R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“They’re getting me a dinner, Mr. Frost,” explained Wally. “I’ll go when I’ve had it. Thanks for the fags.”

“All part of the service,” said Frost, banging on the cell door to be let out. “Tell your friends.”

Webster was waiting for him in the office. A search of the convenience and the surrounding area revealed no trace of anything like a plastic bag, full of Ben Cornish’s odds and ends, or empty. The scene-of-the-crime officer had crawled over the premises and had probably found the fingerprints of everybody who had used the toilets since Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, but none likely to be of any help.

Frost filled Webster in on Wally Peters and the claim that Ben Cornish intended to buy drugs from two new pushers. “Get on to Drug Squad, son. I want to know about two new suppliers who are supposed to have come into the district recently. And ask them to check up on all known users with a history of violence where they were between nine and eleven last night when Cornish was being killed.”

As he waited for Webster to finish the phone call, his internal phone buzzed. Control to report that the allegedly stolen Jaguar owned by Roger Miller had been found. Charlie Alpha had located it in a clearing to the east of Denton Woods. There was no doubt it had been involved in an accident. The near-side headlamp was missing, as was the front licence plate, and there were traces of blood all over the wing. Control had arranged for the vehicle to be towed in for a detailed examination. Frost thanked Control, then scribbled a note to remind himself to check whether or not the plastic screws from the Jaguar’s licence plate had been recovered.

That done, he had a quick look into the Crime Statistics file in the vain hope that someone might have crept in during the night and finished it off for him. No such luck, so he dropped it back in the filing cabinet.

Webster finished his call to the drug squad. They were aware that two new pushers were operating in the district but had no details on them yet. They would also check on addicts with a history of violence but pointed out that all addicts could be driven to extreme violence when they were desperate.

Frost received the news gloomily. “Trust them to complicate matters.” He pushed himself up from the desk. “I think we’ll sneak out and have some lunch now, son.”

Before they could move, Johnny Johnson looked around the door. “You do know Roger Miller and his solicitor are waiting for you in the interview room, don’t you, Jack?”

“Of course I know,” said Frost. “We were just on our way to them, weren’t we, son?”

It should have been possible to get from Frost’s office to the interview room without a diversion, but Frost thought of one. They were turning the corner from the passage when he stopped, looked cautiously around to make sure they weren’t being observed, then told Webster his suspicions about Dave Shelby. “I’d like to know what he was doing, poking around those toilets, son. He said he saw the broken gate from his motor, but that’s impossible. I spotted him stuffing something into his locker last night.”

Webster was unimpressed. “It could have been anything.”

“Yes,” nodded Frost, ‘but wouldn’t it be interesting if it was Ben Cornish’s plastic bag crammed full of heroin?” He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large bunch of assorted keys. “We could take a little look just to satisfy our curiosity.”

Webster was horrified. “You’re going to search an officer’s locker behind his back without his permission? The Police Federation will go berserk.”

“I’m hoping they won’t find out,” said Frost, sorting through the bunch for a suitable key.

Webster took a step back as if distancing himself from the insane act Frost was proposing. “This is a murder inquiry. Even if you found any evidence, the court would tear you to pieces.”

Frost brushed these objections aside. “If there’s nothing there, then no harm’s done. But if I do find something, I leave it where it is, I don’t tell a soul what I’ve done, and I apply for a search warrant.” He moved toward the locker room, the bunch of keys jangling in his hand.

Webster didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, but I want no part of this.”

“Oh,” said Frost, crestfallen. “I was hoping you’d be my lookout man.”

“No way,” said Webster firmly.

Frost’s shoulders sagged. “Fair enough, son. Can’t say that I blame you. You don’t want to get into any more trouble. Stay here, I shouldn’t be long.” And he was off down the passage.

You’ll be caught, you bloody fool, thought Webster. You’ll be caught, and you’ll be kicked out of the force, and it will serve you bloody right. “Wait for me,” he called, hurrying after him.

Frost paused by the locker-room door, a relieved grin on his face. “Thanks, son. All you have to do is stand outside. If anyone comes, just whistle.” A quick look up and down the passage, and he opened the door and slipped inside.

It was a room full of dove-grey metal lockers, standing shoulder to shoulder in rows. The locker with Shelby’s name on it was about halfway down the left-hand wall. Ever the optimist, Frost tried the handle, but it was securely locked. He offered his selected key. It was too big even to fit into the lock. He tried another. This one slipped in easily enough, but it wouldn’t turn. It was taking far longer than he’d thought. He sorted through the key ring and tried another.

Outside, leaning against the wall, his heart steam-hammering, Webster felt like the lookout man for a smash-and-grab job. He tried to look inconspicuous, but there was no reason for him to be there. The swing doors at the head of the corridor parted suddenly, and two uniformed men marched purposefully through, heading directly for the locker room. He puckered his lips and tried to whistle the warning, but his mouth was too dry. And the men were getting nearer. He fumbled at the door handle and jabbed his head inside the locker room. Frost was kneeling on the floor in front of Shelby’s locker, working at one of his keys with a nail file, then testing it in the keyhole. He was unaware the door had opened.

“Inspector!” hissed Webster urgently.

Frost jumped up, and cracked his head painfully on the protruding locker handle; the sound of the impact boomed like a drum, echoing on and on around the room.

Webster spun around. The two uniformed men walked straight past the door and out the back entrance to the car park.

“I don’t think we’re cut out for a life of crime,” said Frost, rubbing his head ruefully as Webster returned to his lookout post. He pushed the filed key into the lock. It clicked home. Carefully, he rotated it. Two more clicks. He turned the handle and pulled: the locker door swung open.

Shelby’s overcoat swung from a hanger. His street shoes were on the locker floor. Next to the shoes, in a leather case, was an expensive Polaroid instant camera with auto-focus, flash, and delayed action. Frost patted the overcoat pockets. Something bulged. He dived his hand in and pulled out Shelby’s driving gloves. Beginning to think it was all a waste of time, he poked his hand around the back of the overcoat to feel for the metal shelf at the rear of the cabinet. His fingers scrabbled blindly, exploring by touch. Nothing

… nothing… something! A packet of some kind. Of heroin? He pulled it out so he could examine it.

A plastic wallet secured with an elastic band. He looked inside. Photographs. A wad of coloured photographs taken with the Polaroid and making full use of the flash and the delayed action. Shelby and various women. In various bedrooms. In various positions of the sexual act. Shelby liked to keep permanent records of his conquests.