R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

Cooper answered their ring. A thin-faced, shifty-eyed man in his late thirties, he had a little toothbrush moustache with dark, greasy hair brushed straight back. His face fell when he saw who his visitors were. "Mr. Frost!"

"Just passing," said Frost. "Knew you'd never forgive us if we didn't drop in and say hello." He pushed past Cooper and went straight into the lounge. There it was, in the corner, gleaming and dominating the room, a large screen Panasonic television set. Frost plonked himself down on the settee and pulled out his cigarettes.

Cooper hurried in after them looking very agitated. "What do you want, Mr. Frost?"

Frost tutted reproachfully. "Since when do friends have to have a reason for calling on each other?"

"I ain't done nothing," said Cooper.

Frost cupped a hand to his ear as if he had difficulty in hearing what Cooper was saying. "You give us permission to search your house, did you say? That's damn decent of you, Duggie. It saves all that sodding about getting a warrant." He nodded to Burton, who scuttled up the stairs before Cooper could stop him.

A woman bounded into the room. Duggie's wife Jean hadn't started out as a redhead and the various colour changes she had gone through before reaching her present shade had left their mark on the final result. "There's a bloke going up our stairs," she shouted, stopping abruptly in mid-protest when she saw Frost. She screwed up her face in annoyance. "Oh no just what we bloody need!" Hand on hips, she glowered at her husband, then spun back to Frost. "Don't try and tell me he's done something, because he never does damn all. He sits on his arse in the house all day and never does a bloody stroke." The thudding of Burton's feet across the ceiling made her look up. "What's he looking for? There's nothing in the house that shouldn't be here.. " And then she saw the expression on Duggie's face. "At least, there bloody well had better not be!"

"Nice telly," said Frost, nodding at the set in the corner. "Must have cost a bomb."

"It's all legitimate," she snapped. "We've got the receipt." She darted across to the sideboard and pulled open a drawer. "It's in here …"

Duggie sprang across and pushed the drawer shut. "No, it isn't," he said.

She frowned. "What are you talking about? I saw it there this morning."

"No, you didn't," he hissed. "I lost it… weeks ago."

"But I saw…" And then the penny dropped. With an icy glare at her husband which said, I'll sort this out with you later, she turned to Frost, smiling sweetly. "Duggie's right. We lost it."

"Then it's lucky I called in," said Frost. "Because I've got a copy of the receipt here." Humming to himself, he unfolded the photostat and pretended to check the details. "Panasonic… Model No. TXT2228… serial number… call out the serial number, would you, Duggie it's on the back."

He waited as Duggie moved the heavy set with difficulty and read it out. "TXT2822311Y."

"Check," beamed Frost, folding the receipt and returning it to his inside jacket pocket. He stood up. "Sorry I troubled you, Lemmy…" He frowned. "Why did I call you Lemmy? Your name isn't Lemmy… I must be going bloody mad." He took the receipt from his pocket again as if to check the name.

"All right, all right," said Duggie. "It was bought with Lemmy Hoxton's credit card. He owes me, so he let me use it." He fumbled for a cigarette and lit up with a none too steady hand.

"Ah," said Frost, sitting down again. "I knew there was a rational explanation. When did he give you his card?"

"The same day Iixnight the telly."

"You bought the telly and gave the card back to him?"

"Of course."

"What deodorant does Lemmy use?" asked Frost.

"Eh?" frowned Duggie. "What's that got to do with it?"

"It must be bloody strong stuff, because the day he lent you the card Lemmy would have been stinking the place out he'd been dead for two months."

"Dead?" Duggie's mouth gaped open, the lighted cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

Frost nodded cheerfully. "Dead the way Domestos kills ninety-nine per cent of known germs. You killed him and took his credit card."

"Killed him?" echoed Duggie, his face now a chalky white.

"Him? Kill Lemmy?" screeched his wife. "Don't make me laugh. He wouldn't kill a bloody fly."

"A bloody fly hasn't got a credit card, has it?" asked Frost. He looked up as Burton returned carrying a drawer from a dressing-table.

"Found this upstairs," said Burton. It was crammed with cheap jewellery, silver-plated photo frames, trinket boxes, tawdry stuff, most of which Frost recognized from the list of articles stolen by the phoney Water Board inspector.

"Dear, dear," said Frost. "I might have overlooked you murdering Lemmy, but stealing from old ladies… Douglas Cooper, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder and robbery. Anything you say, etc. You know the rest off by heart."

"I never damn well killed him," cried Duggie.

"On being charged, the prisoner said, "It's a fair cop, guvnor, you've got me to rights," chanted Frost. "Come on, Duggie. We're off to the nick."

Duggie's wife was boiling with rage. "That bloody telly. You had to be clever and buy it. There was nothing wrong with the old one."

"You said you wanted a big one," answered Duggie, meekly.

"She didn't mean the telly," said Frost, hustling him out. "Come on I'm running late."

There was a sour, stale smell in the interview room. Someone had been sick in it recently and the lingering aroma was proving its superiority over the cheap pine disinfectant used to swab it out.

Burton fed a cassette into the recorder and announced who was present while Frost lowered himself carefully into the chair opposite Duggie.

"Right, Duggie," said Frost. "Time to make a clean breast of all your naughtiness. We found a quantity of items believed to be stolen in your house today. Would you like to tell us about them?"

"No comment," said Duggie.

"We also found a television set known to have been purchased with Lemmy Hoxton's credit card some two months after his death. Would you like to tell us about that?"

"No comment," said Duggie.

"Are you going to say "No comment" to everything I ask you?"

"No comment," repeated Duggie, stubbornly.

"Switch the bleeding tape off," said Frost. "Interview terminated at whatever time it is." He rammed a cigarette in his mouth. "You're a prat, Duggie. We don't need your statement. I've got enough evidence to convict you without it. I don't think you killed Lemmy you haven't got the bottle but I need an arrest and you are tailor made. As long as I get a conviction, I score the Brownie points and the fact that you didn't do it is neither here nor there." He jerked a thumb at Burton. "Take him back to his cell."

He wandered back to his office where Liz Maud was working diligently through a pile of returns, too busy to look up. He sat at his desk, trying to work out where he was with the cases they were handling. The dead Dean Anderson was connected with the Bobby Kirby kidnapping and, hopefully, this would be resolved tonight when they nabbed the kidnapper picking up the ransom. A message on his desk from Newcastle police stated there was no sign of Snell back at his flat, but they were keeping a close watch. So that case was in abeyance until they found him. Another sheet of paper on his desk detailed the findings of the lab who had analysed the contents of Lemmy Hoxton's stomach and were able to report that Lemmy had died within two hours of consuming a meal consisting of salmon fish cakes, chips and peas, washed down with a carbonated Coke drink.

He interrupted Liz and told her to check with Lemmy's wife and see if she had served up such a meal to Lemmy, remarking, "The fizzy drink sounds more like a meal she'd serve to her toy boy." He thought about it and liked the sound of it. "You know, that could be it. She had the meal all ready for her toy boy when Lemmy arrived home unexpectedly, so she has to pretend it was for him. After dinner, he spots the kid hiding behind the curtains, his dick dragging on the floor. There's a fight and they split his skull open."