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increased by one the number of accidents.
       "What happened?" asked Sergeant Wells, watching this with concern.
       "Hit the back of a bloody car as I drove in," said the scruffy man. "Some silly sod had poked it in my parking space. Who owns a blue Jaguar?"
       Wells went white. "Not a blue Jaguar, Jack? You didn't hit a blue Jaguar? That's Mr. Mullett's car. Brand new . . . delivered Saturday."
       The scruffy man was unimpressed. "Mullett's? At this hour of the morning? Come off it, he's at home polishing his buttons." He sniffed. "Hello . . . either meat pudding for dinner or Mabel's boiling her drawers."
       "This is serious, Jack," insisted the sergeant. "That is Mullett's car. He's here for the briefing meeting on the search for the missing kid. You were phoned about it last night. He's been asking for you."
       The man paused, then smote his brow in horrified "The meeting! Blimey! I forgot all about it."
       The station sergeant, who appeared to find happiness in other's misfortunes, tried to reassure him. "Never mind, Jack, after smashing up his car, missing his meeting will seem trivial. Did you do much damage?"
       He thought about it. "Not much . . . a slight knock on the rear wing. Hardly noticeable. His rear lamp's a bit smashed and there's the odd scratch and a couple of dents . . . Pity it was so new, actually." He hitched up his scarf. "Look, Bill, you haven't seen me; I haven't been in yet. I'm going to hide my car round the corner." He scuttled out a side passage.
       "Who was that?" asked Clive.
       "That, Detective Constable Barnard," replied the station sergeant stiffly, "was Detective Inspector Jack Frost."
       A detective inspector? That slovenly mess? Clive began to feel much happier about his future prospects. After all, if they made tramps like that up to inspectors . . .
       The phone rang. Stringer stopped his typing and answered it. He listened then muffled the mouthpiece against his tunic.
       "Sergeant. It's the Divisional Commander. He wants to know if Inspector Frost is in yet."
       "Tell him no," said the sergeant. "And tell him there's a gentleman in a £107 suit waiting to see him."

    "Send him in," snapped Mullett and banged down the phone. He stuck the "Private and Confidential" envelope back in his drawer. He had hoped to get the unpleasant interview with Frost over before he saw the new man. He shook his head in despair. How could you run an efficient station with men like Frost? And now, because of Inspector Allen's involvement with the search, Mullett was going to be forced to put the Chief Constable's nephew - the Chief Constable's actual nephew - under the dubious care of Inspector Jack Frost. It could spoil everything. True, the Chief Constable had a soft spot for Frost, but then he didn't have to work with him, to tolerate his appalling lapses, the unforgivable untidiness of his office, the tat tered clothes he wore, his hatred of paperwork and the system, his forgetfulness . . . But why go on? He was only working himself up. So long as the Chief Constable had faith, albeit misplaced, in Frost, then Mullett would conceal the man's true nature from him.
       Mullett, like Clive, was a career man, determined to rise to the top of his chosen profession. He'd joined the Force as a constable and, according to his charted plan, had steadily and diligently worked his way up the ranks, passing with ease all the necessary exams. In his spare time he, too, had taken a law course and was now a qualified solicitor.
       Because of his flair for leadership and organization, which he had taken pains to bring to the right people's notice, he'd been promoted three years ago to superintendent and given command of Denton Division. But this was but a stepping stone. In a few years' time the station would be demolished to make way for the enlargement of the new town and the force would move to a modern building currently under construction and would cover a much