Night Frost (41 page)

   They walked on to the path where the first of the new graves encroached. Frost struck his match on a convenient headstone. The match flared. He saw the wording, but at first didn’t take it in. Then he stared, open-mouthed, until the match burnt his fingers. "Where the bloody hell did this come from?"

   He struck another match so Gilmore could read the inscription.

In Loving Memory Of Rosemary Fleur Bell

April 3 1962 - September 10 1990

Adored Wife Of Edward Bell MA.

R.I.P.

   "The schoolmaster’s wife! Her grave right on the bloody doorstep of the crypt and we haven’t spotted it. We must be bleeding blind as well as stupid!"

   "It’s probably only just been put up," said Gilmore, wondering what all the fuss was about. "You have to wait ages for the grave to settle before you can erect a headstone."

   "That wispy-bearded bastard. I knew it was him all the time." He turned and stared at the crypt.

   "I don’t follow you," said Gilmore.

   "You could spit on the flaming crypt from here," said Frost. "At the funeral Bell would have had a grandstand view of that fat-gutted plumber forcing open the door to get inside out of the rain. Later he needed somewhere to hide the kid’s body. A crypt. Who’d look for a body in a Victorian crypt?"

   "You’re saying he killed her the very day of his wife’s funeral?"

   "Yes," said Frost.

   "But he was in the house all the time she was doing her paper round."

   "I don’t know how he did it, I just know he did it."

   Gilmore swivelled his head towards the vault door with its solid brass lock hanging impotently. "Even if you are right, how are you going to prove it?"

   "Proof!" barked Frost. He took a long drag at his last cigarette and dashed it to the ground half-smoked. "Everyone’s obsessed with bloody proof." Then his shoulders slumped. Gilmore was right. Without proof, the bastard was going to get away with it.

Thursday night shift (2)

The minute hand on the lobby clock was quivering as gathered its strength to claw up to two o’clock. The damn phones had been ringing non-stop and Wells was finding it hard to keep his voice sounding polite "I’m sorry, madam," he told a caller who had phoned previously to complain that her neighbours were having a noisy row and were keeping her awake. "We’re short-staffed and we had to divert the car to a more important incident. We’ll get someone there just as soon as we can." Hardly had he replaced the phone and logged the call when there was an angry commotion outside, then a scowling, red-faced bull-frog of a man in an expensive black overcoat and a white silk scarf exploded into the lobby, closely followed by an anxious-looking PC Collier.

   "Who’s in charge?" the man bellowed, dumping a bulky brief-case on the floor. He reeked of whisky.

   Wells put his pen down and sighed. He could do without this. "I am, sir."

   The man looked disdainfully at Wells’ sergeant’s stripes and screwed his face into a sneer. "I want someone in authority, not you. Not a bloody sergeant."

   "What’s this all about?" asked Collier.

   The man barged between the two officers. "Don’t you damn well ignore me.
I’m
talking to you, Sergeant. You ask me, not him. Now get me someone in authority." He fumbled in his pocket for a cigar. 

   "Would an inspector satisfy you, sir?" asked Wells, struggling to hold his temper in check.

   "If that’s all you’ve got, then he’ll have to do," snapped the man, clicking a gold Dunhill lighter and drawing on the cigar. Wells felt like pointing to the 'No Smoking' sign but wasn’t in the mood for any more aggravation and the odds were that Frost would come slommocking out with a cigarette in his mouth. He used the internal phone and whilst the man glowered and puffed cigar smoke and whisky fumes all over him, asked Inspector Frost to come into the lobby.

   "I’m Detective Inspector Frost. What’s up?"

   Frost, in his crumpled suit, greasy knotted tie and unpolished shoes, didn’t look at all impressive and he certainly didn’t impress the complainant who pulled the cigar from his mouth and stared contemptuously. "Isn’t there anyone else in charge?"

   "No," said Frost. "So if you’ve anything to say, spit it out, I’m busy."

   "Not too busy to attend to me," snarled the man. "I’m making a complaint against that police officer." His finger jabbed at Collier. "He drove his car into me while I was stationary, then accused me of drunken driving."

   Frost wrinkled his nose and turned his head away from the whisky fumes. To Collier he said, "Has he been breathalyzed?"

   "No, Inspector. He refused."

   "Right, said Frost to Wells. "Get a police surgeon . . . one with warm hands. We’ll have a urine sample." Back to Collier. "So what happened, Constable?"

   "I’ve just told you what happened," shouted the man, his face getting redder.

   Frost pushed him away. "Shut up. You’re giving me a bleedin’ headache." Back to Collier.

   "I was on patrol in the Bath Road when I saw this Bentley crawling along, swinging from one side of the road to the other. I signalled for the driver to stop. He pulled into the kerb. I drew up behind him. As I was getting out, he started up the engine. I think he was trying to get away, but he put it into reverse by mistake and rammed into me. He was obviously drunk—speech slurred, eyes glazed. He flatly refused to use the breathalyzer, and knocked it out of my hand, so I brought him in."

   "Well done," nodded Frost. "Book him." As he turned to go, the man grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him round.

   "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, pushing his sweating face close to the inspector’s.

   "I know what you are," replied Frost, shaking himself free. "You’re a drunken, boring prick. Take your sweaty paw off my suit."

   No-one heard the lobby door swing open. "What’s going on here?"

   Frost groaned. Bloody Mullett had to choose this particular moment to do his rallying call act on the troops. A little touch of Mullett in the night. "I’m handling it, sir," he said firmly.

   Mullett hesitated. He preferred not to get involved in any thing unless he knew what it was about. Then his face lit up with recognition. "Good lord! It’s Councillor Knowles. What are you doing here?"

   "I’m making an official complaint against this police officer," said Knowles, "and I’m being treated abominably. That man . . ." and his lip curled at Frost, "has been incredibly rude. He has threatened me, sworn at me and made me the subject of a false charge."

   Mullett looked suitably shocked. His lips tightened. "You’d better come to my office, councillor. I’m sure we can sort this out." He glowered at Frost as he spun on his heel. "Two coffees to my office at once, please, Sergeant."

   Frost jerked forked fingers to the door as it closed behind his Divisional Commander. "Pompous git!" he bellowed impotently to the ceiling.

   "Did you hear that? Two coffees!" croaked Wells. "What does he think this is—an all-night flaming café?"

   Young PC Collier was white-faced. "What will happen, Sarge? It was a proper arrest. The man was drunk and he ran into me."

   "Go and make their coffee," said Wells, "and do one for me."

   The internal phone buzzed. Inspector Frost to report to the Divisional Commander . . . at once! "When I’m ready," said Frost, after he had hung up. Slowly he finished his cigarette, then ambled off to obey the summons. Mullett was waiting for him in the passage outside. He took Frost by the arm and drew him away, beaming a smile of smug satisfaction. Hello, thought Frost. What’s the slimy sod been up to?

   '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 silences Frost’s explosion of outrage. "Politics, Inspector. It pays to have a man of his influence on our side, instead of 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?" ask 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 ex cess 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."