R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

The solicitor confidently turned a questioning face to his client, then realized to his dismay that the youth was floundering, trying to think of an answer. Roger shook his head helplessly. Quickly, the solicitor said, “If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’d like a word with my client in private. I may have misunderstood his instructions.”

Frost and Webster trooped outside and waited. After five minutes they were called back in again.

“A lapse of memory,” explained Moore, removing the cap from his fountain pen, ready to amend the statement. “My client intended using the Jaguar car the following day, so he transferred his briefcase from the Porsche.”

“Let me get this straight,” Frost said, his finger drawing circles around his scar. “Your client drove the Porsche from his office, parked it in the basement car park at the flats, took out the briefcase and walked with it round the corner to Norman Grove, where he put the briefcase in the Jag, and then walked back to the flat?”

“Yes,” said Moore weakly. It didn’t sound at all plausible to him now the inspector queried it.

“Very logical, sir. So if you’d like to alter the statement to that effect we can all get on to more important matters.” Moore’s pen began drafting a suitable amendment. The words wouldn’t flow, and he had to keep crossing out and altering the text. “Oh, just one other thing,” Frost added. “As I said, we’ve recovered the Jag but the briefcase wasn’t in it.”

Miller gave a superior sneer. “I imagine the thief took it.”

Frost seemed to receive this suggestion with open arms. “Of course, sir, I hadn’t thought of that. Briefcases full of office papers must be a very valuable commodity.” He paused, then said with studied casualness, “Just one other thing…”

Moore’s pen stopped in mid stroke and he tried not to show his anxiety. What bombshell was going to be dropped now? He wasn’t used to criminal work and was no longer positive that his client was telling the whole truth. He waited apprehensively, his eyes moving from the inspector to his client.

“You say in your statement, Air Miller, that you reported the theft to the police, then went straight to bed in your flat.”

“That’s right,” answered Miller.

“You may not be aware of it, sir, but in the early hours of this morning we had an anonymous phone call reporting that a man had been seen trying to break into the balcony window of a fourth-floor flat at Halley House. We investigated. On getting no reply from your flat and fearing for your safety, we used the caretaker’s passkey to enter. Happily, there was no sign of an intruder. But the puzzle is, there was no sign of you, either, sir and your bed had not been slept in.”

Miller sprang to his feet, sending his chair skidding across the floor. His face was brick red with anger. “You impudent swine! Are you telling me you had the temerity to sneak into my flat to check up on me behind my back?”

His solicitor stood up, hissing at Roger to calm down. Miller, fists clenched, chest heaving, fought to gain control of himself. At last he nodded to his solicitor, then sat down. But if looks could kill, Frost would be stone-cold dead.

Moore capped his fountain pen and scooped up the statement, which he replaced firmly in his briefcase. “My client and I wish to reconsider our position, Inspector. At this stage we have nothing further to say.”

But Frost hadn’t quite finished. He addressed the youth. “Sorry to be a nuisance, but there is one more thing. I think it’s only fair to mention it so you can clear up all the lies in one hit. We have a witness who saw you driving the Jaguar away from Norman Grove yesterday evening.” Frost caught Webster’s puzzled look and beamed at him. It wasn’t true about the witness, but why should Miller be the only one allowed to lie?

With an unsteady hand, and feeling quite battered by the past few minutes’ experience, the solicitor zipped up his briefcase and led his client to the door. “We hope to be back to you within the hour,” he announced.

“I don’t think we can allow your client to leave,” said Frost. “This is a very serious charge.”

“Then I demand some time alone with my client.”

“Fair enough.” Frost gathered up his cigarettes and his matches. He was reaching for the door handle when Miller’s resolve broke.

“Wait, Inspector.”

Frost dropped his hand and slowly turned around.

Miller, the arrogance completely drained out of him, fumbled in his pocket for a slim, gold-and-black-enamelled cigarette case. He removed a cigarette which he kept tapping on the case. “I think I’d better tell you the truth.”

Moore pushed in front of him. “Not until you’ve discussed it with me.” He moved to Frost. “We have nothing to, say until we have reconsidered our position.”

“I didn’t park the Jag in Norman Grove,” continued Roger doggedly. “I wasn’t at my flat at all last night.”

Moore was shaking with rage. He grabbed his client’s shoulder and spun him around. “If you wish me to continue representing you, Mr. Miller,” he spluttered, ‘you will remain silent until we have talked together.”

“If you want to continue being my father’s solicitor, men shut up, you fat slob,” snapped Miller. “And take your greasy hands off of me.” The solicitor collapsed heavily on to a chair and dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Making sure that Webster had his notebook open and his pen poised, Frost asked, “So where were you last night, sir?”

“I was with a girl… I couldn’t mention her before — she is someone my father would strongly disapprove of.”

“In that case I’m beginning to like her already,” said the inspector.

“How long were you with her?”

“From seven yesterday evening until a little after eight this morning. The car was stolen from outside her flat. Damn it, Inspector, I couldn’t let my old man know where I was, so I pretended it had been taken from Norman Grove. Obviously, I had no idea it had been used in a hit-and-run when I phoned the police, otherwise I would never have tried it on.”

Frost said nothing. Webster’s pen sprinted across the page. Moore took off his glasses and held them to the light so he could better examine the dirt on the lenses. Then he put them back on his nose. “You were with her all night, from seven until eight this morning? You didn’t go out?”

Roger nodded.

“Would the girl corroborate all this?”

“Of course.”

The solicitor’s deep sigh of relief was followed by a smile of triumph. “In that case, Inspector, there is no way my client could have been involved in the death of that unfortunate man. He has an alibi.”

Frost’s deep sigh was one of regret. He was hoping for a confession, not more flaming checking up to do. “Would you mind giving us the lady’s name and address, sir?” he asked the young man sweetly. “Just in case we wanted to check your story.”

Her name was Julie King. She lived in an older-type house that had been divided up into six single-bedroom flats. It was situated in Forest View, a quiet backwater overlooking Denton Woods. The unlocked front door allowed access to a small hall containing a letter rack, a pay telephone, and a fire extinguisher. Julie King’s flat was on the first floor.

A flight of stairs took them up to a landing where two doors stood side by side. On the first, a card attached by a drawing pin read “J. King’. The door to the other flat still had a morning newspaper poking through the letter box and a pint bottle of semi skimmed milk lurking on the step.

“Flats of a couple of prostitutes,” observed Frost, making one of his ill-considered judgements. “One works days, the other nights. Let’s call on the day shift.” He thumbed the bell to Julie King’s flat.