ÀÏ»¢»úÎÈÓ®·½·¨

“At first glance it appeared little different from all the others. A quick in-and-out job with seventy-nine pounds in cash being taken. The thieves always took cash – it was instantly negotiable, it couldn’t be traced and it made the task of the police almost impossible. Frost sniffed. He knew Lil Carey. She was an unregistered money lender, lending out small sums of money, usually to housewives, at exorbitant interest rates. She’d never miss seventy-nine pounds. He wished the thieves had got away with more. But then he realized the ‘£’ had been scratched through by the reporting officer and the word ‘sovereigns’ added. Seventy-nine sovereigns! Frost wasn’t sure of the current rate for sovereigns, but that quantity must surely be worth much more than four thousand pounds for the gold content alone; even more if they were Victorian and in mint condition. He stuffed the report in his pocket. They would call on old mother Carey this morning without fail. The door was kicked open and Webster entered with the two cups of tea, his expression making it quite clear how much he relished being asked to perform these menial tasks. ‘Thanks, son,’ muttered Frost, who had learned that it was best to ignore the constable’s repertoire of frowns, scowls, and grimaces. He disturbed the mud of sugar with his ballpoint pen and took a sip. ‘Tastes like cat’s pee.’ He swivelled in his chair. ‘Something important we had to do this morning. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was.’ ‘The dead man in the toilets. You had to break the news.’ ‘That was it!’ exclaimed Frost. ‘Mr Dawson phoned,’ Webster told him. ‘Dawson?’ Frost screwed up his face. ‘Who’s he?’ ‘The father of the missing schoolgirl. He wanted to know if there was”
― R.D. Wingfield, A Touch Of Frost

“fish.”
― R.D. Wingfield, Frost At Christmas