Night Frost (42 page)

   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 watch dogs, 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. Some where 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-trick ling 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.

   Mullett glared at him grim-faced. Two could lie if they wanted to. "He’s no friend of mine, Frost. I never trusted him from the start."

Friday morning shift

Liz slammed the eggs and bacon on the table and stamped off back to the kitchen without a word. "Thanks," grunted Gilmore, eyeing with wary disfavour the flabby bacon floating in grease and the under-cooked eggs. He liked the bacon crisp and the eggs well done, but he held his tongue. She was spoiling for a fight and was just waiting for him to complain.

   His knife sawed away at a tough chunk of meat which squeaked across the plate and defied all efforts to cut it. Liz returned with his tea. "Anything wrong with the food?" she snapped.

   "No, no—it’s fine," he lied. "I’m not very hungry." He risked a sip of the tea. Near-cold and milky when he liked it hot and strong. He replaced the cup on the saucer and made one more effort to restore peaceful relations. "Look, Liz, I’m sorry."

   This was her chance. "Sorry! I’m left on my own all night. You come in hours late, too tired to talk or do any bloody thing, then you tell me you’ve got to be out again. I never bloody see you."

   "It won’t be for long, love, then things will be different." He reached for her, but she shook him off.

   "It’s always
going
to be different, but it never bloody well is. I’m sick of your job, I’m sick of this dead and alive town, I’m sick of everything." The door slammed in an angry explosion behind her.

   Gilmore sighed and took his plate to the kitchen where he emptied it into the pedal bin. He hated to admit it to him self, but he was getting sick of Liz.

Frost wasn’t feeling very happy either. That damn inventory form had reappeared. Mullett must have quarried deep into the filing tray in Allen’s office where Frost had buried it and had transferred it to the top of his in-tray with a large, block capitalled inscription in red felt-tip yelling WHY HASN’T THIS GONE OFF? Because I haven’t bleeding sent it off, thought Frost, reading on. MUST GO OFF TODAY WITHOUT FAIL. SCM—the OR ELSE was implied.

   Gilmore came in carrying a thick bacon sandwich and a mug of tea from the canteen. Frost brightened up until he realized Gilmore intended it for himself. "Doesn’t that wife of yours feed you?" he growled and was quite unprepared for Gilmore’s slashing expression of vehemence.

   Burton broke the tension by coming in to report.

   'What’s the position with Gauld?"

   "He left home at 8.56," Burton told him, "and drove straight to Denton Hospital. He’s been ferrying out-patients backwards and forwards. We’re keeping him under surveillance."

   "Good," nodded Frost. "What have you found out about him?"