Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Back in the room, the post-mortem.

  “It wasn’t even loaded,” said Frost.

  “I didn’t know,” said Ingram. “I saw him pulling the trigger. I didn’t know.”

  “You’re not expected to know, Sergeant,” snapped Allen. “If a killer points a gun at a police officer and then pulls the trigger, you are entitled to assume the gun is loaded.”

  “I quite agree,” said Mullett. “The person reproaching himself should be you, Frost. You placed this entire operation in jeopardy because of your cheap tactics. We’ll talk about this further in my office, first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Frost. Stan dead. Sadie widowed. That was all that mattered. He sat in a chair and lit a cigarette.

  “We’d better see the press now,” said Mullett to Allen. He sighed. “Pity that damn shotgun wasn’t loaded. It would have made a splendid story.” They went out together.

  Frost dribbled smoke and peered at Ingram through the haze. The sergeant looked shattered.

  “I thought he was going to kill you. I saw him pulling the trigger. I didn’t know the gun was empty.”

  “Sit down,” said Frost. “I think we ought to have a talk.”

  Ingram sat.

  “It’s a mess, isn’t it son?” said Frost.

  “Yes,” muttered Ingram.

  “I was hoping a bloke called Dawson had done it,” said Frost. “Dave Shelby had been knocking off his wife. But Dawson had an alibi. He was in some shooting contest until late evening.”

  “Oh,” said Ingram.

  Frost lit a second cigarette from the first. “He belongs to the same shooting club as you do. In fact you were both down for the clay pigeon shooting contest that afternoon, but you left early didn’t even go in for your heat. The club secretary told me. He said you left just before five with your shotgun tucked under your arm.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well enough to shoot,” said Ingram.

  “So the secretary said,” agreed Frost. He reached in his pocket for the packet of photographs and put them on the small table in front of him. “Shelby was knocking your wife off as well, wasn’t he?”

  The sergeant sprung up. “How dare you, you swine . . . !”

  “You don’t have to put on an act for me, son’ said Frost wearily, “I’m an unworthy audience.” He sorted through the photographs and pulled one out. “This is Shelby with Dawson’s wife. It was taken on Tuesday afternoon. If you turn it over you’ll see that these instant pictures all carry a printed number. This is number seven.” He sorted through to find another which he turned facedown. “This is number eight, which means it was taken after the other one.” He flipped it over. “The lady with Shelby - it’s your wife, isn’t it?”

  Ingram stared at the photograph. Two nude figures interlocked. He didn’t say anything.

  “That must have been taken Tuesday night,” Frost went on. “It couldn’t have been much later because the next day he was dead.”

  The detective sergeant seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph.

  Frost went on. “You were at the party Tuesday night so Shelby had the coast all clear. He’d parked his patrol car out of sight near the toilets and was on his way up to your place when he noticed the grille was broken. He was just about enough of a policeman to investigate, and he found Ben Cornish’s body. He was all fidgety that night. I thought he’d been up to something, but he was just anxious to be on his way for a spot of fun with your Stella and his camera.”

  Ingram picked up the photograph, then turned it facedown. “I never knew this was going on,” he said.

  With tired sadness, Frost shook his head. “You did, son. That’s why you killed him.”

  “Eustace killed him,” said Ingram. “Shelby’s notebook was found near his car.” He waved away Frost’s offered cigarette.

  “The grass in that field was wet with dew,” said Frost. “The notebook was supposed to have been lying there all night, but it was bone-dry. I never twigged at the time, but I’m a slow old sod. It was dumped there a few minutes before it was found and by you, my son.”

  “No,” said Ingram.

  Frost dabbed at the gash on his wrist. “It’s difficult to get rid of every trace of blood. You’ve probably scrubbed and scrubbed the inside of your motor, but I bet it wouldn’t take Forensic long to find what you’ve missed. Shelby must have been bleeding like a pig.”

  Jagged blue flashes from outside as the press took photographs of Allen and Mullett.

  “Shelby and your wife expected you to be away at your shooting match Wednesday afternoon. But you suspected something was going on so you left early. You crept into the house and found them together beating the hell out of the bedsprings. Is that what happened, son?”

  Ingram stared down at the floor and then had to turn his head away as he found his eyes focused on the section of bloodstained carped where Eustace had been lying.

  “No. I didn’t catch them in the act, Mr. Frost. I didn’t want to. I suspected what was going on, but I didn’t want to believe it. I got back early and there was Shelby’s patrol car down the side street. I parked alongside and walked toward the house. The blinds were drawn in our bedroom. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want to believe it. But after a while, the door opened and out he came, smirking all over his damn face. When he saw me, he charged off to his car and roared away. I followed and eventually managed to force him to stop in Green Lane.”

  “Where we found his abandoned police car?” Frost prompted.

  “Yes. I was beside myself with rage. I wanted to hurt him. He was laughing, taunting me. He said if I wasn’t able to satisfy Stella, it was no wonder she had to turn to a real man.” He hesitated, unwilling to go on. “I will have a cigarette if you’ve got one, Inspector.”

  Frost handed him the packet, then lit the cigarette for him.

  “Go on, son. I’m a good listener.”

  “The shotgun was on the back seat. I only meant to scare the hell out of him. I think that’s all I meant. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. God, his face! In my dreams I see his face!” He shuddered.

  “Why did you drag him to your car?” asked Frost. “Why didn’t you leave him?”

  “I was going to take him to the hospital, but I soon saw it was far too late. I found a secluded spot to dump him, cleaned up the car, then drove home. I said to Stella, “Did you have a good day?” and she said, “Yes - did a bit of shopping and baked a cake.” And she asked if I’d had a good day, and I said, “Marvellous.” Both of us lying our heads off.”

  Frost shrugged his shoulders. “I’d have done the same, son.”

  “I don’t know how long I thought I could keep quiet. I wanted to tell someone. I felt sure it would all come out.”

  “And then you heard about Stan Eustace and the armed robbery.”

  “Yes. Everyone but you assumed Eustace had killed Shelby. I wanted to keep the suspicion on him. I had to get rid of the notebook anyway - I’d found it in my car.”

  “So you planted false evidence?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “So it must be a godsend for you now that Stan Eustace is dead and can’t tell his side.”

  “You’ve got to believe me, Mr. Frost. I really thought he was going to kill you. That’s why I fired for no other reason you’ve got to believe me.”

  “Supposing I’d got Eustace out of this alive and he was charged with Shelby’s murder. What then? Would you have come forward, owned up?”

  Ingram bowed his head dejectedly. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. All I know is I didn’t mean to kill Shelby, but he’s dead. Now Eustace is dead and everyone believes he did it. Can’t we leave it like that?”

  Frost pinched his scarred cheek to try and bring some life back into it. “It would be a nice easy way out, wouldn’t it, son? The trouble is, I’m a cop. Not a very good one, perhaps, but still a cop. I don’t really know why I became one, but one thing I’m sure of, I didn’t become
a cop to turn a blind eye to planted evidence - or to let a dead man, even if he was a crook, be wrongly accused of murder. Your way would be easy. It would keep everyone happy. But it would be wrong son. I just couldn’t do it.”

  Ingram took the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it through the open window. “It had to be you, Mr. Frost, didn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so, son,” murmured Frost apologetically. “I’m always around when I’m not wanted.”

  “So what are you going to do . . . arrest me?”

  Frost shook his head. “Best if I don’t son. Much better if I’m kept right out of it. As it was you who shot poor old Useless Eustace, a voluntary confession might make nasty-minded people less inclined to query your motives. What do you reckon?”

  Ingram nodded.

  “And I’d be a lot happier if we didn’t have to bring these into it.”

  Frost held up the photographs. “Shelby’s widow has suffered enough.”

  Again Ingram nodded.

  “So keep my name out of it. Make it a voluntary confession, all off your own bat. It’ll make things a lot easier for you.”

  Ingram heaved himself out of the chair and moved slowly to the door. He paused as if to say something, but shook his head and went out, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Frost sighed and looked at his watch. A shuffling of feet made him turn his head. Webster was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.

  “Hello, son. Didn’t know you were there. Been there long?”

  “Not very long, sir.”

  Sir? This was the first time Webster had ever called Frost ‘sir’

  “You didn’t hear any of that, I suppose?”

  Webster paused, then lied. “No sir, not a word.”

  “That’s what I thought,” lied Frost. He stood up. “Let’s have an early night, son. I’ve got to report to Mullett for a bollocking first thing in the morning and I don’t want to keep yawning in his face.”

  Saturday day shift

  Frost sat in his office and smoked, waiting to be summonsed to the Divisional Commander’s office. Seven minutes past nine. Mullett was prolonging the agony, making him sweat.

  The news of Ingram’s arrest had shocked everyone. Apparently he had walked up to Detective Inspector Allen in the middle of the press conference and confessed to the accidental killing of Dave Shelby. This further blow to the prestige of Denton District, following so hard on the heels of the fiasco of the shooting of the now-cleared Stan Eustace, had fanned the flames of Mullett’s fury. Frost wasn’t looking forward to the coming interview.

  A tap on the door. The summons to the torture chamber, he thought. But that treat was still to come.

  “Lady to see you,” announced Johnny Johnson.

  He hoped and prayed it wasn’t Sadie. Not this morning. He couldn’t face her.

  The lady was Mrs. Cornish, straight-backed, dressed in mourning black, and clutching an ugly brown handbag. Frost sprung to his feet to shake the rubbish off a chair so she could sit down.

  “What brings you here then, Ma?”

  In answer, she undid the clasp of the handbag and took out a small paper bag. She tipped its contents on to his desk.

  Sovereigns, all minted in the reign of Queen Victoria. Frost counted them. There were forty-one.

  He looked at her incredulously. “Where did you get these?”

  “I stole them from a tin box in Lil Carey’s piano,” she said. “There were seventy-nine in all.”

  “And what happened to the rest of them?” Frost asked.

  “Ben took them.”

  “Ben?”

  She nodded. “Tuesday evening he pushed his way into the house begging me for money for drugs. He was in a terrible state. He couldn’t stop himself shaking and looked as if he hadn’t eaten for days. I said I’d give him food but not money. I left him alone while I went down to the corner shop for some eggs. When I came back the house had been turned upside-down and Ben had gone. He’d taken one of the bags of sovereigns. The other bag was too well hidden, otherwise he’d have taken that as well.”

  “What time was this?”

  She snapped her handbag shut. “A little after nine.”

  A little after nine! The pieces were all slotting together. He could visualize it. Ben hurrying from the house, desperately anxious he shouldn’t be late for his meet with the two drug pushers, the sovereigns heavy in the pockets of that ragged filthy overcoat, enough to buy many little packets. But he didn’t buy any. By nine thirty he was dead.

  And yesterday two drug pushers were arrested with the sovereigns in their possession.

  It now made sense. Better for them to confess falsely to a burglary than risk being linked by the coins to the murder.

  “Those bastards killed my son,” said Mrs. Cornish.

  Frost scooped the coins back into the bag. “Let’s get our basic facts straight. You never stole these coins from old Mother Carey. Danny, perhaps, or even your daughter-in-law - I spotted her family allowance book in Lil’s piano - but not you, Ma.”

  She met his gaze and stuck out her chin defiantly. “It was me. I’ll swear to it in court.”

  The internal phone buzzed. Miss Smith informing him that the Divisipnal Commander would see him now.

  “Tell him to wait,” said Frost.

  THE END