by Henry James
‘Wait a second,’ Miller said. ‘It’s not so much what happened at the Toothbrush. More a question of who …’ His eyes darted nervously between Frost and Waters.
Frost’s interest was aroused. ‘Sit down, I’m all ears. Sergeant Waters, push the door to.’
Miller pulled up a chair, and lit a cigarette.
‘Well,’ he said fixing Frost with a look, ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, I saw Assistant Chief Constable Winslow leave the Toothbrush with a young lady in his Granada.’
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Frost exclaimed softly, rocking back on his chair. ‘How sure are you?’
‘It was him, all right,’ Miller said confidently.
‘Right, this is going to need some careful handling. You get yourself down the boozer with John – kiss and make up, buy him a beer, settle up for the tyres, and then some. Understood?’
Miller nodded and got up. Waters held the door, allowing Miller out first, then said to Frost, ‘Don’t be long, Jack. You could do with one yourself.’
Frost waved him out, and pulled out his pocket diary. He wasn’t convinced by Miller, but that could wait … What on earth was Winslow doing? Frost had nothing against the ACC; he seldom came into contact with him, and thought him pleasant enough when he did. Frost’s old partner DI Williams had always rated him, and had said Winslow had respect for Frost and it was Mullett who stood in the way of his promotion. And what would Superintendent Mullett have to say? This could be interesting. Frost laughed to himself, thumbing the diary for his in-laws’ number, not for the first time today.
The Simpsons’ phone rang half a dozen times, before a male voice answered.
‘George, it’s William,’ Frost said to Mary’s father. He thought this was odd – the old man never usually answered the phone.
‘William, we wondered when you might call,’ Simpson said, allowing the rebuke to hang in the air between them.
Frost swallowed hard. Something was wrong.
‘George, I’m after Mary – I want her to come home …’ Although he realized as the words left his lips it was too late.
‘Mary’s very ill, William.’ The voice at the other end was quivering. ‘It’s cancer …’
The week flashed before him in an instant – lying to Sue Clarke that Mary was ill; Mary asleep in the chair; the pain – not tiredness – in Beryl Simpson’s eyes; this morning, lying with Sue …
‘How long?’ Frost forced the words out. He felt his head begin to spin.
‘Six months. They’ve given Mary six months to live.’
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Sarah Adams, Sarah Neal, John Gurbutt, Elisabeth Merriman, Kate Samano, Bill Scott-Kerr, Phil Patterson.
About the Author
James Henry is the pen name of James Gurbutt, who has long been a fan of the original R. D. Wingfield books and the subsequent TV series. He worked for several years as an accountant before moving into publishing at Random House. In 2009 he set up Corsair, a literary imprint for Constable & Robinson, Wingfield’s original publisher. He lives in Essex.
After a successful career writing for radio, R. D. Wingfield turned his attention to fiction, creating the character Jack Frost. He published six novels featuring Frost. The series has been adapted for television as the perennially popular A Touch of Frost, starring David Jason. R. D. Wingfield died in 2007.
‘James Henry has captured my father’s style superbly. Fans and newcomers alike will not be disappointed.’
Philip Wingfield, son of the late R. D. Wingfield.
Also by James Henry
First Frost
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First published in Great Britain
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Written for the Estate of R. D. Wingfield by James Gurbutt Copyright © The Estate of R. D. Wingfield 2012
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