reversing the Cortina in the police yard. Even on a Sunday afternoon, and without Mullett’s gleaming chariot taking pride of place, it was impossible to turn around and not scrape something. ‘Why are we having to check this out?’
‘Mullett’s new Sunday staffing rosters,’ huffed Hanlon. ‘What uniform there is seems to be tied up at the Hudson place.’
‘So the super thinks that because it’s a Sunday coppers aren’t needed,’ said Frost, clunking through the gears. ‘Bloody ridiculous. He should know by now that there’s no rest for the wicked.’
‘Doesn’t help, I suppose, with Bert not being in, and Allen on holiday.’
Frost sighed loudly. ‘I expect even lovely Sue Clarke will have her legs up – if not apart. While we’re off to investigate an attack on a nipper, by apparently a bloody fox. Where’s Johnny Morris when you need him?’ Frost accelerated up Eagle Lane.
‘Hold on a minute, Jack, you wanted that last right, towards Denton Woods – Forest View?’
‘Oops, silly me,’ said Frost. ‘Can’t turn round now. Not with the turning circle on this heap of tin. Let’s take the scenic route.’ Frost pulled straight across the Bath Road, making for the ring road, relentlessly crunching through the gears.
‘Bloody clutch’ll go, carry on like that,’ Hanlon said under his breath.
‘You complaining about my driving? Ah, look, Hudson’s Classic Cars. Thought it was around here. May as well pop in. See what’s on offer.’
‘Jack, there isn’t time,’ Hanlon said, pulling nervously on his seatbelt. ‘According to the Old Bill, this young child, it sounds serious. We can come straight back here.’
‘A little prone to hysterics is the Old Bill. Don’t worry, we’ll only be a minute, Arthur.’
‘You planned this, didn’t you, you devious sod?’ Hanlon’s jowls jiggled as the Cortina bumped up the kerb.
‘Right,’ Frost said cheerily, climbing out and peering over the
‘That’s one place I’ll be steering clear of, then,’ said Frost, heading for his office.
Wells had just finished re-sticking the corner of the poster when a call came through.
The woman at the other end of the line was hysterical. ‘Please calm down, love,’ said Wells, trying to open the call register and grab a pen. He was sick of having to man the phones alongside an understaffed Control. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he found himself shouting into the mouthpiece.
As she quietened a little, before explaining herself more clearly, Wells could hear a young child crying in the background.
‘Attacked?’ Wells finally said loudly. ‘In the garden? By a fox, you think?’ Wells looked up at the new poster, an uneasy feeling sweeping through him.
This morning was giving him the jitters: first there’d been an Irishman, giving him a registration number, which he immediately forgot, of a van being driven suspiciously round and round Market Square, and now here was a woman claiming her child had just been mauled by a wild animal.
Rabid was his sudden thinking, having just put up that damn poster. A stack of them had been lying in the cupboard under the counter for weeks, following a county-wide rabies warning. Except Wells had promptly forgotten all about them. Until he’d accidentally stumbled upon them that morning, while looking for a new biro. And now his mind was jumping to all sorts of worrying conclusions.
Many minutes later Wells had managed to write down an address and was attempting to reach Frost – to no avail. Pressing the button on the Tannoy and lifting the microphone to his mouth, he said, crossly, ‘Detective Sergeant Frost to contact the front desk at once.’
Where the hell was Frost? He’d only just been in the lobby and now he’d disappeared.
Sunday (5)
‘This is a call for uniform, surely,’ said Frost, grumpily reversing the Cortina in the police yard. Even on a Sunday afternoon, and without Mullett’s gleaming chariot taking pride of place, it was impossible to turn around and not scrape something. ‘Why are we having to check this out?’
‘Mullett’s new Sunday staffing rosters,’ huffed Hanlon. ‘What uniform there is seems to be tied up at the Hudson place.’
‘So the super thinks that because it’s a Sunday coppers aren’t needed,’ said Frost, clunking through the gears. ‘Bloody ridiculous. He should know by now that there’s no rest for the wicked.’
‘Doesn’t help, I suppose, with Bert not being in, and Allen on holiday.’
Frost sighed loudly. ‘I expect even lovely Sue Clarke will have her legs up – if not apart. While we’re off to investigate an attack on a nipper, by apparently a bloody fox. Where’s Johnny Morris when you need him?’ Frost accelerated up Eagle Lane.
‘Hold on a minute, Jack, you wanted that last right, towards Denton Woods – Forest View?’
‘Oops, silly me,’ said Frost. ‘Can’t turn round now. Not with the turning circle on this heap of tin. Let’s take the scenic route.’ Frost pulled straight across the Bath Road, making for the ring road, relentlessly crunching through the gears.
‘Bloody clutch’ll go, carry on like that,’ Hanlon said under his breath.
‘You complaining about my driving? Ah, look, Hudson’s Classic Cars. Thought it was around here. May as well pop in. See what’s on offer.’
‘Jack, there isn’t time,’ Hanlon said, pulling nervously on his seatbelt. ‘According to the Old Bill, this young child, it sounds serious. We can come straight back here.’
‘A little prone to hysterics is the Old Bill. Don’t worry, we’ll only be a minute, Arthur.’
‘You planned this, didn’t you, you devious sod?’ Hanlon’s jowls jiggled as the Cortina bumped up the kerb.
‘Right,’ Frost said cheerily, climbing out and peering over the
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