R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“Is your mummy there?” Frost asked, again mentally cursing Mullett for being a cowardly bastard. This was going to be harder than he thought.

A young woman opened a door at the end of the hall. When she saw Detective Inspector Frost standing there, and not her husband, the colour seeped from her face and she briefly held the doorframe very tightly to steady herself. “Go in the other room and play for a bit, Tommy,” she told the child, doing her best to keep her voice sounding normal. As the boy pushed past her, she walked slowly to the front door.

“Hello, love,” said Frost, realizing he had forgotten to check at the station to find out what her first name was. “Do you think I could come in? I’ve got something to tell you.”

She took him to the kitchen, looking in at the lounge on the way through to make sure the children were all right. A small, warm, friendly kitchen. Frost could smell something cooking the appetising aroma of a casserole, a meal that could be kept in the oven on a low heat for ages without spoiling. Ideal if your husband was inclined to come home late. On the small kitchen table, which was laid with a white tablecloth, were two place settings. She invited Frost to sit, then went over to the hob to stir something in a saucepan, her back to him. He remained standing.

Very busily engaged in stirring what didn’t need stirring, she asked, “Is he hurt?”

“He’s dead, love,” said Frost bluntly. Her back stiffened. She carried on stirring, the spoon clack, clack, clacking against the side of the saucepan.

“I knew something was wrong when I phoned the station. They kept saying he was working late, but I knew.”

“I wish you’d cry,” said Frost. “I wish you’d bloody cry.”

And then her face crumpled and her body was racked with sobbing.

Frost held out his arms and gripped her tightly. “That’s right, love, just cry.” He could feel her scalding tears running down his face, trickling on to his neck. He held her, saying nothing, sharing her grief. Then she was still. “How did it happen?” she whispered.

“He was shot, love. He was trying to stop a cowboy with a gun.”

She moved away from him and rubbed her face dry with her apron, then she turned off the oven and the hob and slumped down heavily in one of the chairs at the table. Frost pulled out the other chair and sat next to her, his face wet and stinging from her tears.

“Are you all right?” she asked him.

“Me?” said Frost in surprise. “I’m fine, love.” But his hands were shaking.

“He was a marvelous husband,” she said, ‘really marvelous. He idolized me and the kids. We were all he lived for. He would never look at another woman, although they kept looking at him. They all fancied him, he was so good-looking, you see; but he was mine. We loved each other.”

“I know,” said Frost. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said.

The voice at the other end said “Denton Echo, here. Could I speak to Mrs. Shelby, please?”

“Piss off,” said Frost, hanging up. It rang again. He disconnected it from the wall. She was bound to be plagued by the media, all eager to know what it felt like to be the widow of a policeman who had had his face blown off. He made a note to get her calls intercepted and to ask the station to place a man on guard outside the house. That was the least Mullett could do for her.

“People will have to be told,” she was saying. “His parents. It will break their hearts.”

Frost nodded. She was trying to sound calm, but he could see she was on the edge of hysteria. Where the hell was Webster with that woman neighbour?

An excited shout, followed by a fit of giggles, came from the other room. “Will the kids be all right?” he asked

She nodded. “I’ll put them to bed in a minute.”

The door buzzer sounded. At bloody last, he thought. “My colleague with your neighbour,” he told her. “We thought you might need company.” As she started to protest, he added, “You can always send her away if you don’t want her.”

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I’m glad it was you.”

He gave her a hug, then made his way to the front door. Coats and hats were hanging from hooks in a recess under the stairs, and on the end hook was Dave Shelby’s police greatcoat. Looking back to ensure the kitchen door was shut, he quickly went through the pockets, heaving a sigh of relief as his fingers closed around the packet of photographs. He slipped it in his mac pocket, then opened the front door to Webster and a fat, motherly-looking woman from next door. “She’s in the kitchen,” he whispered, letting the woman squeeze past.

“How did she take it?” Webster asked when they were back in the car.

“Bloody badly,” said Frost. “It seems Shelby was the world’s greatest husband never even looked at another woman in his life.” He didn’t tell Webster about the photographs.

Webster turned the key in the ignition. “Back to the station?”

Frost shook his head. “I don’t think I could stand it, son. All the bloody gloom. We’ve had all of Inspector Allen’s cases dumped on us, so let’s nip over to the hospital and chat up that poor tart who didn’t get raped last night.”

By now Webster needed no directions to find his way to the hospital. Indeed, so automatic was his driving that he suddenly realized his head was dropping and had to jerk it up to stop himself from falling asleep. He wound down the window and let the slap of cold air keep him awake.

Inside the hospital it was the same round of long, lonely corridors, the same smell of antiseptic and stale cooking. They passed a young nurse, a stray wisp of hair over her forehead, scurrying off on some errand. She was the same nurse Dave Shelby had been chatting up the night before. She had now lost forever her chance of appearing in his photographic collection.

Paula Grey was in Sinclair Ward. Frost didn’t need to ask the way. His wife had been in Sinclair Ward. His wife! He felt guilty that he couldn’t honestly mourn her death. Everyone should have somebody who would grieve at their passing. Even poor Ben Cornish.

The night sister was expecting them and pointed to a bed by a window. Paula Grey was sitting up, propped by two stiffly starched hospital pillows which crackled as she moved. The flesh around her eyes was purple and puffy. Below the eyes, her face was encased in a mask of bandages with a slit for her mouth. A cigarette poked through the slit and she puffed away at it greedily. Her bedside cabinet was loaded with a bowl of fruit and a vase of bronze-coloured chrysanthemums which propped up a card reading Get well soon, Paula — from the girls at The Coconut Grove. The blackened eyes narrowed suspiciously as the two men approached.

“Present from Mr. Baskin?” asked Frost, nodding at the fruit as he drew up a chair to the side of the bed.

The cigarette waggled furiously. “Baskin? That lousy git? He wouldn’t make you a present of the time of day. So who the hell are you?”

“Frost, Detective Inspector Frost. Old Father Time at my side is Detective Constable Webster. You’re not going to be able to eat that fruit with a broken jaw are you, Paula?”

She waved a hand toward the dish. “Help yourself.”

Webster didn’t want anything. Frost took a banana and began peeling it. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about last night.”

“I’ve already told everything to Old Misery Guts.”

“Old Misery Guts is off the case. It’s mine now,” explained Frost.

“Tell me what happened.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I walked through the woods, I got jumped on. But I’ll tell you this. The bastard had better not try it again. I’ll be ready for him.” She reached for her locker and took out a flick knife. “I’ll rip the bastard to pieces! I’ll emasculate him!” She said it with such vehemence that Frost was quite prepared to believe her.