“What?” Webster asked.
“His carrier bag. That’s where he kept all his worldly possessions - food, odds and ends, his hypodermic. He was never without it. But it wasn’t with his body last night. Whoever killed him took it.”
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, then leaned over for the handset and called Johnny Johnson at the station. He wanted to know if Wally Peters was still in the cells.
“No, thank God,” was the reply. “We kicked him out half an hour ago. Now we’ve got all the windows open, and we’re burning sulphur candles and scratching like mad.”
“I want him brought in,” ordered Frost. “Get the word out to all units.”
“Brought in, Jack? Why?”
“We’ve just come from the post-mortem. Ben Cornish was murdered.”
“Murdered?” gasped Johnson. “Why would anyone want to murder him?”
“Probably for the few bits and pieces in his carrier bag,” replied Frost. “It’s missing . . . and Wally was seen lurking about outside those toilets last night. So I want him.”
“Right,” said Johnny. “Consider it done. By the way, Jack, you won’t be long, will you? Mr. Mullett’s got Sir Charles Miller, his son, and his solicitor sitting in his office, all craving an audience with you about the hit-and-run.”
“Flaming hell!” cried Frost, “I forgot about them. We’re on our way - shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”
He replaced the handset. “Back to the station, son.” Webster reminded him they hadn’t yet called on Ben Cornish’s family. “Hell,” said Frost wearily, ‘we’ll have to do that first.” As they were on their way to the house, he remembered that he had meant to ask Tom Croll some more questions about the Coconut Grove robbery while they were at the hospital. His finger gave his scar a bashing. There was so much to be done, and he didn’t seem to be getting through any of it.
Then he saw her. “Stop the car!”
Webster slammed on the brakes and the car squealed to a halt
A young girl in school uniform was looking into the window of a dress shop. Frost’s hand was moving toward the door handle when the girl turned and stared directly at him.
She was blonde, wore glasses, and looked nothing like Karen Dawson.
“Drive on, son,” said Frost.
Wednesday day shift (3)
Frost banged the knocker a couple of times. This started a chain reaction of noise from inside the house. A dog barked, setting off a baby’s crying. Footsteps thudded down uncarpeted stairs; a sharp, angry shout followed by a yelp from the dog, then the front door opened.
“Police,” said Frost. He didn’t have to show his warrant card. Danny Cornish knew him of old.
Danny didn’t look at all like his brother. Four years younger, stockily built, he had thick black hair and bright red cheeks which betrayed the family’s gypsy origins. His meaty hand was hooked in the collar of a black-and-brown mongrel dog whose immediate ambition seemed to be to sink his teeth into the throats of the two policemen.
Webster stepped back a couple of paces as the dog’s jaws snapped at air. Frost was looking warily at Danny, whose face reflected the savagery and hatred of the dog and who seemed all too ready to let his hand slip from the collar. The mongrel, almost foaming at the mouth, was getting more and more frantic as its efforts to rip the callers to pieces were frustrated.
One eye on the mongrel, his foot ready to kick, Frost said, “You’d better let us in, Danny. It’s about your brother.”
The man cuffed the dog. It stopped barking but, instead, began making menacing noises at the back of its throat, its lip quivering and curling back to expose yellow, pointed teeth.
“Ben? What’s he done now?”
“Don’t let the bleeders in.” Behind him, advancing out of the dark of the passage, they could see a young woman, not much more than nineteen. She carried a ten-month-old baby, its squalling almost drowning the snarls from the near-apoplectic dog. This was Jenny, Danny Cornish’s common-law wife, once pretty, now hard-faced, her features twisted with hate.
His head snapped around to her. “Shove it, for Christ’s sake. And keep that bloody kid quiet!” His angry tone caused the infant to howl even louder, and this, in turn, spurred the mongrel on to greater efforts. Cornish yanked its collar and dragged the animal down the passage where he slung it out into the back yard. As he slammed the door shut, there was a resounding thud as the dog hurled itself against it, trying to get back in.
“In here.” He took them into more noise - a small kitchen where a whistling kettle on a gas ring was spitting steam and screaming for attention in competition with a transistor radio blasting pop music at top volume. Favouring neither, he pulled the kettle from the ring and snapped off the radio.
At the sink a gaunt, straight-backed woman of sixty, hair and eyes jet black, a cigarette dangling from her lips, was methodically dicing vegetables with a lethal-looking knife. She didn’t look up as they entered.
“It’s the police, Ma,” said Danny. “About Ben.”
She turned, hostile and belligerent, then she seemed to read something in Frost’s face. Carefully, she set the knife down on the draining board, then wiped her hands on her skirt. “Sit down if you want to,” she said.
They sat at the stained kitchen table with its cover of old newspapers. Frost fiddled for his cigarettes. He needed a smoke to bolster his courage.
Webster’s foot was nudging something. A large cardboard box tucked out of sight under the table. He bent and lifted it up. An unpacked VHS video recorder. He looked at the man. “I suppose you’ve got a receipt for this.”
Frost winced. “For Christ’s sake, son, there’s a time and a place . . .”
But he was too late to stop Danny from snatching an old Oxo tin from the dresser and emptying the contents out on the table in front of the detective constable. “Yes, I have got a receipt.” He scrabbled amongst odd pieces of paper, then, in triumph, stuck a printed form under webster’s nose. “Here it is. You’d better check it in case it’s a forgery.”
Webster took the receipt, read it briefly, then handed it back. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry you haven’t caught us out, you mean?” The receipt was stuffed back in the Oxo tin. “Now say what you’ve got to say and get the hell out of here.”
Stone-faced, Webster stared out through the uncurtained kitchen window into the back yard, which was strewn with parts of a dismantled motorbike. The dog had given up trying to break down the door and was nosing a mound of rusted tins. The nonstop wailing of the baby filtered through from the passage.
"It’s about Ben, Ma,’ Frost said softly.
"That shit,’ Danny snarled. ‘He’s caused enough pain and misery in this house. If you’ve nicked him, you can lock the door and throw away the key as far as I’m concerned.’
Frost got up from his chair and offered it to the woman. "You’d better sit down, love."
She shook her head. "Just say your piece, then go."
Frost took a deep breath. "He’s dead, Mrs Cornish. I’m very sorry."
She stood stock still, then felt for the chair and sat down.
"He died last night," Frost added.
Danny put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "How did he die? Drugs?"
There was no way of tarting up the facts in fancy clothes. Frost told them about the beating, and how Ben had choked on his own stomach contents.
The woman’s face showed no sign of emotion. "In a public lavatory?" she repeated tonelessly. "He couldn’t even die decently."
"Good bloody riddance," said her son.
Frost lowered his eyes to the newspaper covering the table. "We’re trying to trace his movements up to the time he died. When did you see him last?" Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Danny and his mother start at the question and exchange a look of guilt. But it was over so quickly he could have been mistaken.
"We hadn’t seen him for months, and we didn’t want to," said the man. His mother
nodded her agreement.
Why don’t I believe you? thought Frost. "Did he have any enemies who might want to cause him harm?"
Danny laughed scoffingly. "Enemies? Has a dog got fleas? He’d lie, cheat, or steal to get money for his drugs. He didn’t give a damn who he hurt in the process. He had enemies in this house, Inspector, and I, for one, am glad he’s dead."
"So am I," said the mother, but her eyes were fixed on a photograph pinned to the dresser shelf, a photograph of a much younger version of herself, smiling happily, holding the hand of a small, serious-faced boy of about four or five. The boy was clutching a wooden fire engine. Sensing she was being observed, she tore her eyes away and heaved herself up out of the chair. "You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do." At the kitchen door she paused. "We don’t want him back here. The state can bury him. He’s caused us enough pain and misery." The door closed behind her.
Frost squashed out his cigarette in a saucer. "We’ll need someone to do a formal identification," he told Danny.
"Sod that," was the reply. "You don’t get me looking at dead bodies."
Frost stood up wearily. "It’s got to be done, Danny. It’ll only take a couple of minutes." He signalled to Webster that it was time to leave.
"I’ll think about it," mumbled Danny as he ushered them to the front door.
From one of the upstairs rooms, Frost thought he could hear a woman crying, but, again, he couldn’t be certain.
"Thank God that’s over," said Frost, grunting as they climbed back into the Cortina. Webster shifted about in the driving seat trying to make himself comfortable. All he seemed to be doing of late was climbing in and out of this battered car, listening to Frost droning his inanities.
"Where to?" he asked mechanically. God, he was tired. It had been days since he’d had any proper sleep.
“The lavatories where Ben was killed,” answered Frost. “We should have gone there first - people have been peeing all over the evidence since eight o’clock this morning.”
Webster reminded him that the Divisional Commander was expecting him at the station to see the MP and his son.
Frost gave his forehead a wallop with his palm. “Flaming rectums. Mullett will never forgive me for keeping dear old Sir Charlie-boy waiting. Right, son, this is what we’ll do. I’ll drop you off at the toilets. Turf everyone out whether they’re finished or not, and seal the place off. Then search it from top to bottom for any sign of Ben’s carrier bag, or blood or anything I should have spotted last night. And radio the station for a scene-of-crime officer to help. He can take photographs of the graffiti and dust the toilet seats for fingerprints. I’ll drive on to the station for the hit-and-run interview. Remind me when we meet up that we’ve got that other security guard to interview about the robbery - the one Harry Baskin duffed up. Oh, and remind me about seeing Karen Dawson’s mother.”
Webster nodded wearily. He would never get used to Frost’s method of working. Webster liked order and forward planning. Frost seemed to thrive on chaos, lurching from one crisis to the next. He considered reminding the inspector that they still hadn’t started on the overtime returns, let alone finished the crime statistics, but what was the point?
Frost shouldered through the swing doors of the lobby carrying, in a large polythene bag, the filthy, vomit-sodden clothes removed from Ben Cornish.
“Bought yourself a new suit, Jack?” called Johnny Johnson. “I must say it’s an improvement on the one you’re wearing.”
“It’s cleaner, anyway,” said Frost, holding the bag under Johnny’s nose and watching him recoil. “I might do a swap.” As he swung off to his office to make out the forensic examination request, the sergeant, reaching for the phone, called him back.
“Mr. Mullett’s been screaming for you for the past half-hour. He wanted to know the minute you arrived.”
“I can’t think what’s keeping the inspector, Sir Charles,” said Mullett for the sixth time, his lips aching from the effort of maintaining the false smile. His phone rang. He snatched it up. “What? No, don’t send him in. I’ll be right out.” He expanded the smile. “Mr. Frost has just arrived, Sir Charles. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll pop out and brief him.”
As he passed through his outer office he instructed Miss Smith to make some more coffee. Strong this time. He felt he would need it.
Even before he reached the lobby he could hear Frost’s raucous laughter bellowing down the corridor. And there he was, slouched over the counter, exchanging coarse comments with the station sergeant, completely indifferent to keeping his Divisional Commander, and an important V.I.P, waiting.
“Your office, please, Inspector,” ordered Mullett brusquely, marching down the passage. When he reached Frost’s office he was extremely annoyed to find that he was alone and that he had to stand there, fuming, until Frost had finished relating some anecdote to the sergeant.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Inspector. For over half an hour. Sir Charles Miller, his son, and his solicitor. I specifically told you they were coming. I specifically asked you to be present . . .”
Frost wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. He hated Mullett’s bawlings out. He always had such difficulty keeping a straight face. As Mullett burbled on, Frost spotted a pencilled note on his desk telling him that Mrs.Clare Dawson wanted to speak to him about her missing daughter. His hand was reaching out for the phone when he realized that Mullett was still in full flow, so he adjusted his face to a contrite expression and tried to form a mental picture of the luscious Clare Dawson, all warm, creamy, and bouncy in a topless bikini, her sensuous lips parted, her tongue flicking over them . . . A strange silence. He switched his ears back on. Mullett had stopped speaking and was leaning back, ready to receive Frost’s grovelling apologies.
“Sorry, Super, but something more important turned up.”
Mullett’s mouth opened, poised to demand what could possibly be more important than a summons from one’s Divisional Commander, when Frost continued.
“That stiff I found last night . . ."
“The tramp?” asked Mullett. “In the public convenience?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, his expression indicating that he held Frost personally responsible for the fact that the body had been found in such unsavoury surroundings.
Frost nodded. “It now looks as if he was murdered. The autopsy shows he was beaten up and his stomach jumped on while he was on the floor. You should have seen his internal organs. The doc reckons his liver had exploded.”
The mental picture of an exploded liver made Mullett shudder. This case was getting more and more unsavoury by the minute. He gritted his teeth and listened as Frost filled him in on the details, including a graphic, stomach-churning description of the human offal floating in the specimen jars. When, thankfully, Frost had finished, he was forced to admit that, under police rules, a murder inquiry took priority over everything else.
Frost offered a little prayer of thanks to Ben Cornish for getting himself murdered and saving him from a grade A bollocking. But Mullett wasn’t going down without a fight.
“What I don’t understand, Inspector, is why none of these facts emerged last night. It’s now more than twelve hours since the body was found, and we have no photographs of the body, no forensic examination of the surroundings, and only now is a search being made for the missing carrier bag. The question I have to ask myself is whether you are competent to be trusted with a murder inquiry, even one as hopeless as this.”
“The body was blocking the urinal drain,” Frost explained patiently, “The place was flooded. When you’re up to your armpits in cold wee you’re inclined not to be as thorough as you might be. To add to the fun, he’d spewed up all over himself.” As proof, he heaved the polythene bag of clothes under Mullett’s nose.
“All right, all right,” pleaded Mullett, queasily waving the white flag. “We’ll talk about it later.”
The internal phone rang. Frost answered it, then handed it to the Commander. “Your secretary.�
�
Miss Smith reminding him that Sir Charles was getting restless.
“Make some more coffee,” said Mullett. “We’re on our way.” Then he saw Frost’s shoes. Scuffed, unpolished, and water-stained from the previous night’s adventures. If there had been time he would have insisted that Frost repolish them and give his suit a thorough brushing. But there wasn’t time. Sir Charles would have to take him, crumpled suit, unpolished shoes, warts, and all. But he made Frost put the polythene bag down.
The cleaners hadn’t found time to clean up the briefing room because Mullett had commandeered them for his own office, which now sparkled and gleamed and reeked of polish. Added to this was the rich smell of cigar smoke.
Sir Charles Miller, MP, buffed and gleaming from good living, sat in one of the blue moquette armchairs, which were reserved exclusively for important visitors, and glowered at his watch. He seemed singularly unimpressed with the nondescript scruff that the grinning-like-an-idiot Mullett introduced as Detective Inspector Frost. If this piece of rubbish was the best they had to offer . . .
“Sorry I’m late, Sir Charles,” breezed Frost. “I was held up on a murder inquiry.”
“A murder inquiry?” exclaimed the MP, leaning forward with interest. “How fascinating!”
Mullett pushed forward a hard chair. “You’d better sit here, Inspector,” he intervened hastily, determined to stop Frost from enlarging on the unpleasant details. Then he pointedly placed a large glass ashtray within easy reach on the corner of his desk. No use telling Frost not to smoke. He’d do it anyway, and if there was nowhere to put his cigarette ends he was quite likely to drop them on the blue Wilton and crush them under his heel.
“It might be better if I explained to the inspector what this is all about,” said the MP, determined that things be run his way. Mullett nodded weakly.
Miller sucked hard on his cigar. “I’ll be brief, Inspector. Through no fault of his own, my son, Roger, has been involved in this nasty hit-and-run business. Roger wasn’t driving; he wasn’t even in the car, but, as you can imagine, my political opponents are sharpening their knives. You can picture the headlines: “Son of Law-and-Order MP Butchers Old-Age Pensioner in Hit and Run.” Now, I’m not asking for special treatment just because I happen to be an MP. All I want is a fair and unbiased investigation.”
Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost Page 15