Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  First they went to Denton Hospital to interview the seventeen-year-old rape victim, but she could add nothing to the statement she had already given to Susan Harvey. Indeed, she remained convinced it was her boyfriend who had assaulted her, despite the medical evidence to the contrary.

  That chore out of the way, Frost directed Webster to some appalling little back-seat transport cafe where they dined on burnt sausages, greasy chips, and tinned peas. To add insult to injury, Webster had to pay the bill for both of them when Frost realized he hadn’t drawn any cash from the bank. The deepening scowl on Webster’s face was threatening to become a permanent feature.

  Sulkily slinging himself back in the car, the acidic stewed tea and the stale chip fat fermenting in his stomach, Webster asked the inspector where he wanted to go. He just didn’t care anymore, life was one long round of chauffeuring Frost, teetering from one crisis to the next while having to endure his unfunny jokes about beards and whiskers.

  “Denton Woods,” said Frost. “Mr. Mullett is very cross with us because we didn’t search the area for clues last night.”

  “It’ll take more than two of us,” grunted Webster, slamming the car door too hard and wincing as acid indigestion made its first tentative stab.

  “Only if we do it properly,” said Frost cheerfully, leaning back and puffing contentedly at a cigarette. “Not a bad meal, was it?”

  The thin, yellow afternoon sun did little to warm up the woods, and they hunched up inside their coats as they trudged along the path. “You know, son,” said Frost when they squeezed through the bushes and found themselves in the clearing with its wet, flattened grass, “I’ve got a hunch. I reckon he’s going to try it on again tonight.”

  “Oh yes?” grunted Webster. He just couldn’t care less. He had had his fill of Frost and was counting the hours until he would be off duty and round to Susan Harvey’s little flat with the door bolted and the phone off the hook.

  “The weather’s getting colder,” Frost went on. “He’s going to have to grab his opportunities. If he does his stripping-off act much longer he’ll end up with a frostbitten dick.” He scuffed the grass with his foot, already anxious to be away, but Webster suddenly bent down and tugged at something, a scrap of cloth caught on the lower branch of a bush. He held it out to Frost, who backed away. “It’s not a clue, is it, son? I’m not in the mood for clues.”

  By the look of it, the scrap of cloth had been hanging around the woods for years, but Webster slipped it into a small plastic envelope. “I’d like to send this to Forensic . . . unless you’ve any objection?” His tone dared Frost to demur.

  “If it makes you happy, son. Now let’s get the hell out of here before you pick up any more rubbish.” He squeezed back through the gap to the path, while Webster protested that they hadn’t even begun to search the area. “We haven’t got time,” said Frost, hurrying back to the car. “We’re never going to nab this sod by sniffing around for clues. The only way we’ll do it is by catching him in the act - in flagrante dick-o, as the lawyers say.”

  “And how are we going to do that?” asked Webster.

  “I’ve got a plan,” said Frost, grateful to be back in the car after the cold dankness of the forest. “I’ll tell you when we get back to the office. Next port of call, the bank. I’ve got to get some money.”

  Webster was turning the key in the ignition when another car roared up and skidded across to block their path. A plump little man in a blue mac and a porkpie hat jumped out and hurried over to them.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Inspector,” puffed Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon, out of breath. “Mr. Mullett’s screaming blue murder - something about a wrecked car - and Johnny Johnson says they can’t get in touch with you by radio.”

  “It’s on the blink,” said Frost.

  “It’s been turned off,” accused Hanlon, clicking the switch.

  “I don’t understand these technical terms,” said Frost, firmly switching it off again. “Now speak your piece, Arthur. I’ve got to go to the bank.”

  “I’ve found someone who was with Ben Cornish on Tuesday evening,” reported Hanlon. “They call him Dustbin Joe, so you can imagine what he smells like. He was just about coherent, and his breath stank of me ths but if we can believe him, he reckons he saw Ben about eight o’clock Tuesday evening and Ben told him he was on his way round to his mother’s to try and tap her for some money.”

  “Now that’s very interesting,” said Frost, scratching his chin thoughtfully, ‘because his family said they hadn’t seen him for weeks.”

  “The statement’s on your desk,” said Hanlon. “Just sniff, you’ll find it.”

  “You’re a little gem, Arthur,” beamed Frost. “Now, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me. I’m the man who never was.” He closed the car door. “Change of plan, son. Let’s go straight to Mrs. Cornish.”

  Mrs. Cornish, who had affected indifference to her son’s death, was wearing the black woollen dress she had worn at her husband’s funeral. Frost didn’t comment on this fact. He sat with Webster in the tiny kitchen which reeked of fried onions, a smell that threatened to rouse Webster’s stomach to further rebellion. The yapping, snarling mongrel in the yard kept leaping up and banging its nose on the window in its frenzied efforts to rip them to pieces.

  She folded her arms belligerently. “Like I told you, we hadn’t seen him for God knows how long. Hadn’t seen him and never wanted to see him.”

  “Ben met someone Tuesday evening, just after eight, and said he was on his way round here,” said Frost.

  “Well, he didn’t come,” said the woman flatly, ‘and I would have slammed the door in his face if he did.”

  A banging as the front door closed, then footsteps along the passage. Danny pushed into the kitchen, stopping dead when he saw the two detectives. “What the hell?” he exclaimed. For a moment he looked as if he was going to turn tail and run.

  “They’re asking about Ben,” said his mother quickly. “They seem to think he was here on Tuesday. I’ve told them we hadn’t seen him for months.”

  “Quite right,” said Danny, still hovering by the open door.

  “And that’s all we’ve got to tell you,” said Mrs. Cornish to Frost. “I want you to leave now.” To hurry them on their way, she asked her son to let the dog in.

  Webster reversed out of the back street and pointed the car toward the town. “So what did that achieve?”

  Frost, plunged in deep thought, surfaced with difficulty. “I reckon they’re lying, son. I’ll lay odds that Ben did go home on Tuesday.” His watch told him it was a quarter past three. “Foot down, son. I must get to the bank before they close.”

  The nameplate above the cashier’s window in Bennington’s Bank said the young teller’s name was Gerald Kershaw. He took Frost’s cheque and clouted it with a rubber stamp. He didn’t look very happy.

  “Fives, please,” said Frost, watching carefully as the youth counted out the crisp, brand-new notes.

  “I’ve got to call in at the police station tonight, Mr. Frost,” said the youth gloomily.

  “Been fiddling the books?” asked Frost, taking the money and rechecking it. “I’d flee the country if I were you.”

  The cashier grinned. “No, not quite as bad as that. I’ve got to produce my driving licence and insurance details. A traffic cop caught me driving through a “buses only” lane.”

  Frost tut-tutted and shook his head at the gravity of the offence. “That’s a thirty pound fine at least, plus fifteen quid costs. It’s cheaper to rob a bank - you’d only get probation for that.”

  The youth leaned forward confidentially, keeping his voice low. “I suppose there’s no way the charge could be dropped, Mr. Frost. I know the police have discretion, and it was a first offence.”

  Frost gasped at the enormity of the suggestion. “No chance,” he said. He was stuffing the notes in his wallet and about to turn for the door when the idea struck him. He beckoned the youth closer. �
��Tell you what, Gerald. I might be able to fix it for you in return for a very small favour.”

  “A small favour?” repeated the teller doubtfully.

  “It’s all right; it’s official police business,” said Frost, ‘but it’s very confidential. I want to know a few minor details about someone’s account.”

  The cashier, looked furtively about him. No-one was watching. “What’s the name of the account?” he asked, moving to the monitor screen and typing in the password for current accounts information.

  Outside in the car, which was tucked, well hidden, down a side street in case a cruising police car spotted it, Webster waited impatiently. He felt like the driver of a getaway car in a bank raid. Ten minutes had passed since Frost, coat collar turned up, had sidled into the bank. How long did it take the idiot to cash a simple cheque?

  Another minute ticked by and there he was, bounding along, his mac flapping, a broad grin threatening to split his face. He slid in beside Webster and flung out his arms with joy.

  “I have a theory, son, that for every bit of bad luck you get compensated by a bit of good. So I deserve a bloody big chunk and I’ve just had it. Guess what?”

  Webster didn’t answer. He was in no mood for stupid guessing games.

  “When Roger Miller gave Harry Baskin his cheque for £4,865 to pay his gambling debts, he didn’t have a penny in his bank account; in fact, he was overdrawn by £32. But the morning after the robbery he paid in a cash deposit of £5,130, just in time for his cheque to be honoured.”

  Webster turned slowly in his seat. “The morning after the robbery?”

  Frost hugged himself with delight. “Yes, my son. Let’s go and bring the bastard in.”

  Through the dull throb of his headache, Police Superintendent Mullett bravely smiled his thanks as his secretary, Miss Smith, brought him a cup of hot, sweet tea and a large bottle of aspirins. His headache was getting worse. He took off his glasses and pinched his nose to ease the strain, then gave his full attention to the station sergeant.

  “We’ve been radioing Mr. Frost constantly since one o’clock, sir. He hasn’t responded, I’m afraid.”

  Grunting his disapproval, Mullett popped two aspirins in his mouth and swallowed them down with a gulp of tea.

  “His radio could be out of order,” suggested the sergeant.

  “Yes,” snapped Mullett, replacing his cup on the saucer, ‘we all know how often, and how conveniently Mr. Frost’s radio breaks down. He’s to report to me the second he comes in, Sergeant.”

  When the sergeant left, Mullett relaxed enough to take from his drawer the envelope with the House of Commons crest. He drew out the gold-engraved invitation and the short note in Sir Charles Miller’s own hand thanking him for his assistance in the hit-and-run case and inviting Mullett and his good lady to a small social gathering at the MP’s house the following night at which the Chief Constable would also be present.

  Mullett’s pleasure at receiving this had almost outweighed his annoyance about the wretched business of the stolen police car. He had already had the press on the phone for his comments and he dreaded seeing the morning’s Denton Echo, which really seemed to have its knife out for the police these days.

  He ran his finger along the gilt edge of the invitation, and the contact made him feel better. Sir Charles Miller’s private telephone number was on the letter requesting that the Superintendent phone him personally to confirm his acceptance. He had dialled the number and was holding on while the butler went off to find his master when there was a knock at his door.

  “Wait!” ordered Mullett imperiously, but his command was ignored. The door opened and Frost ambled in, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I asked you to wait,” barked Mullett. Typical of the man. Never here when you wanted him, but ask him to wait and he comes bursting in regardless.

  “Hello, Mullett,” boomed Sir Charles at the other end of the phone.

  “I’ve just arrested Roger Miller,” Frost announced.

  Mullett’s mouth opened and closed. He looked at Frost, then looked at the phone in his right hand. “You’ve what?” he croaked.

  “Hello, Mullett, are you there?” asked a puzzled Sir Charles.

  “It was Miller who nicked that five thousand quid from The Coconut Grove the other night,” continued Frost proudly. “His girl friend was his accomplice; she’s given us a full confession.”

  Mullett forced a barely sustainable smile of commendation and then became painfully aware of the irritated voice barking out of the phone. He took a deep breath. “Hello, Sir Charles,” he said at last. “I’m afraid I might have a bit of bad news for you.” With his free hand he dropped the invitation into the waste bin. Its thud as it hit the bottom sounded the death knell of his current social climbing aspirations.

  “Well done, Jack,” called Johnny Johnson as the inspector trotted back to his own office. “How did Mr. Mullett take it?”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly kiss my feet,” replied Frost, "but at least it distracted his attention from the car I lost.”

  Frost had played his usual game of bluff and double bluff, aided by gambler’s luck, which was paying him one of its brief visits. First he and Webster had picked up the girl, Julie King, telling her that Roger Miller had been positively identified and had made a full confession implicating the girl as his accomplice. “The lousy bastard!” she said. “He promised to keep me out of it.” She then made a statement giving them everything they wanted. Armed with this, they arrested Roger, and, once he was in custody, Frost was able to issue instructions for his flat to be searched. To Frost’s Academy Award-winning act of stunned surprise, the exclusive handmade brown-and-cream shoes were found. These were later identified by Croll as those worn by his attacker. And tucked away, right at the back of a built-in cupboard, they found a Stan Laurel mask.

  Then the uninteresting bit. The paperwork and the tying up of the various loose ends. This was interrupted at one stage by a phone call from Harry Baskin, who had obviously been contacted by Sir Charles Miller. He said he didn’t want to prefer charges.

  “This isn’t a civil case, Harry,” Frost had told him. “It’s a criminal charge, so you’ve got no say in the matter.” It was another two hours of comings and goings with Miller’s solicitor and the director of the Public Prosecutions Office before Frost was able to turn his mind to more important matters.

  “The rape case, son,” he informed Webster, “I want to make a move on it tonight.”

  “Tonight?” repeated Webster, hoping he wasn’t hearing correctly. He had intended spending the night in the narrow El Dorado of Susan Harvey’s single bed.

  “Yes. My every instinct tells me that King Dick is still in the area and he’s going to have another bash tonight. So let’s give him someone to have a bash at.”

  “A decoy?”

  “Exactly. Someone young and tasty with enormous knockers.” He opened the door and yelled in the general direction of the duty room, “Sue . . . got a minute?”

  Oh no! thought the dismayed Webster. Please, not Sue!

  Frost pushed a chair toward her so she could sit down, then asked, “You doing anything tonight, Sue?”

  She hesitated, shooting a little sideways glance at Webster, who could only shake his head helplessly.

  “If not, how would you like to be raped?” continued the inspector.

  This was one of the inspector’s little jokes, of course. She giggled as she waited for the punchline. Then she saw he was deadly serious.

  “I need you as a decoy, Sue. For this bloody rapist. I want to nail the bastard tonight.”

  For just a second she hesitated, then she said, “What’s the plan?”

  “It’s Mr. Allen’s plan, actually. I found it in the file. We fit you up with a two-way radio and we stake out the area. You prowl around, oozing sexual attraction, then, when he rises to the bait, we pounce, and then we all go home and have a cup of tea. How does it sound?”

  She smiled. “I’ll
do it. After seeing what he did to that kid last night, I’ll do anything to get the swine.”

  Frost patted her hand. “Good girl. Now, we know he likes them young, dewy-eyed, and innocent, so no make-up, no bra, sensible knickers, and simple clothes - and take the. Karma Sutra out of your pocket.” He consulted his watch. “It’s coming up to half past seven. Get off home. Try and grab some kip because, if we’re lucky, it’s going to be a busy night. I’ll send Webster round at ten to pick you up and bring you back here for a final briefing.”

  Webster yawned pointedly. If he could get off now he would be able to drive Sue back to her flat, and to her bed, and they could relax and make up for the disappointment of the night before. “Perhaps we’d all better snatch a few hours’ sleep,” he suggested.

  “Sure,” said Frost vaguely. “But there’s a couple of quick jobs we must do first.”

  They’d better be quick, thought Webster, whispering to Susan that he’d be round at nine, earlier if he could, which would give them at least an hour before she had to get dressed in her decoy outfit.

  “So what are these jobs?” urged Webster when Susan had left.

  “Mm?” said Frost, not listening. He had taken out the packet of action photographs from Dave Shelby’s collection and was finding one of consuming interest. It showed Shelby and a woman, both naked. Shelby was lying on the bed, grinning. The woman, her back to the camera, showing off gorgeous buttocks, was astride him. The punchline to his old joke came into Frost’s head. “I knew it was the foreman,” he muttered to himself, "because I had to do all the bloody work.” He caught Webster’s eye. “Something nagging me, son. Why do I feel I should know where this was taken, and why do I feel it’s important?”