Authors: R. D. Wingfield
There was the rasp of a match as Frost lit his fourteenth cigarette of the day. Mullett edged the ashtray forward to receive the spent match, but was too late. Frost’s foot ground the carpet, and the smell of burning wool joined the other aromas.
The cigarette waggled in Frost’s mouth as he spoke. “If your son’s innocent, I’ll prove it, Sir Charles, but if he’s guilty I’ll prove that as well.”
“That’s all I ask,” said the MP. “Do your duty, Inspector.” A pause, then, slowly and significantly, he added, “Clear my son and you won’t find me lacking in gratitude.” Frost’s eyes narrowed as the implication registered, but Mullett was up, steering him by the arm, and pushing him through the door before he could snap back.
“Roger Miller is in the interview room with his solicitor, Inspector. I want you to see him right away and let me know the outcome.”
Police Sergeant Johnny Johnson stilled his rumbling stomach as the wall clock told him he had another forty-nine minutes to go before he could take his lunch break. A breeze from the lobby doors as Jack Frost clattered through on his way to the interview room. The very man! He flagged him down.
“Mr. Frost!”
Frost ambled over. “I’m very busy, Johnny.”
“Too busy to notice the smell?”
Frost tested the air, then smiled. “You’ve got Wally Peters for me?”
“He’s down in the cells awaiting your pleasure.”
“I’ll see him now,” said Frost forgetting all about Roger Miller. He turned toward the cells.
“Hold it. I’ve got stacks of messages for you.” He scooped up some notes. “First, from Mr. Baskin of The Coconut Grove. Wants to know what’s the latest on his robbery.”
Frost took the note and, without reading it, screwed it into a ball and tossed it in the rubbish bin. “If he phones again, tell him we’re vigorously pursuing our inquiries. Next.”
The second note was passed over. “A Mr. Max Dawson asking if we’d found his daughter. He wants to see you.”
This note Frost put in his pocket. “I’ll fit it in as soon as Webster gets back. Any more?”
“Yes. Message from the hospital. Tommy Croll discharged himself this morning.”
Frost whistled softly. “Did he leave a forwarding address—Las Vegas or the Bahamas?”
Johnny lowered his voice. “You reckon Tommy nicked that money, then?”
“I sincerely hope he did,” replied Frost, scratching the back of his head. “He’s the only suspect I’ve got. Send a car round to his house and bring him in. Is that the lot?” Hopefully, he turned to go, but the sergeant had one last bullet to fire.
“Mr. Gordon of County buzzed through. It seems that the absence of Denton Division’s crime statistics is holding up the computer return for the entire county.”
Hell, thought Frost. When am I ever going to get the chance to do them? He went down the stairs to the cells.
The cell area had its own peculiar smell. From the drunk cell the stink of stale beer, urine, and vomit; from others the heady aroma of unwashed bodies too-long-worn socks, and carbolic. But all of these well-established odours were fighting a losing battle with the unwashed Wally Peters. Frost paused outside the cell door, lit a cigarette, took his last lungful of nontoxic air, then marched in.
“Blimey, Wally,” he spluttered, “you stink to high heaven!”
“I don’t make personal remarks about you, Mr. Frost,” retorted Wally huffily. He was seated on the edge of his bunk bed, huddled over an enamel mug from which he noisily sucked tea with much working of his Adam’s apple. “What am I here for?”
Frost rested his back against the painted brick wall. “It’s about Ben Cornish, Wally,” he said gravely. “About what you did to him.”
Wally didn’t even blink. He took the mug from his mouth and belched. “I enjoyed that, Mr. Frost.”
“I thought so from the sound effects, but what about Ben, Wally? You’d better tell me.”
Wally sniffed hard and looked up at the detective. “You told me he choked to death, Inspector.”
“I was wrong, Wally. He was murdered. Beaten up and jumped on until he died.”
The tramp’s lower jaw sagged and tea dribbled down the dirty grey stubble of his chin. “Murdered?”
“That’s right, Wally, and all his belongings pinched. What have you done with them?”
“I wouldn’t hurt a fly, Mr. Frost, you know that. And I wouldn’t hurt Ben—we was mates. Murdered? God, I’m never going to sleep down them lavatories again.”
Frost flicked cigarette ash on the stone floor. “You were hanging about there last night. Did you see anything?”
“Only that copper sniffing around.”
“When did you last see Ben?”
“Yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock down by the railway embankment. He was twitching and sweating and he kept clawing and scratching himself. He said he was going to meet some blokes down the toilets that evening who were going to sell him some drugs.”
“What blokes?”
“A couple of new blokes. He said they hadn’t been in Denton very long.”
“And how was he going to pay for the stuff?”
“He said he thought he knew where he could get some money. He wouldn’t tell me where, though. That was the last time I saw him, Mr. Frost, on my dead mother’s eyesight, I swear it.”
Frost shook a couple of cigarettes from his packet and gave them to the tramp. “Thanks, Wally. You can go now if you like.”
“They’re getting me a dinner, Mr. Frost,” explained Wally. “I’ll go when I’ve had it. Thanks for the fags.”
“All part of the service,” said Frost, banging on the cell door to be let out. “Tell your friends.”
Webster was waiting for him in the office. A search of the convenience and the surrounding area revealed no trace of anything like a plastic bag, full of Ben Cornish’s odds and ends, or empty. The scene-of-the-crime officer had crawled over the premises and had probably found the fingerprints of everybody who had used the toilets since Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, but none likely to be of any help.
Frost filled Webster in on Wally Peters and the claim that Ben Cornish intended to buy drugs from two new pushers. “Get on to Drug Squad, son. I want to know about two new suppliers who are supposed to have come into the district recently. And ask them to check up on all known users with a history of violence—where they were between nine and eleven last night when Cornish was being killed.”
As he waited for Webster to finish the phone call, his internal phone buzzed. Control to report that the allegedly stolen Jaguar owned by Roger Miller had been found. Charlie Alpha had located it in a clearing to the east of Denton Woods. There was no doubt it had been involved in an accident. The near-side headlamp was missing, as was the front licence plate, and there were traces of blood all over the wing. Control had arranged for the vehicle to be towed in for a detailed examination. Frost thanked Control, then scribbled a note to remind himself to check whether or not the plastic screws from the Jaguar’s licence plate had been recovered.
That done, he had a quick look into the Crime Statistics file in the vain hope that someone might have crept in during the night and finished it off for him. No such luck, so he dropped it back in the filing cabinet.
Webster finished his call to the drug squad. They were aware that two new pushers were operating in the district but had no details on them yet. They would also check on addicts with a history of violence but pointed out that all addicts could be driven to extreme violence when they were desperate.
Frost received the news gloomily. “Trust them to complicate matters.” He pushed himself up from the desk. “I think we’ll sneak out and have some lunch now, son.”
Before they could move, Johnny Johnson looked around the door. “You do know Roger Miller and his solicitor are waiting for you in the interview room, don’t you, Jack?”
“Of course I know,” said Frost. “We were just on our way to them, weren’t we, son?”
It should have been possible to get from Frost’s office to the interview room without a diversion, but Frost thought of one. They were turning the corner from the passage when he stopped, looked cautiously around to make sure they weren’t being observed, then told Webster his suspicions about Dave Shelby. “I’d like to know what he was doing, poking around those toilets, son. He said he saw the broken gate from his motor, but that’s impossible. I spotted him stuffing something into his locker last night.”
Webster was unimpressed. “It could have been anything.”
“Yes,” nodded Frost, “but wouldn’t it be interesting if it was Ben Cornish’s plastic bag crammed full of heroin?” He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large bunch of assorted keys. “We could take a little look just to satisfy our curiosity.”
Webster was horrified. “You’re going to search an officer’s locker behind his back—without his permission? The Police Federation will go berserk.”
“I’m hoping they won’t find out,” said Frost, sorting through the bunch for a suitable key.
Webster took a step back as if distancing himself from the insane act Frost was proposing. “This is a murder inquiry. Even if you found any evidence, the court would tear you to pieces.”
Frost brushed these objections aside. “If there’s nothing there, then no harm’s done. But if I do find something, I leave it where it is, I don’t tell a soul what I’ve done, and I apply for a search warrant.” He moved toward the locker room, the bunch of keys jangling in his hand.
Webster didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, but I want no part of this.”
“Oh,” said Frost, crestfallen. “I was hoping you’d be my lookout man.”
“No way,” said Webster firmly.
Frost’s shoulders sagged. “Fair enough, son. Can’t say that I blame you. You don’t want to get into any more trouble. Stay here, I shouldn’t be long.” And he was off down the passage.
You’ll be caught, you bloody fool, thought Webster. You’ll be caught, and you’ll be kicked out of the force, and it will serve you bloody right. “Wait for me,” he called, hurrying after him.
Frost paused by the locker-room door, a relieved grin on his face. “Thanks, son. All you have to do is stand outside. If anyone comes, just whistle.” A quick look up and down the passage, and he opened the door and slipped inside.
It was a room full of dove-grey metal lockers, standing shoulder to shoulder in rows. The locker with Shelby’s name on it was about halfway down the left-hand wall. Ever the optimist, Frost tried the handle, but it was securely locked. He offered his selected key. It was too big even to fit into the lock. He tried another. This one slipped in easily enough, but it wouldn’t turn. It was taking far longer than he’d thought. He sorted through the key ring and tried another.
Outside, leaning against the wall, his heart steam-hammering, Webster felt like the lookout man for a smash-and-grab job. He tried to look inconspicuous, but there was no reason for him to be there. The swing doors at the head of the corridor parted suddenly, and two uniformed men marched purposefully through, heading directly for the locker room. He puckered his lips and tried to whistle the warning, but his mouth was too dry. And the men were getting nearer. He fumbled at the door handle and jabbed his head inside the locker room. Frost was kneeling on the floor in front of Shelby’s locker, working at one of his keys with a nail file, then testing it in the keyhole. He was unaware the door had opened.
“Inspector!” hissed Webster urgently.
Frost jumped up, and cracked his head painfully on the protruding locker handle; the sound of the impact boomed like a drum, echoing on and on around the room.
Webster spun around. The two uniformed men walked straight past the door and out the back entrance to the car park.
“I don’t think we’re cut out for a life of crime,” said Frost, rubbing his head ruefully as Webster returned to his lookout post. He pushed the filed key into the lock. It clicked home. Carefully, he rotated it. Two more clicks. He turned the handle and pulled: the locker door swung open.
Shelby’s overcoat swung from a hanger. His street shoes were on the locker floor. Next to the shoes, in a leather case, was an expensive Polaroid instant camera with auto-focus, flash, and delayed action. Frost patted the overcoat pockets. Something bulged. He dived his hand in and pulled out Shelby’s driving gloves. Beginning to think it was all a waste of time, he poked his hand around the back of the overcoat to feel for the metal shelf at the rear of the cabinet. His fingers scrabbled blindly, exploring by touch. Nothing . . . nothing . . . something! A packet of some kind. Of heroin? He pulled it out so he could examine it.
A plastic wallet secured with an elastic band. He looked inside. Photographs. A wad of coloured photographs taken with the Polaroid and making full use of the flash and the delayed action. Shelby and various women. In various bedrooms. In various positions of the sexual act. Shelby liked to keep permanent records of his conquests.
A spluttering attempt at a whistle from outside. The door opened. “Someone’s coming,” hissed Webster. With fingers that didn’t seem to want to act quickly, Frost stuffed the photographs back into the wallet. One fell to the floor. He snatched it up, then looked at it again. A bedroom like all the others. Shelby lying on the bed, facing the camera. A woman poised over him, back to camera. Both were naked. There was no way the woman could be identified, but something in the room was familiar.
No time for further study. Back it went into the wallet, and the rubber band was slipped over. Hastily, even as voices were raised outside, he rammed the wallet back on the shelf and slammed the door shut. It clanged as if hit by a hammer. He hadn’t time to move away from the locker before Johnny Johnson came in. Johnson looked at Frost, looked at the locker then closed the door behind him.
“What are you up to, Jack?”
“Nothing,” said Frost, feeling like the window cleaner caught with trousers down by the husband.
“Mr. Mullett has ordered me to find you and take you by the scruff of the neck to the interview room.”
“On our way,” said Frost.
When the inspector had left, the sergeant read the name tag on the locker. He tried the handle. It was locked. Frost was up to something, and Shelby was involved. Right, Jack Frost, he thought. You’ve got some explaining to do.