R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“The cafeteria in Woolworth’s in the High Street.”

“What about it?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes. Corner table. Meet me.”

“No!” said Frost firmly.

“Please,” said Sadie as she hung up.

“No,” said Frost even more firmly to the dial tone. He hung up, then spun around guiltily as Webster pushed in with the teas. “Shut the door, son.”

Webster backed against the door to close it. He put one cup of tea on the inspector’s desk.

“Ta,” said Frost, stirring it with a pencil, still not certain what to do about the phone call. “I’ve just had Stanley Eustace’s wife on the phone. She wants me to meet her in five minutes.”

Webster raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Mr. Allen?”

Frost shook his head. “She doesn’t want me to tell anyone. Says it’s to be off the record. What do you think?”

Webster drained his cup and parked it on the window’s ledge. “I think you’d be mad to go.”

“That’s what I think, too,” said Frost gloomily. “Stark, staring, bleeding mad.” He stood up and shuffled on his mac. “If anyone wants me, you don’t know where I am.”

With the lunch-time rush the cafeteria was a cacophony of crockery, cutlery, and raised voices. Sadie was hunched up in the corner, staring at the brown plastic table top, which was puddled with spilt tea. Frost bought two coffees from the quick-service counter and carried them over.

“Anyone sitting here?” he asked, dropping down on the padded vinyl bench. He slid one of the coffees over. She raised her head, forced a smile, then began to stir her coffee mechanically.

“Thanks for coming, Jack.”

“That’s all right,” replied Frost. “I felt like getting kicked out of the force.” He tore open the little plastic bag of sugar and tipped it into his cup. “So what have I risked it all for?”

She leaned forward. “He didn’t do it, Jack.”

“The jeweller identified him, Sadie.”

She brushed that aside with a flick of her hand. “I know he did the jeweller, but he didn’t shoot that copper.” She covered her face with her hands. “I wish he’d never bought that bloody gun. I told Stan right from the start it would only lead to trouble. He said it would only be a prop, a frightener. He said he would never pull the trigger… but… but I knew different. Stan never meant to hurt the jeweller. He only meant to frighten him.”

“He did that all right,” said Frost. “He frightened the shit out of him.”

“He panicked,” she said.

“Yes, and he panicked when he was stopped by the constable. He panicked so much he blew half his bloody head off.”

She continued to stir her coffee, then pushed the cup away, untasted.

“Stan swears to me that he didn’t do that policeman.”

“If I had killed someone, Sadie, I’d swear I hadn’t done it.”

She looked him directly in the eye. “I believe him, Mr. Frost.”

He smiled ruefully. “My wife used to believe me, love, but most of the time I was bloody lying.” For some reason he was beginning to feel uneasy. As if someone was watching him. He let his eyes wander around the adjacent tables. People were more concerned with their food than with him. Then he realized Sadie had been talking and he hadn’t been listening.

“Stan wants to see you, Mr. Frost. He wants to arrange a meet.”

“He’s been in touch?”

She nodded.

“Listen, Sadie. When he gets in touch again you can tell him that I don’t want to know. I believed him at first, but today we found the dead copper’s notebook smack bang next to Stanley’s getaway car. Unless he can explain that away, he can forget all about meets as far as I’m concerned.” He was all ready to slide off the bench and get the hell out of there when a shadow fell across the table. Someone was standing there, looking down at them. He slumped back and groaned. No need to raise his head. He knew who it was.

Detective Inspector Allen, his lips twisted into a knowing, superior smile, his eyes glinting with the pleasure of having caught Frost out.

“Well, well, well, and what have we here?”

Shit! thought Frost, his eyes scanning the cafeteria. Plainclothes men everywhere. No wonder he had felt uneasy.

“We thought she was meeting her husband,” Allen explained. “We followed her from the house.”

“I’m sorry, Jack,” said Sadie. “I didn’t know the bastards were lurking.”

Frost slouched back on the bench and sought the solace of a cigarette. It gave him something to do while he pulled his thoughts together. “I should have realized,” he said. “I’m bloody stupid.”

“I would say criminally stupid,” said Allen, dumping himself down on the bench. “Just what do you think you are doing here, Frost? A prearranged meeting with the wife of a man who has murdered a young police officer?”

“I asked Mr. Frost to see me for a private talk,” snapped Sadie.

“Private?” asked Allen mockingly. “So, some parts of a murder investigation are suddenly private?” His head snapped around to Frost. “You had no business seeing this woman without my express permission.”

Frost said nothing. The trouble was that Allen was one hundred percent right and bloody knew it, and was going to squeeze every last drop of advantage from it. But what the hell. He leaned across the table and pressed Sadie’s arm. “Try not to worry, love.” He stood up and pushed past Allen.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” shouted Allen. But Frost was weaving his way through the tables.

All right, thought Allen. You can walk away from me, Frost, but just wait until Mullett learns about this little caper of yours.

“What joy?” asked Webster when Frost returned to the office and bundled his mac on the hat stand.

“More misery than joy, son. I was caught red-handed by Old Clever Balls.”

Serves you damn well right, thought Webster. “What did she want?”

“Stanley wants to have a meet. I said no.”

“She must know where he is then.”

“I’m sure she does, son.”

“Did you tell Mr. Allen?”

“No. He’s so bleeding clever, let him find out for himself.” He chucked himself in his chair and shoved all the incoming post, unread, into his out-tray. “Any news from Arthur Hanlon on our dead tramp?”

“He was asking for you,” Webster reported. “He says he’s spoken to all the unwashed and flea-ridden in Denton and can’t come up with anyone who saw Ben Cornish later than four o’clock.”

Frost uttered a little sigh of disappointment. “We’re not getting very far with that case, are we, son? No-one seems to have their heart and soul in it. Hundreds of flatfeet looking for poor old Stan Eustace and all I’ve got is little fat Arthur Hanlon looking for the bastard who stamped Ben to death.”

The door handle rattled and someone kicked one of the panels. Webster opened it to admit Sergeant Ingram, his arms full of files.

“I was asked to bring you these,” he said. “They’re Mr. Allen’s files on the Denton rapist investigation.”

“Put them on Webster’s desk,” said Frost, who certainly didn’t want them on his. He noticed how tired and drawn the sergeant looked. “Mr. Allen working you hard, is he?”

“Hard enough,” said Ingram. “Mr. Allen said will you please keep his files in good nick.”

“I’ll treat them as if they were my own,” said Frost.

Ingram forced a smile. “That’s what he’s afraid of.” The smile immediately snapped off. As he went out, he had to push past an agitated Sergeant Johnny Johnson coming in.

Frost jerked his head at the departing Ingram. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

“Wife trouble,” said Johnny Johnson. “I’ll tell you someone else who doesn’t look too happy, Jack. Mr. Mullett. He’s been sitting in his office waiting for you for more than an hour.”