Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost said nothing. The trouble was that Allen was one hundred percent right and bloody knew it, and was going to squeeze every last drop of advantage from it. But what the hell. He leaned across the table and pressed Sadie’s arm. “Try not to worry, love.” He stood up and pushed past Allen.

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” shouted Allen. But Frost was weaving his way through the tables.

  All right, thought Allen. You can walk away from me, Frost, but just wait until Mullett learns about this little caper of yours.

  “What joy?” asked Webster when Frost returned to the office and bundled his mac on the hat stand.

  “More misery than joy, son. I was caught red-handed by Old Clever Balls.”

  Serves you damn well right, thought Webster. “What did she want?”

  “Stanley wants to have a meet. I said no.”

  “She must know where he is then.”

  “I’m sure she does, son.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Allen?”

  “No. He’s so bleeding clever, let him find out for himself.” He chucked himself in his chair and shoved all the incoming post, unread, into his out-tray. “Any news from Arthur Hanlon on our dead tramp?”

  “He was asking for you,” Webster reported. “He says he’s spoken to all the unwashed and flea-ridden in Denton and can’t come up with anyone who saw Ben Cornish later than four o’clock.”

  Frost uttered a little sigh of disappointment. “We’re not getting very far with that case, are we, son? No-one seems to have their heart and soul in it. Hundreds of flatfeet looking for poor old Stan Eustace and all I’ve got is little fat Arthur Hanlon looking for the bastard who stamped Ben to death.”

  The door handle rattled and someone kicked one of the panels. Webster opened it to admit Sergeant Ingram, his arms full of files.

  “I was asked to bring you these,” he said. “They’re Mr. Allen’s files on the Denton rapist investigation.”

  “Put them on Webster’s desk,” said Frost, who certainly didn’t want them on his. He noticed how tired and drawn the sergeant looked. “Mr. Allen working you hard, is he?”

  “Hard enough,” said Ingram. “Mr. Allen said will you please keep his files in good nick.”

  “I’ll treat them as if they were my own,” said Frost.

  Ingram forced a smile. “That’s what he’s afraid of.” The smile immediately snapped off. As he went out, he had to push past an agitated Sergeant Johnny Johnson coming in.

  Frost jerked his head at the departing Ingram. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

  “Wife trouble,” said Johnny Johnson. “I’ll tell you someone else who doesn’t look too happy, Jack. Mr. Mullett. He’s been sitting in his office waiting for you for more than an hour.”

  Frost’s jaw dropped and he smacked his brow. “Flaming hell, I forgot all about the old git. I was on my way in to him when Sadie Eustace phoned.”

  “He knows all about your tryst with her as well, Jack. Mr. Allen has been putting the verbal boot in.”

  “He’s a darling man,” said Frost as he zipped through the door on his way to the Divisional Commander’s office.

  He was halfway down the passage when Police Constable Kenny, looking pleased with himself, grabbed at his arm. “We’ve got him for you, Mr. Frost. He’s in the interview room.”

  Frost’s spirits rose. “Who?” he asked hopefully. “The Denton rapist?”

  “No, sir, Tommy Croll, the security guard from The Coconut Grove. You said you wanted him picked up.”

  “Oh,” said Frost, trying not to sound disappointed. With so much else on his plate the robbery had completely slipped his mind. “Where did you find him?”

  “Sneaking back into his digs to pick up his clothes.”

  Frost patted the constable on the back. “Good work, young Kenny. Hold on, would you. Mr. Mullett’s waiting all eager to give me a bollocking, so I’d better get that treat over first. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes though.” And he plunged on down the corridor for his tryst with the Superintendent.

  “Come in,” growled Mullett, his head bowed over his midday post. He heard the door open and close. He looked up and there was Frost, in that shiny suit with the baggy trousers, out of breath and looking worried. Good. He would give him something to look worried about.

  “I asked to see you more than an hour ago, Inspector,” he observed icily.

  “Sorry about that, Super,” said Frost, searching his pockets for his cigarettes. Damn, he’d left them in the office. He looked hopefully at the silver cigarette box twinkling in the sunlight on Mullett’s desk. Mullett scooped up the box and locked it away in his drawer. Sometimes Frost had the gall to help himself without being asked.

  “This is your last warning, Frost. In future, when you receive a summons from me, you will be here, on the double.”

  Silence from Frost, who was looking very sorry for himself. He would look even sorrier before Mullett had finished. Mullett produced the copy of the Denton Echo, the editorial ringed in blue felt tip. He pushed it over to Frost. “Have you seen this?”

  “Not yet, sir.” Frost gave it the briefest of glances and chucked it back. “Load of balls.”

  “On the contrary, Inspector,” snapped Mullett. “What they are saying is painfully correct. A girl was raped last night. Have you interviewed her?”

  “Well, no,” said Frost, shifting from one foot to the other, “Detective Constable Harvey took a statement . . .”

  But Mullett wouldn’t allow him to finish. “A rape case. A girl raped and the officer in charge of the investigation doesn’t even bother to interview her personally.”

  “We were busy with her boyfriend last night,” retorted the inspector. “She claimed he raped her. We had to clear him first.”

  “Clearing the innocent does nothing to reduce our unsolved crime figures. Catching the guilty does,” snapped Mullett. “I further understand you haven’t yet made a search of the rape area.”

  “I was on my way to do it when I got your summons, sir,” said Frost, meeting Mullett’s stare of disbelief unwaveringly.

  “Make sure you do it, then. And have you interviewed the men on the list of suspects that Mr. Allen has drawn up?”

  I’ve not even opened his bloody files yet, thought Frost. “It’s my number-one priority,” he said.

  Mullett had plenty more bullets in the chamber. “What progress with that dead tramp?”

  “Not much joy up to now, sir,” said Frost.

  Mullett stared hard to show his dissatisfaction. Frost shuffled his feet and looked down to the blue Wilton. It sped things up if you looked contrite, and Frost was dying to get back to the office for a cigarette. “If there’s nothing else, Super . . .” he edged toward the door.

  Mullett was opening and shutting drawers. There was quite a lot more, but he had mislaid his notes.

  “What about the robbery at The Coconut Grove?” he barked.

  “Got a suspect in the interview room right now, Super.”

  “Good. Then let me see some action, Frost. Let me see some progress, something that’s been sadly lacking up to now.”

  He flipped his hand dismissively, remembering too late about the Sadie Eustace business and the crime statistics.

  Frost slouched back to his office, where he gave the waste bin a vicious kick. “Would that that was the reproductive area of our beloved Divisional Commander.” Then he collapsed in his chair and found the cigarettes he had been seeking. He raised his head to Webster, who was regarding his superior’s show of childishness with superior disdain. “Mullett’s been rambling on about a list of suspects in the rape case, son. Any idea what the old git’s talking about?”

  Webster extracted some stapled lists of names and addresses from one of Allen’s files and handed it to the inspector. Frost thumbed through the pages, wincing at the sheer volume of names.

  “List of suspects?” he snorted. “It’s more like the Classified Telephone Directory. There must be every
sex offender in the county down here.” He stopped at a name he recognized. “Freddy Gleeson! Fred the Flasher? Allen must be off his nut if he thinks Freddy could possibly be the rapist. His dick is for display purposes only, not for use.” He let the list drop to the desk and pushed it away. “Forget it. It’ll take weeks to go through that lot.”

  “Couldn’t we at least pull in some of the more likely ones?” Webster asked.

  Frost thumbed the pages once more and shuddered. “Waste of bloody time. These are all people with previous form. My gut feeling is that our bloke has never been caught before, so we’re not going to find him in lists of known offenders.” He looked up impatiently as someone knocked at the door. “Yes?”

  PC Kenny poked his head in. “Tommy Croll is still in the interview room, sir,” he reminded the inspector.

  “I was just on my way in as you knocked,” said Frost.

  Tommy Croll was unshaven and unwashed, his clothes even more crumpled than Frost’s. He blinked nervously as the inspector entered with his hairy sidekick.

  “Hello, Tommy,” greeted Frost, settling himself down in the familiar hard interview room chair. “Nice of you to come and see us.”

  Tommy said nothing. He had long since learned that the best technique to use with the police was to say as little as possible.

  Frost folded his arms, smiled at Croll benevolently, then fished out his cigarettes. He lit one very slowly, dribbling the smoke across the table. “You’re the answer to my prayers, Tommy. I’m in serious trouble with my Divisional Commander. To get back in his good books I need a quick confession and no sodding about.”

  “I didn’t do it, Mr. Frost,” Croll whined.

  “Now that’s a pity,” said Frost, ‘because it means we might have to resort to desperate measures, such as violence.” He jerked his thumb to the door as a signal for the uniformed man to leave.

  Croll tried not to show his concern. He was now alone in the interview room with Frost and that thug with the beard, and he’d heard some alarming stories about him. There was even a whisper that he had beaten up Harry Baskin, and you would have to be a real hard case to even contemplate doing anything like that.

  “As you probably know,” said the inspector, ‘my hairy colleague was drummed out of Braybridge for smashing up prisoners. I’d never allow him to do anything like that to you, Tommy - not in my presence.” He pushed himself up from the chair and stretched. “So I’ll go and take a little stroll around the block.” To Webster he said, “Try not to leave any marks, son.”

  Tommy tried to smile to show he knew it was all a bluff, but the smile wouldn’t come. “You’ve got to believe me, Mr. Frost. I didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t care if you did it or not,” Frost said. “All I want is a bloody confession.” Then he seemed to have second thoughts and settled down again in the chair. “I’ll listen to one fairy story and one only, Tommy, and then your teeth get knocked out.”

  Croll opened his arms in appeal. “It happened just like I told you, Inspector . . . I heard the right signal. I opened the door and wham, I’m coshed - I’m out cold.”

  “Balls!” snapped Frost. “That little tap you got wouldn’t have knocked out a four-year-old.”

  Croll chewed his lower lip and his eyes sized up the hairy thug. “All right, Mr. Frost. I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “Good,” beamed Frost, motioning for Webster to change roles from heavy to shorthand writer.

  “It was like I told you before, Mr. Frost, right up to the time where I got the signal to open the door. I opens it and there’s this geyser wearing a Stan Laurel face mask and holding a cosh of some sort. He clouts me round the nut, but I reckon he hadn’t done it before, because he didn’t hit me very hard. Anyway, I figured that if I didn’t drop down unconscious, he’d welt me a damn sight harder the second time, so I fakes it and down I go. I lies there, dead still, until he’s grabbed the money and gone.”

  “So when he’d gone, why didn’t you start banging and yelling?” asked Frost.

  “I was going to, honest. Then I suddenly thought what Mr. Baskin might do to me if he found out I’d been faking and hadn’t put up a fight. So I thought I’d better carry on faking. I didn’t even yell when Mr. Baskin booted me in the ribs.”

  Frost puffed out the tiniest stream of smoke through compressed lips. “So tell me about Stan Laurel. Describe him.”

  Croll gave a noncommittal shrug. “Medium height, medium build. I hardly saw him.” His nostrils twitched as the smoke from the inspector’s cigarette wafted over. “I couldn’t half do with a fag, Mr. Frost.”

  “You’ll have a lighted fag stuck right up your arse if you can’t come up with a better description than that, Tommy boy,” said Frost.

  Blinking hard, Croll gulped as he tried to think of something that would satisfy the inspector. “Well, he stunk of scent . . . after-shave, I suppose . . . and he had these poncey shoes on.”

  Frost caught his breath. “What sort of shoes?”

  “Expensive shoes. You could see the quality - they must have cost a packet. As I lay on the floor he stood near me, his shoes inches away from my face. I know them off by heart. Sort of brown and cream with a woven pattern.”

  The inspector stretched his arms out above his head, then massaged the back of his neck. “You might have helped us there, Tommy.” He heaved himself up from the chair. “You might have helped us a lot. Now, we can either lock you up or set you free and let Mr. Baskin know where you are. What do you prefer?”

  “Locked up, Mr. Frost.”

  “Well,” smiled Frost as if bestowing a great kindness, ‘as a favour to you.” He shook some cigarettes from his packet and pushed them over, then he called in the uniformed man and asked him to lock up the prisoner. That done, he flopped back into the chair, clasped the back of his neck with his interlocked fingers, and purred contentedly at the ceiling.

  “Have I missed something?” asked Webster.

  A beam from Frost. “I’ve got a feeling in my water, son. One of my hunches.”

  “Amaze me with it,” Webster said without enthusiasm.

  “Fancy shoes, son. Brown-and-cream fancy shoes. Roger Miller has got a wardrobe full of them; we saw them when we had that little nose around his flat.”

  “Thousands of people have got brown-and-cream shoes,” said Webster as he sneaked a look at his watch. He wanted to be in the canteen for lunch at the same time as Susan Harvey and was hoping that this bumbling half-wit of an inspector wouldn’t detain him much longer.

  But Frost had no intention of being hurried. “Try this out for a scenario, son. Roger is in Baskin’s ribs for a lot of money. He knows Baskin will get very nasty if he isn’t paid.”

  “We’ve been through all this,” sighed Webster.

  “That was when I thought Baskin had nicked Roger’s motor. Just hear me out,” insisted Frost. “Roger hasn’t got the money to settle his gambling debt, so he gets the bright idea of stealing it from Harry Baskin. He gets his girl friend with the mole on her bum to help - she’s got all the inside gen and she’s the one who phones pretending to be the nurse, while Roger, in his Stan Laurel mask, does the dirty deed.”

  “It’s a possible theory,” sniffed Webster, patently unimpressed and more concerned with getting this stupid conversation over and done with.

  “I haven’t finished, son.” Frost stood up and began to pace about the room. “I’ve always worried about the way that licence plate came off the Jag. But what if it was meant to come off?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “They knew what Baskin would do to them if he ever suspected, so they badly wanted an alibi. An alibi that would put Roger miles away. Everyone knows his flash motor. So the girl friend puts on one of Roger’s caps, drives the Jag round and round the old people’s flats, bashing into dustbins, trumpeting away at the horn, making sure no-one could avoid seeing the car. And just in case no-one got the registration number, she chucks the licence plate out of the window for
the cops to find. When the police followed it up, Roger would say, “Yes, officer, it was I who caused the public nuisance,” pay his fine and for fifty quid he’s bought himself a cast-iron alibi for the time of the robbery. What went wrong, of course, was the girl knocking down that old man. That sodded everything up. There was no way Roger was going to say he was driving after that.” He sneaked a glance across to Webster to see how this was being received.

  It wasn’t being received too well. Webster immediately saw the flaw in the reasoning. “Very ingenious . . . except for the fact that Miller didn’t owe Baskin any money. He’d settled his debts two days before the robbery.”

  Frost stopped dead in his tracks. “Damn and bloody blast!” he shouted. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  The door opened and the sergeant from the motor pool walked in. “Been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Frost,” he said. “You borrowed a car from the pool this morning.”

  “Did I?” said Frost, a nasty feeling of more trouble starting to creep up his back.

  “Yes, sir. When that stolen Vauxhall was found you wanted to get over there in a hurry. You told us your assistant was using your own car so you took one from the pool and promised you’d bring it straight back.”

  “We came back in your Cortina,” said Webster.

  Damn! thought Frost. I must have left the flaming pool car down that lane. He patted his pockets for the keys. He didn’t have them. “I must have left them in the ignition,” he admitted sheepishly. “Still, no problem. I’ll nip over and bring it back. I know where it is.”

  “You don’t know where it is, Mr. Frost,” the sergeant told him grimly. “At this moment it’s being hauled up from the bottom of a canal in Lexington. Lexington police have arrested two joyriders.”

  “Bum holes!” said Frost, now feeling very depressed. “I don’t think it’s going to be my day.”

  Thursday day shift / night shift

  It wasn’t going to be Webster’s day either. Before he had the chance to explain about his lunch date with Susan, he was dragged by the inspector out through the back way to the car park. Frost was anxious to make himself scarce before Mullett learned about the pool car fiasco.