Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  ‘I’ve managed to get the councillor to drop his complaint against Collier, Inspector.’

  ‘What bloody complaint?’ demanded Frost, his voice rising with anger. ‘The drunken slob rammed into him then refused to take a breath test.’

  Waving a hand for Frost to keep his voice down, Mullett led him away from the office door, then leaned forward to talk to Frost in his ‘man to man’ voice. ‘Young Collier is inexperienced. Mr Knowles is a councillor. He is also on the Police Committee. It will be his word against Collier’s. Who do you think will be believed?’

  ‘Collier will be believed – especially when the urine test shows Fat-guts is as pissed as a newt.’

  Mullett winced. He deplored Frost’s too-frequent crudities. He carefully composed his face into a brittle smile and looked at the far wall across Frost’s shoulder. ‘Ah . . . there won’t be a urine sample. We won’t be proceeding with the charge . . .’ His hand jerked up to silence Frost’s explosion of outrage. ‘Politics, Inspector. It pays to have a man of his influence on our side, instead of against us.’

  Frost jerked his arm free from Mullett’s grasp. ‘You can have him on your bloody side. I don’t want him on mine. And if I ever arrest the bastard for anything, I’ll make the charge stick, politics or no bloody politics.’

  The brittle smile slipped and shattered. ‘There will be no vendettas,’ hissed Mullett. ‘And before you go, Inspector, there’s one more thing. In order to persuade the councillor to drop his complaint against Collier, I agreed that you would personally apologize to him for your rudeness.’

  ‘Up your shirt!’ shouted Frost, ready to march back up the corridor.

  Mullett’s whole body was quivering with anger. ‘That was not a request, Inspector. That was an order.’

  ‘Very good, Super,’ replied Frost, with an expression of such sweet reasonableness that Mullett was instantly uneasy.

  Knowles was sprawled in one of Mullett’s special visitor’s chairs, his piggy eyes agleam at the prospect of Frost’s impending humiliation. He looked up from his cup of Sergeant Wells’ instant coffee in mock surprise as Frost entered, looking very contrite. ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like to apologize’, said Frost, ‘for calling you a big, fat, ugly bastard.’

  Knowles frowned and looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t hear you say that.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Frost innocently, sounding genuinely apologetic. ‘It must have been what I was thinking.’

  Knowles rose from his chair, eyes bulging, ready to erupt. Then he gave an evil smile. ‘I shall remember this, Inspector.’ As he spoke the threat, he swayed from side to side like a snake ready to strike.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ cooed Frost.

  With a furious, laser beam glare, Mullett ordered the inspector to wait for his return, then ushered his visitor out. Left alone in the old log cabin, Frost riffled through Mullett’s in-tray, but found nothing of interest. He was delighted to discover that Mullett’s cigarette box had been newly replenished for the recent visitor, so helped himself to a few, just managing to stuff them in his pocket and put on his contrite expression as the Divisional Commander stamped back, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘That’, said Mullett, ‘was unforgivable. Mr Knowles is a councillor, a member of the Police Committee and a personal friend of mine.’

  And a big, fat drunken bastard to boot, thought Frost. But he hung his head and tried to look ashamed of himself.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Frost, trying to console a gloomy PC Collier with one of Mullett’s cigarettes. ‘You just misinterpreted the law. The law is that if you’re a friend of Mr Mullett’s, then you can get away with bloody murder.’

  Collier squeezed out a smile, but was still upset. Frost inhaled deeply, then dribbled out smoke. Something propped against the desk caught his eye. He bent to examine it more closely. It was a brief-case. ‘What’s this?’

  Sergeant Wells stretched over the desk to take a look and immediately panicked. ‘Flaming heck, it could be a bomb.’ His hand shot out for the phone.

  ‘Hold on,’ muttered Frost, crouching on his haunches to examine the object. ‘Collier, did that fat sod have a brief-case with him when you brought him in?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Collier, relieved to provide the explanation. ‘He clung to it like grim death.’

  With a grunt, Frost heaved it up on to the desk. ‘I wonder if there’s anything worth pinching inside.’ He tried the catch. It was locked, so he produced his bunch of skeleton keys.

  ‘You’re not going to open it, are you?’ asked Wells, his head anxiously flicking from side to side in case the Divisional Commander caught them in the act.

  ‘Why not?’ grunted Frost, trying to force a clearly unsuitable key to turn.

  Wells backed away. ‘I want nothing to do with it, Jack. Mullett’s still in the building.’

  ‘A suspected bomb,’ said Frost, his concentration all on the lock. ‘At great personal risk to life, limb and dick I am trying to defuse it . . . ah!’ The lock yielded with a click. He lifted the flap and looked inside. His jaw dropped and he emitted a long, low whistle. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’ He produced a handful of banknotes. Dirty, creased, well-used banknotes of mixed denominations, fives, tens, twenties, fifties . . . The sort of money that rarely saw the inside of a bank, or was declared on an income tax return. He dived in and produced a second handful, then riffled his thumb through them. At a rough guess there was something in excess of £5,000. ‘I wonder how much of this he gave to Mullett for letting him go? Right, let’s share it out.’ He proceeded to deal out the notes in three piles as if they were playing cards.

  ‘Put them back, Jack,’ pleaded Wells, now very agitated, his ears straining to catch the first sounds of Mullett’s approaching footsteps.

  ‘Why?’ asked Frost. ‘The sod’s obviously been up to no good. This is crooked money. It sticks out a mile.’

  ‘You’ve got no proof.’

  ‘The man’s a bastard, that’s all the proof I need.’ Reluctantly he stuffed the money back and let Wells lock the brief-case away for safe-keeping. A quick peep up the corridor. The light was still on in Mullett’s office. ‘Ah well. No-one will dare commit a crime while Hornrim Harry’s still here, so I’m going off home.’

  He poked his head round the door of his office where Gilmore was pecking away at a typewriter. ‘Come on, son. You can surprise your wife in bed with the lodger. We’re having an early night.’

  Gilmore didn’t really consider nearly three o’clock in the morning to be an early night, but he didn’t argue. He scooped up his coat and hurried out after the inspector.

  There were a few cars dotted about the station car-park. In its specially reserved parking space, sneering at Gilmore’s Ford, stood Mullett’s blue Jaguar. But making the Jaguar look like a poor relation was a gleaming black Bentley. Frost ambled over to it and peered through the tinted windows to the cream leather upholstery and polished figured walnut fascia. A jingle of keys and there was young Collier. ‘Why didn’t you tell me my new motor had arrived?’ asked Frost.

  Collier grinned. ‘It’s Councillor Knowles’ car, sir. He went home by taxi. Mr Mullett wants me to drive it back for him.’

  ‘How can that bastard afford to run a bloody car like this?’ said Frost, walking around the vehicle and giving it his grudging admiration. He stopped in midstride. ‘Gilmore!’ Gilmore, waiting patiently by his own car, came reluctantly over. ‘Remember how Wally Manson told us he nicked those porno videos from an expensive motor?’

  Gilmore nodded wearily. There were lots of expensive motors about. He hoped Frost wasn’t going to plunge head first in another of his wild, tenuous, proofless hunches.

  ‘And you remember how Wally said he jemmied open the boot?’ Frost pointed to the rear of the car. Gilmore moved forward to look. He had to agree. The boot had been forced open – and not too long ago.

  ‘And the bastard’s got a brief-case full of dirty money,’ Frost continued
. ‘What’s the betting he’s been doing the rounds, flogging his dirty videos?’ Frost held out his hand to Collier. ‘Keys, son.’ He took them and unlocked the driver’s door. The aroma of rich leather and cigar smoke. He slid into the driver’s seat and rummaged about in the dash compartment. He found a button to press and a concealed drawer glided open. Inside were a dozen or more of the familiar pornographic videos. Triumphantly he showed them to Gilmore. ‘Proof enough for you?’

  ‘It’s a start,’ agreed Gilmore, reluctantly. He didn’t want to get involved. People like Councillor Knowles would always come out on top.

  Frost told Collier to fetch the brief-case from Sergeant Wells. ‘Tell him I’m going to kindly deliver it in person.’

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ asked Gilmore.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I’m risking my bloody job.’

  Knowles lived in a large rambling house just north of the Bath Road on the outskirts of the town, standing in its own extensive grounds, completely hidden from the road by trees. Although it was well past three in the morning, lights still showed from the downstairs windows. They pulled up in front of a massive black oak door which was flanked by replica flaming torches lit by electric bulbs.

  Up two stone steps, guarded on each side by stone watchdogs, to the door where the bell-pull, a heavy black iron ring on a chain, descended from the top of the porch. Frost tugged it and somewhere far in the bowels of the house a bell echoed. The ringing started a dog barking. A door slammed. Someone inside shouted angrily and the dog stopped in mid-bark.

  Gilmore’s agitation was showing. Not only were they barging into someone’s house in the dead of night for the flimsiest of reasons, but it was the house of an important friend of the Divisional Commander who would have apoplexy if he knew they were there. Why the hell had Frost dragged him into this? Frost, striking a match on the rump of one of the stone dogs seemed blissfully unaware of the possible consequences of what he was doing.

  They waited. Shuffling footsteps, then a light glowed through the coloured glass on either side of the door and a voice called, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police, Mr Knowles,’ said Frost. ‘You left your brief-case at the station.’

  Bolts and chains clinked and the door opened wide enough for a hand to pass through. It closed round the handle of the brief-case. ‘Tell Mr Mullett, thank you.’ The brief-case vanished inside and the door jerked back. But it would not close. A scuffed, unpolished shoe prevented it.

  ‘What the hell!’ Knowles felt the door being pushed open. That damn, scruffy inspector, a cigarette drooping insolently from his mouth, was barging his way into the house.

  ‘If we could come in for a moment, sir,’ said Frost, kicking the front door shut behind him and snatching the brief-case back from Knowles who was clasping it tightly against a black and red silk dressing gown.

  Knowles, the alcohol smell stronger than ever, quivered with rage and pointed dramatically to the front door. ‘If you aren’t out in thirty seconds I am getting on the phone to your Chief Constable.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Frost, not sounding it, ‘but this is a very serious matter.’ He opened the brief-case.

  Knowles sobered up instantly. ‘What right have you to open a locked brief-case?’

  ‘No right at all,’ replied Frost. ‘It came open in the car and the contents fell out.’

  Gilmore squeezed even further into the background, hoping Frost wouldn’t seek his corroboration.

  ‘In the brief-case was a large amount of money in used notes. Can you account for it, sir?’

  Knowles took a red-banded cigar from his dressing gown pocket and lit it with a snap of his gold Dunhill. ‘I can, but I have no intention of doing so. You have far exceeded your authority and you will very soon suffer the consequences.’

  Ignoring the threat, and the mute pleading for caution from Gilmore, Frost ploughed on. ‘We found a quantity of these in your car.’ He held up two tapes. ‘They are locally made, pornographic videos involving bestial and disgusting acts against children.’

  ‘Just what are you insinuating?’ asked Knowles, his voice soft and menacing.

  ‘I’m insinuating sod all. I’m stating that you are involved with a pornographic vice ring. So get your clothes on. I’m taking you back to the station.’

  With a chilling smile Knowles drew deeply on the cigar, then flicked a cylinder of ash on to the carpet. ‘I’ll happily come to the station with you, Frost, and then you can kiss your career goodbye. Those videos were given to me by an outraged member of the public. If you check, you will find that I have already given notice that I intend raising this matter at the next meeting of the Denton Police Committee. I will also be raising the matter of your outrageous behaviour.’

  Oh my God! thought Gilmore. This is it. The stupid fool’s done it now. Well, he’s not dragging me down with him. But he couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for the inspector who was shaken rigid and looked older, even more shabby and useless than usual.

  With the cigar clenched in a gloating grin, Knowles retrieved the brief-case and quickly checked through the contents. ‘I hope, for your sake, all the money is intact, Inspector. I suggest you leave now. I’ll be speaking to your Chief Constable first thing in the morning.’ He opened the front door. Outside it was raining again.

  Defeated, Frost couldn’t think of a thing to say. Mullett would demand his resignation and he would have to give it.

  But luck, which all too often deserted him in his hour of need, suddenly remembered it owed him a favour. Somewhere at the end of the darkened passage, a door opened and a rectangle of light fell out. ‘Is everything all right?’ a woman called. Then a scamper of feet and she yelled sharply, ‘No . . . come back!’

  But the dog bounded up the passage towards its master, wagging its tail happily and whimpering. An enormous dog. A Great Dane. A brown and white Great Dane. Its left ear was torn.

  Frost stared, then grinned happily in warm, sweat-trickling relief. He marched back into the house, closing the front door firmly behind him. ‘What a beautiful dog, Mr Knowles. He looks just like he did in the video.’

  Dawn was scratching at the small window of the main interview room as Knowles and his wife were hustled in. They sat sullenly, refusing to say a word until their solicitor was roused from his bed. Outside, from a police van in the car-park, boxes and boxes of videos, raw tape, and video cameras were carted into the station.

  The door opened and Frost slouched in and mumbled a few words to PC Collier who was guarding the prisoners. Collier nodded and left to stand watch outside, ready to warn the inspector of the solicitor’s arrival.

  Frost dragged a chair over and sat facing Knowles and his wife. ‘Alone at last, Councillor.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Knowles in a flat voice. His wife, a superior-looking blonde some ten years his junior, stared aloofly ahead and wrapped her fur coat tighter around her. The early morning cold still clung to the room.

  Slowly, Frost lit up a cigarette. A clatter of footsteps in the corridor outside made him look up in concern, but he relaxed as they passed on. He lowered his voice. ‘I might be able to do a deal.’

  Knowles’ tiny eyes glinted. He was a pretty shrewd judge of character and he had this foul-mouthed tramp summed up as someone who could be bought right from the start. He leant forward. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The girl you filmed performing with your dog. Did you know she killed herself?’

  Knowles lowered his gaze and found something on the floor that held his full attention. ‘I heard something to that effect,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘It would do you a lot of good if we could stop it coming out in court,’ said Frost.

  ‘You could arrange that?’ whispered Knowles.

  ‘I can arrange for the videos of the girl and the dog to go missing. That part of the charge could not proceed and would not be mentioned in court – unless your side raised it, of course.’

  ‘
We’re not likely to do that,’ said Knowles, mentally working out how much this piece of good fortune was likely to cost him. ‘Naturally, I would be extremely grateful if the tapes did go missing . . . extremely grateful. The death of the girl was unfortunate – nothing to do with me – but the court might not see it in that light.’ He gave Frost a patronizing smile. ‘Tell me how you would like me to express my gratitude?’

  ‘You admit to all the other charges. Both of you. You don’t dispute any of the facts. You plead guilty. You don’t make us call any of the kids involved to give evidence. In return, the tapes go missing, which should knock at least three years off your sentence . . . and the girl’s mother will never know what perverted things you pair of bastards made her daughter do.’ He stood up and moved to the door. ‘I want a “yes” or “no” right now, or the deal’s off.’

  Mullett strode up and down his office, pounding his fist, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You’ve lost a box of video tapes? Vital evidence in a serious case? I can’t believe it. Even by your sloppy standards, this is disgraceful. I take it you’ve looked everywhere?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ mumbled the inspector, head bowed, looking very ashamed of himself.

  ‘This entire operation was mismanaged from the start. You dashed into it, head first without any thought of the consequence should proof not be forthcoming.’ He returned to his desk and looked again at the typed, signed statement on his desk. ‘You can count yourself lucky that Knowles has decided to do the right thing and make a full confession of the other offences. It does show a certain amount of character. I’m sure it will count in his favour at court.’

  ‘I’m sorry it turned out to be your personal friend, sir,’ mumbled Frost, trying hard to suppress a grin of delight.