Smirking superciliously, and staring at Frost as he did so, Skinner began to line up a series of petrol receipts on the desktop as if he was displaying a Royal Flush “And you did the same for these other five Elm Tree Garage receipts. How do you account for that?”
Frost wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. “All right. So I lost some receipts and altered some others so I wouldn’t lose out. Big deal!”
Skinner scooped up the receipts and put them back on the pile. “If it had only happened once—or perhaps twice, or even in single figures—I might be disposed to believe you, Inspector Frost, but I’ve gone back six months and could go back even further. A sizeable number have been altered. By my calculations you’ve been making almost forty pounds a month from falsified car-expense claims.”
“And tax-free,” chimed in Mullett, who felt he was being left out of things.
“Yes,” agreed Skinner grimly. He turned to Mullett and nodded for him to take over.
Mullett had the grace not to look Frost in the eye. “I won’t tolerate dishonesty in my division.”
“Dishonesty?” exclaimed Frost incredulously. “What bloody dishonesty? Half the overtime I can’t be bothered to claim would wipe this out in a flash.”
Mullett turned in appeal to Skinner. He hadn’t considered this aspect. Don’t say Frost was going to wriggle out of it, as he always seemed able to do.
Skinner took over. “You can’t write off fiddling like that. Forgery is forgery. If you’re too lazy to claim overtime, that’s your look-out. You can’t make up for it by fiddling.”
All right, thought Frost. When you’ve lost, stop fighting. “So I might have made the odd mistake. Big deal. If it makes you happy, I’ll pay it back.”
Skinner shook his head firmly and again turned to Mullett to take over. Mullett tried to look the other way. He wanted Skinner to continue with the unpleasant side of the business.
Skinner wasn’t having any. “Superintendent Mullett has something to say to you.”
“Oh yes,” mumbled Mullett. “The, er, point is, Frost, I can’t have people on my team who cheat. Paying back isn’t good enough.”
“Then what the bleeding hell is good enough?” Frost demanded. “Do you want me to disembowel my bleeding self?”
Mullett look pleadingly at Skinner, who stone-walled with a shake of the head. This is up to you, he signalled.
“This should be reported to County, Frost,” said Mullett at last. “Much as I am always ready to lay my head on the block for my team, I have no option. It’s my duty to report it and I imagine County will suspend you while they go through all your expense vouchers for the past five years or so to find out if there are other discrepancies.”
“They could do you for fraud,” added Skinner. “Although they’d probably give you the opportunity of resigning instead. They don’t like their dirty washing to be aired in public.”
Frost went cold. He could see the bastard was serious.
Mullett seemed to be finding something of interest out of the window, so Skinner picked up the reins again. “However, you can count yourself bloody lucky that you’ve got such a kind and sympathetic Superintendent.” Mullett hung his head and brushed aside the compliment.
Frost stayed silent, waiting to see what the two scheming bastards had dreamed up for him.
“I would be extremely reluctant to terminate the career of one of my officers,” said Mullett, “even though it would be fully justified. But by shutting my eyes to the offence I could get into serious trouble if the truth came out. However, if you are agreeable, there is a satisfactory way out.”
“Oh?” said Frost warily.
Again Mullett looked pleadingly at Skinner, who, fed up with the man’s shilly-shallying, took over yet again.
“As it happens, Frost, there is an officer in my old division who would very much like to work in Denton. But that, of course, would require a vacancy here.”
“You want Superintendent Mullett to resign?” asked Frost innocently.
“You know bloody well I don’t mean that,” snapped Skinner. “I am suggesting that you are transferred to my old division, while the officer in question transfers to Denton.”
You lousy, stinking, conniving bastards, thought Frost. He took another drag at his cigarette and flicked the ash in the general direction of the heavy glass ashtray. He kept his face impassive. Don’t let the sods have the pleasure of seeing how much this is affecting me. He pinched out the half-smoked cigarette and poked it in his pocket.
There was a pregnant pause.
“So what do you think?” asked Mullett at last.
I think you are a pair of shits, thought Frost. Aloud he said, “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow morning, first thing,” said Skinner. “Otherwise Mullett will have no alternative but to report this matter to County and to the Inland Revenue.”
Mullett nodded his agreement, happy that he hadn’t had to make the threat. “That’s all, Frost,” he said—but to an empty chair. The office door slammed and the glass ashtray did another dance on the desk as Frost took his departure.
“Well,” said Mullett. “We handled that quite well, I thought.”
Skinner scooped up the petrol receipts.
“Bloody well,” he said. “The sod didn’t know what hit him.”
“Skinner’s old division? Lexton?” said Wells, shaking his head sadly. “It’s a tip, and the Superintendent is a real right bastard.”
“Then I’ll feel at home, won’t I?” grunted Frost. “But don’t worry I’m not going to let the sods get away with it.”
Wells looked at Frost anxiously. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, I hope?”
Frost affected surprise. “When do I ever do anything stupid?”
“Every bleeding day,” said Wells.
“Yes . . . well, I meant apart from that. I’ve had a word with Joe Henderson up at County. He says all the old car-expense vouchers are filed away in the basement storeroom. He reckons it shouldn’t be too difficult for someone to sneak down there and bung them in the incinerator.”
Wells’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to burn them?” he croaked. “Supposing you get caught?”
“I won’t get caught,” said Frost stubbornly. “An old storeroom full of ancient expense claims. It isn’t even locked.”
“But when they realise it’s your file that’s missing, they’ll know damn well who took it.”
“Knowing and proving are two different things. Besides, I’ll burn a couple of others as well.”
“But what about the vouchers Skinner showed you this afternoon?”
“They’ll be locked in Mullett’s filing cabinet. Once he’s gone home for the night it won’t take me five minutes to nick them.”
“But Jack—” spluttered Wells. The phone rang. He answered it and handed it to Frost. “Your mate Henderson from County.”
Frost took the phone and listened. His face fell. “The bastard. Thanks for telling me.” He banged the phone down. “Skinner has requisitioned my old expenses file. It’s being sent direct to him at the hotel he’s staying at.”
Wells looked relieved. “Well, at least it’s stopped you from doing something stupid.”
“Yes,” agreed Frost sadly, ramming a cigarette in his mouth. He puffed smoke. “Tell you what though. I could get myself a can of petrol and burn his hotel down.”
“At last you’re being sensible,” said Wells.
Frost sat slumped in his office chair, making paper darts from the contents of his in-tray and hurling them in the general direction of the waste-paper bin. His aim was poor and the floor was littered with crashed aircraft. Someone tapped at the door.
“Come in.”
Harding from Forensic entered, carrying a polythene evidence bag which he dumped on Frost’s desk. It contained the various pieces of severed foot and leg so far recovered.
‘I’ve had my lunch, thanks,” said Frost, giving it hardly a glance. Body
parts were the least of his troubles.
There was a token smile from Harding, who was not a fan of Frost’s tired humour. “I thought you would be interested in our findings.”
“If it’s from a medical student’s dissecting room, I’m interested. Anything else, I’m bored stiff.”
Harding shook his head. “If it had been smuggled out of a medical school we’d have expected evidence of preservatives. We found none.”
“Shit,” said Frost. “Are you saying we’re talking murder?”
“Not necessarily. It could have come from an amputation and a student took it away for a joke.”
“Terrific joke,” moaned Frost. “I’m pissing myself. We don’t know for sure, so we’ve got to assume it’s murder and start looking for the rest of the bits.”
“I can tell you this,” Harding said. “It’s from a female, aged around thirty-five to forty perhaps a bit older, and whoever sawed it off had some degree of medical knowledge. The way it’s gone through the metatarsal suggests a proper bone-saw was probably used.”
“And how long would the owner have been dead,” asked Frost, “assuming she isn’t still walking around with half her foot missing, but hasn’t bothered to report it because she knows the police are bleeding useless?”
“You’d better get the pathologist to answer that. At least a couple of weeks—possibly much more.”
Frost scratched his cheek. “Give it to Skinner. I’m off all murder cases from now on.”
When Harding had left, Frost resumed his half hearted paper-dart-throwing. He was dispirited and miserable—he could see no way of wriggling out of this. Lexton! A shit hole! He’d spent all his working life in Denton, he knew it like the back of his hand. He knew the people—the scumbags, the villains, everyone. He didn’t want to start from scratch in a new division and, worst of all, he hated the thought that Skinner and Mullett had put one over on him. Why had he got so smug and bloody careless with the petrol claims? He hurled a paper dart savagely at the door, narrowly missing Taffy Morgan, who had burst in waving a sheet of A4.
“What’s all this about, Guv?” Taffy thrust the page under Frost’s nose. It was a circular from Mullett that Morgan had prised from the notice-board. It read:
Transfer of Detective Inspector Frost
As many of you may know, Detective Inspector Frost will be transferred to Lexton division from the first of next month. It is expected that his colleagues may wish to be associated with a suitable leaving present and your donations are invited.
The donation list was headed by the entry: Supt. Mullett . . . £25.
“Twenty-five lousy quid?” spluttered Frost. “Is that all the lousy four-eyed git thinks I’m worth?” He snatched up his ballpoint pen and carefully altered the amount to read £125. “Let the bastard try and wriggle out of that.”
Morgan took the sheet and read it again in disbelief.
“But you haven’t applied for a transfer, Guv?”
“I didn’t have to, Taffy. The bastards have kindly applied for me, and they’re jumping the flaming gun.” He pushed himself up from his chair and unhooked his scarf and mac from the coat rack. “I’m going out to get pissed. If anyone wants me, tell them to get stuffed.”
“But Guv—” pleaded Taffy to a slammed door.
Frost had gone.
Frost stared blearily at the ashtray overflowing with squashed cigarette ends, then moved his hand ever so carefully towards the glass in front of him, which seemed to be moving in and out of focus on the table. What was the point in getting pissed? It did no bleeding good and made him feel lousy. His head was throbbing and his mouth tasted foul. Pulling an unlit cigarette from his mouth, he laid it on the beer-wet pub table, then swallowed a shot of whisky in one gulp, shuddering as the raw spirit clawed its way down his throat. The rest of the pub was a blur and a babble of over-loud voices that hammered away at his headache. His nostrils twitched. Through the smell of stale spirits and cigarette smoke came a whiff of cheap perfume.
“All on our own, love?”
He raised his head and squinted at the out-of-focus outline of an orange-haired, over-made-up woman in a cheap fake-leather coat.
“Happy birthday Mr. President,” she cooed, dragging up a chair and sitting next to him. “Buy me a drink, love?”
“Piss off,” muttered Frost. He reached in his pocket and flashed his warrant card.
“Bloody hell!” She shot up from the chair and yelled across to the barman. “Lowering the tone of the place, letting the filth in, aren’t you, Fred?” Hitching the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, she marched to the door. The barman watched her leave, then made his way over to Frost.
“Can’t you give some other pub a turn, Inspector Frost?” he said. “You’re driving all my regulars away.”
“Soon,” slurred Frost. “Very soon, Fred, my old son. Give me another whisky and a beer.” He produced a handful of loose change and squinted at it. “Have I got enough?”
The barman waved the money away. “If you promise to leave after I’ve served you, you can have it on the house.” He looked up and swore softly as two uniformed policemen came in. “What is this? A flaming police convention?”
By concentrating hard, Frost made out the two men to be Jordan and Simms. He beckoned them over. “Drinks on the house, lads.”
“No they bleeding well ain’t,” snapped the barman as he turned to the uniformed officers. “Can’t you get him out of here?”
“We’ve been looking for you everywhere, Inspector,” said Simms, waving away the disgruntled barman.
“How did you find me?” Frost asked. “I’d never have thought anyone would look in this place.”
“You’ve parked your car across two disabled parking spaces,” said Jordan. “Someone phoned the station and complained. We recognised the registration number.”
“Tell you what,” said Frost, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. “You go back to the station and tell them you couldn’t find me. I won’t split on you.”
Jordan shook his head. “We need you, Inspector. A householder’s stabbed a burglar to death.”
“Good for him,” slurred Frost. “I bet he won’t break into any more houses.” He retrieved his wet cigarette from the table and tried unsuccessfully to light it. “Get Chief Inspector Fat-Guts to do it. He’s supposed to be on duty tonight.”
“He’s driven on to County to pick up some files. It’s got to be you.”
“Excrement!” said Frost, chucking the cigarette away. He pushed himself up and stood unsteadily on his feet. “Look at me. I’m in no fit state to take on a murder case.” He plonked heavily down in the seat again.
Simms beckoned the barman over. “Make some coffee. Strong and black.”
“Coffee?” protested Fred. “What do you think this is—the bleeding Ritz?”
“Just make some flaming coffee,” hissed Simms.
Frost lifted a hand in feeble protest. “Forget it, lads. Like I told you, I’m in no fit state to take on a murder inquiry.” Then he shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. “Shit! When am I ever fit enough to take on a murder case? Skip the coffee. I can throw up just as well without it.” He rose to his feet again, put his hands on the table to steady himself, then pulled his car keys from his mac pocket. “I’ll be all right once I’m in the car.”
Simms prised the keys firmly from his hand. “You’re coming with us, Inspector. There’s no way you’re getting behind a steering wheel tonight.”
He sat in the back of the area car, being jolted from side to side as it sped through the darkened streets. He had the window down, letting the slap of cold air try to clear his aching head.
“I hear you’re being transferred to Lexton, Inspector,” said Jordan as they slowed down for traffic lights.
“Good news travels fast,” grunted Frost.
“The lads are up in arms about it. What’s that all about?”
“I can’t tell you,” replied Frost, wishing
the pounding in his head would ease up. “It would involve calling my superior officers fat, stinking, shiny, conniving bastards, and as you know, I don’t make comments like that about our beloved superintendent and his fat-gutted side kick.”
“We’ll miss you, Inspector,” said Simms.
“I haven’t gone yet,” Frost reminded him.
The traffic lights changed and the car sped on its way. Street lights blurred as the car raced through a shopping area, then more darkness as they turned down a side street, slowing to a stop outside a detached house with all lights blazing. Another police car and a Citroën estate were parked outside.
PC Collier opened the front door. “The doctor’s here,” he told them.
“Why? Is someone sick?” grunted Frost, following Collier down the hall into the kitchen, where PC Howe and Dr Mackenzie, the duty police surgeon, were looking down at the sprawled body of a man wearing dark ski goggles lying face-down on the floor. An open window above the sink made the curtains flap. The carpet around the body was wet with blood. At its side was a long-bladed knife, also stained with blood.
Mackenzie looked up as Frost came in. “Dead,” he announced. He sniffed. “You smell lovely, Jack. You didn’t bring a bottle with you, by any chance?”
Frost grinned and bent down to lift the head of the corpse and pull back the goggles so he could see the face with its expression of open-eyed surprise. Frowning, he straightened up. “I know this sod.”
“You should do, Inspector,” said Howe. “Ronnie Knox, burglary, robbery, GBH. Came out of the nick after doing a three-year stretch last March. You sent him down.”
“Rumour had it he’d got a job and was going straight,” said Frost.
“You shouldn’t believe rumours, Inspector,” said Simms.
Frost leant his head against the cool wall and half closed his eyes. The bloody headache kept pounding away relentlessly, like a bass beat at a disco “All right. So what happened?”
Mackenzie held up a hand. “I’m not interested in what happened, Jack. I’ll read all about it in the papers. I’m tired and I’ve got patients to kill tomorrow.” He took a chit from his bag. “Just sign so I can claim my fee, then I’ll be off.”
A Killing Frost Page 18
