A Killing Frost

Chapter 9

Police Superintendent Mullett, Denton Divisional Commander, nervously drummed his fingers on the polished surface of his mahogany desk. This was the moment he had been looking forward to for so long, but there was no way he was going to face Frost on his own. Where was DCI Skinner? He had said he would be here.

A half-hearted tap at the door made Mullett’s heart skip a beat. This had to be Frost, annoyingly prompt for once. The door was flung open before he could say ‘Enter’ and Frost shambled in, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, ash snowflaking down the front of his jacket and on to the newly vacuumed blue Wilton carpet.

‘You wanted to see me, Super?’ asked Frost, the waggling cigarette shedding more ash. What the hell was this all about? he wondered. Mullett looked even more shifty and devious than ever.

‘Er – yes,’ said Mullett, checking his watch.

Where the devil was Skinner? ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated a hard-seated chair he had placed some way from his desk.

‘Thanks,’ grunted Frost, ignoring the offered chair and dragging a more comfortable visitor’s chair from the wall over to Mullett’s desk, positioning it next to the in-tray. Mullett hastily took a heavy glass ashtray from his drawer and slid it across, just too late to stop another shower of ash descending on his gleaming desktop.

‘Sorry, Super,’ grunted Frost, blowing the offending ash all over the place. He leant back in his chair. ‘What did you want to see me about? Only I’m a bit pushed for time.’

Mullett fiddled with his fountain pen and patted some papers into shape to gain time. He wasn’t ready to answer that question yet. It really was too bad of Skinner. Where on earth was he…?

A polite tap at the door made him sigh with relief. ‘Enter,’ he called and Detective Chief Inspector Skinner strode purposefully into the room, giving a smile to Mullett and a curt nod to Frost.

Mullett waved apologetically at the hard chair he had intended for Frost. Skinner dragged it behind Mullett’s desk so he could sit next to the Superintendent, edging Mullett from the centre position.

‘If you could kindly spare us a few moments of your valuable time, Inspector,’ said Mullett sarcastically as Frost nudged the in-tray round, trying to read the name on the ‘Request for Transfer’ form. A bit of gossip to share with Bill Wells.

‘Sure,’ said Frost graciously, tearing his eyes away. ‘But if you could be quick – some of us have got work to do.’ He stared pointedly at his watch, then beamed up at Mullett’s bleak, worried smile and Skinner’s grim frown. Then it was Frost’s turn to frown. With a jolt he recognised the wad of papers Skinner was holding. Flaming heck! They were his monthly car expenses, which he assumed had already been passed and sent to County for payment. Today was the deadline. His mind raced. What the hell was Skinner doing with them?

‘Are they my car expenses?’ he asked. ‘They’ve got to be at County today, otherwise I don’t get paid until next month.’

Mullett shuffled some papers again and studied the top of his desk. He looked hopefully at Skinner, but Skinner was waiting for Mullett to reply. ‘They’re not going off to County, I’m afraid,’ Mullett said eventually, carefully avoiding Frost’s eyes.

‘Oh? And why not?’ demanded Frost.

This time Skinner answered. ‘Because most of these receipts appear to have been falsified.’ He spread them out on the desk in front of Frost.

‘Falsified?’ shrilled Frost in as indignant a tone as he could muster, while his brain raced through the data bank of his memory, wondering where the hell he had gone wrong. ‘Don’t tell me those lousy garages have been fiddling the amounts and I’ve missed it?’

‘I very much doubt that it is the garages that have been doing the falsifying,’ said Skinner, while Mullett, a smug smile on his face, nodded his agreement.

‘And just what is that supposed to mean?’ said Frost.

Skinner smashed a fist down on Mullett’s desk and the glass ashtray leapt into the air, crashing down in another ash storm. ‘Don’t come the bloody innocent with me, Frost. You know damn well what I mean. The majority of these receipts have been altered in your favour. And I’m saying that you altered them.’

‘If you think that, then flaming well prove it,’ snapped Frost, hoping and praying that the fat sod couldn’t.

Skinner leant back in his chair and smiled the smile of a fat sod who had four aces in his hand and a couple of kings to back them up. He took a receipt from the pile and waved it at Frost. ‘I asked Forensic to examine this one. “20 litres” has been crudely altered to read “26 litres”.’

Frost exhaled a sigh of relief. By sheer, undeserved good luck, Skinner had picked the one receipt that was genuine. It had already been altered, so he had been unable to alter it again. ‘If you check with the garage, you will find that the cashier misread the pump reading and had to alter it afterwards.’ He grabbed Mullett’s phone and thrust it at the Chief Inspector. ‘Go on. Phone them and ask.’ He stood up. ‘And when they confirm it, you can come to my office and apologise.’ Attack, he knew, was the best form of defence.

He had hardly reached the door when Skinner roared, ‘Sit down! I haven’t finished with you yet. Then how do you explain this?’

Frost slumped back in his chair and looked at the petrol receipt pinned to the desktop by Skinner’s finger. His heart sank. ‘What about it?’ he asked, knowing damn well that if the bastard had checked he would know too bloody well what it was about.

The bastard had checked. ‘A bit off the beaten track, like most of the garages you choose to use, but I took a ride down there. The site was deserted. Elm Tree Garage has been closed for over two years.’

Frost’s brain raced, churning this over. Sod it! He’d been getting too flaming careless. Mullett was so easy to fool, especially when he was caught on the hop and made to sign expense claims he didn’t have time to check first. Sod, sod and double sod. He’d meant to throw those old blank receipt forms away ages ago. Stupid, stupid fool! ‘I don’t know how that happened,’ he muttered. ‘I must have tucked the receipt in my wallet ages ago and got it mixed up with the current ones.’ He peered at Skinner to see how this was going down. It wasn’t going anywhere!

Skinner was shaking his head. ‘With a current date?’

‘I probably noticed the date was wrong, so I put a new one in,’ offered Frost, trying to suggest it was the most natural thing to do with an old receipt.

Smirking superciliously, and staring at Frost as he did so, Skinner began to line up a series of petrol receipts on the desktop as if he was displaying a Royal Flush ‘And you did the same for these other five Elm Tree Garage receipts. How do you account for that?’

Frost wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘All right. So I lost some receipts and altered some others so I wouldn’t lose out. Big deal!’

Skinner scooped up the receipts and put them back on the pile. ‘If it had only happened once – or perhaps twice, or even in single figures – I might be disposed to believe you, Inspector Frost, but I’ve gone back six months and could go back even further. A sizeable number have been altered. By my calculations you’ve been making almost forty pounds a month from falsified car-expense claims.’

‘And tax-free,’ chimed in Mullett, who felt he was being left out of things.

‘Yes,’ agreed Skinner grimly. He turned to Mullett and nodded for him to take over.

Mullett had the grace not to look Frost in the eye. ‘I won’t tolerate dishonesty in my division.’

‘Dishonesty?’ exclaimed Frost incredulously. ‘What bloody dishonesty? Half the overtime I can’t be bothered to claim would wipe this out in a flash.’

Mullett turned in appeal to Skinner. He hadn’t considered this aspect. Don’t say Frost was going to wriggle out of it, as he always seemed able to do.

Skinner took over. ‘You can’t write off fiddling like that. Forgery is forgery. If you’re too lazy to claim overtime, that’s your look-out. You can’t make up for it by fiddling.’

All right, thought Frost. When you’ve lost, stop fighting. ‘So I might have made the odd mistake. Big deal. If it makes you happy, I’ll pay it back.’

Skinner shook his head firmly and again turned to Mullett to take over. Mullett tried to look the other way. He wanted Skinner to continue with the unpleasant side of the business.

Skinner wasn’t having any. ‘Superintendent Mullett has something to say to you.’

‘Oh yes,’ mumbled Mullett. ‘The, er, point is, Frost, I can’t have people on my team who cheat. Paying back isn’t good enough.’

‘Then what the bleeding hell is good enough?’ Frost demanded. ‘Do you want me to disembowel my bleeding self?’

Mullett look pleadingly at Skinner, who stone-walled with a shake of the head. This is up to you, he signalled.

‘This should be reported to County, Frost,’ said Mullett at last. ‘Much as I am always ready to lay my head on the block for my team, I have no option. It’s my duty to report it and I imagine County will suspend you while they go through all your expense vouchers for the past five years or so to find out if there are other discrepancies.’

‘They could do you for fraud,’ added Skinner. ‘Although they’d probably give you the opportunity of resigning instead. They don’t like their dirty washing to be aired in public.’

Frost went cold. He could see the bastard was serious.

Mullett seemed to be finding something of interest out of the window, so Skinner picked up the reins again. ‘However, you can count your self bloody lucky that you’ve got such a kind and sympathetic Superintendent.’ Mullett hung his head and brushed aside the compliment.

Frost stayed silent, waiting to see what the two scheming bastards had dreamed up for him.

‘I would be extremely reluctant to terminate the career of one of my officers,’ said Mullett, ‘even though it would be fully justified. But by shutting my eyes to the offence I could get into serious trouble if the truth came out. However, if you are agreeable, there is a satisfactory way out.’

‘Oh?’ said Frost warily.

Again Mullett looked pleadingly at Skinner, who, fed up with the man’s shilly-shallying, took over yet again.

‘As it happens, Frost, there is an officer in my old division who would very much like to work in Denton. But that, of course, would require a vacancy here.’

‘You want Superintendent Mullett to resign?’ asked Frost innocently.

‘You know bloody well I don’t mean that,’ snapped Skinner. ‘I am suggesting that you are transferred to my old division, while the officer in question transfers to Denton.’

You lousy, stinking, conniving bastards, thought Frost. He took another drag at his cigarette and flicked the ash in the general direction of the heavy glass ashtray. He kept his face impassive. Don’t let the sods have the pleasure of seeing how much this is affecting me. He pinched out the half-smoked cigarette and poked it in his pocket.

There was a pregnant pause.

‘So what do you think?’ asked Mullett at last.

I think you are a pair of shits, thought Frost. Aloud he said, ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

‘By tomorrow morning, first thing,’ said Skinner. ‘Otherwise Mullett will have no alternative but to report this matter to County and to the Inland Revenue.’

Mullett nodded his agreement, happy that he hadn’t had to make the threat. ‘That’s all, Frost,’ he said – but to an empty chair. The office door slammed and the glass ashtray did another dance on the desk as Frost took his departure.

‘Well,’ said Mullett. ‘We handled that quite well, I thought.’

Skinner scooped up the petrol receipts.

‘Bloody well,’ he said. ‘The sod didn’t know what hit him.’

‘Skinner’s old division? Lexton?’ said Wells, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s a tip, and the Superintendent is a real right bastard.’

‘Then I’ll feel at home, won’t I?’ grunted Frost. ‘But don’t worry I’m not going to let the sods get away with it.’

Wells looked at Frost anxiously. ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, I hope?’

Frost affected surprise. ‘When do I ever do anything stupid?’

‘Every bleeding day,’ said Wells.

‘Yes… well, I meant apart from that. I’ve had a word with Joe Henderson up at County. He says all the old car-expense vouchers are filed away in the basement storeroom. He reckons it shouldn’t be too difficult for someone to sneak down there and bung them in the incinerator.’

Wells’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not going to burn them?’ he croaked. ‘Supposing you get caught?’

‘I won’t get caught,’ said Frost stubbornly. ‘An old storeroom full of ancient expense claims. It isn’t even locked.’

‘But when they realise it’s your file that’s missing, they’ll know damn well who took it.’

‘Knowing and proving are two different things. Besides, I’ll burn a couple of others as well.’

‘But what about the vouchers Skinner showed you this afternoon?’

‘They’ll be locked in Mullett’s filing cabinet. Once he’s gone home for the night it won’t take me five minutes to nick them.’

‘But jack – ’ spluttered Wells. The phone rang. He answered it and handed it to Frost. ‘Your mate Henderson from County.’

Frost took the phone and listened. His face fell. ‘The bastard. Thanks for telling me.’ He banged the phone down. ‘Skinner has requisitioned my old expenses file. It’s being sent direct to him at the hotel he’s staying at.’

Wells looked relieved. ‘Well, at least it’s stopped you from doing something stupid.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Frost sadly, ramming a cigarette in his mouth. He puffed smoke. ‘Tell you what though. I could get myself a can of petrol and burn his hotel down.’

‘At last you’re being sensible,’ said Wells.

Frost sat slumped in his office chair, making paper darts from the contents of his in-tray and hurling them in the general direction of the waste-paper bin. His aim was poor and the floor was littered with crashed aircraft. Someone tapped at the door.

‘Come in.’

Harding from Forensic entered, carrying a polythene evidence bag which he dumped on Frost’s desk. It contained the various pieces of severed foot and leg so far recovered.

'I’ve had my lunch, thanks,’ said Frost, giving it hardly a glance. Body parts were the least of his troubles.

There was a token smile from Harding, who was not a fan of Frost’s tired humour. ‘I thought you would be interested in our findings.’

‘If it’s from a medical student’s dissecting room, I’m interested. Anything else, I’m bored stiff.’

Harding shook his head. ‘If it had been smuggled out of a medical school we’d have expected evidence of preservatives. We found none.’

‘Shit,’ said Frost. ‘Are you saying we’re talking murder?’

‘Not necessarily. It could have come from an amputation and a student took it away for a joke.’

‘Terrific joke,’ moaned Frost. ‘I’m pissing myself. We don’t know for sure, so we’ve got to assume it’s murder and start looking for the rest of the bits.’

‘I can tell you this,’ Harding said. ‘It’s from a female, aged around thirty-five to forty perhaps a bit older, and whoever sawed it off had some degree of medical knowledge. The way it’s gone through the metatarsal suggests a proper bone-saw was probably used.’

‘And how long would the owner have been dead,’ asked Frost, ‘assuming she isn’t still walking around with half her foot missing, but hasn’t bothered to report it because she knows the police are bleeding useless?’

‘You’d better get the pathologist to answer that. At least a couple of weeks – possibly much more.’

Frost scratched his cheek. ‘Give it to Skinner. I’m off all murder cases from now on.’

When Harding had left, Frost resumed his half hearted paper-dart-throwing. He was dispirited and miserable – he could see no way of wriggling out of this. Lexton! A shit hole! He’d spent all his working life in Denton; he knew it like the back of his hand. He knew the people – the scumbags, the villains, everyone. He didn’t want to start from scratch in a new division and, worst of all, he hated the thought that Skinner and Mullett had put one over on him. Why had he got so smug and bloody careless with the petrol claims? He hurled a paper dart savagely at the door, narrowly missing Taffy Morgan, who had burst in waving a sheet of A4.

‘What’s all this about, Guv?’ Taffy thrust the page under Frost’s nose. It was a circular from Mullett that Morgan had prised from the notice-board. It read:

Transfer of Detective Inspector Frost

As many of you may know, Detective Inspector Frost will be transferred to Lexton division from the first of next month. It is expected that his colleagues may wish to be associated with a suitable leaving present and your donations are invited.

The donation list was headed by the entry: Supt. Mullett… ?25.

‘Twenty-five lousy quid?’ spluttered Frost. ‘Is that all the lousy four-eyed git thinks I’m worth?’ He snatched up his ballpoint pen and carefully altered the amount to read?125. ‘Let the bastard try and wriggle out of that.’

Morgan took the sheet and read it again in disbelief.

‘But you haven’t applied for a transfer, Guv?’

‘I didn’t have to, Taffy. The bastards have kindly applied for me, and they’re jumping the flaming gun.’ He pushed himself up from his chair and unhooked his scarf and mac from the coat rack. ‘I’m going out to get pissed. If anyone wants me, tell them to get stuffed.’

‘But Guv – ’ pleaded Taffy to a slammed door.

Frost had gone.

Frost stared blearily at the ashtray overflowing with squashed cigarette ends, then moved his hand ever so carefully towards the glass in front of him, which seemed to be moving in and out of focus on the table. What was the point in getting pissed? It did no bleeding good and made him feel lousy. His head was throbbing and his mouth tasted foul. Pulling an unlit cigarette from his mouth, he laid it on the beer-wet pub table, then swallowed a shot of whisky in one gulp, shuddering as the raw spirit clawed its way down his throat. The rest of the pub was a blur and a babble of over-loud voices that hammered away at his headache. His nostrils twitched. Through the smell of stale spirits and cigarette smoke came a whiff of cheap perfume.

‘All on our own, love?’

He raised his head and squinted at the out-of-focus outline of an orange-haired, over-made-up woman in a cheap fake-leather coat.

‘Happy birthday Mr President,’ she cooed, dragging up a chair and sitting next to him. ‘Buy me a drink, love?’

‘Piss off,’ muttered Frost. He reached in his pocket and flashed his warrant card.

‘Bloody hell!’ She shot up from the chair and yelled across to the barman. ‘Lowering the tone of the place, letting the filth in, aren’t you, Fred?’ Hitching the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, she marched to the door. The barman watched her leave, then made his way over to Frost.

‘Can’t you give some other pub a turn, Inspector Frost?’ he said. ‘You’re driving all my regulars away.’

‘Soon,’ slurred Frost. ‘Very soon, Fred, my old son. Give me another whisky and a beer.’ He produced a handful of loose change and squinted at it. ‘Have I got enough?’

The barman waved the money away. ‘If you promise to leave after I’ve served you, you can have it on the house.’ He looked up and swore softly as two uniformed policemen came in. ‘What is this? A flaming police convention?’

By concentrating hard, Frost made out the two men to be Jordan and Simms. He beckoned them over. ‘Drinks on the house, lads.’

‘No they bleeding well ain’t,’ snapped the barman as he turned to the uniformed officers. ‘Can’t you get him out of here?’

‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere, Inspector,’ said Simms, waving away the disgruntled barman.

‘How did you find me?’ Frost asked. ‘I’d never have thought anyone would look in this place.’

‘You’ve parked your car across two disabled parking spaces,’ said Jordan. ‘Someone phoned the station and complained. We recognised the registration number.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Frost, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘You go back to the station and tell them you couldn’t find me. I won’t split on you.’

Jordan shook his head. ‘We need you, Inspector. A householder’s stabbed a burglar to death.’

‘Good for him,’ slurred Frost. ‘I bet he won’t break into any more houses.’ He retrieved his wet cigarette from the table and tried unsuccessfully to light it. ‘Get Chief Inspector Fat-Guts to do it. He’s supposed to be on duty tonight.’

‘He’s driven on to County to pick up some files. It’s got to be you.’

‘Excrement!’ said Frost, chucking the cigarette away. He pushed himself up and stood unsteadily on his feet. ‘Look at me. I’m in no fit state to take on a murder case.’ He plonked heavily down in the seat again.

Simms beckoned the barman over. ‘Make some coffee. Strong and black.’

‘Coffee?’ protested Fred. ‘What do you think this is – the bleeding Ritz?’

‘Just make some flaming coffee,’ hissed Simms.

Frost lifted a hand in feeble protest. ‘Forget it, lads. Like I told you, I’m in no fit state to take on a murder inquiry.’ Then he shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Shit! When am I ever fit enough to take on a murder case? Skip the coffee. I can throw up just as well without it.’ He rose to his feet again, put his hands on the table to steady himself, then pulled his car keys from his mac pocket. ‘I’ll be all right once I’m in the car.’

Simms prised the keys firmly from his hand. ‘You’re coming with us, Inspector. There’s no way you’re getting behind a steering wheel tonight.’

He sat in the back of the area car, being jolted from side to side as it sped through the darkened streets. He had the window down, letting the slap of cold air try to clear his aching head.

‘I hear you’re being transferred to Lexton, Inspector,’ said Jordan as they slowed down for traffic lights.

‘Good news travels fast,’ grunted Frost.

‘The lads are up in arms about it. What’s that all about?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ replied Frost, wishing the pounding in his head would ease up. ‘It would involve calling my superior officers fat, stinking, shiny, conniving bastards, and as you know, I don’t make comments like that about our beloved superintendent and his fat-gutted side kick.’

‘We’ll miss you, Inspector,’ said Simms.

‘I haven’t gone yet,’ Frost reminded him.

The traffic lights changed and the car sped on its way. Street lights blurred as the car raced through a shopping area, then more darkness as they turned down a side street, slowing to a stop outside a detached house with all lights blazing. Another police car and a Citroen estate were parked outside.

PC Collier opened the front door. ‘The doctor’s here,’ he told them.

‘Why? Is someone sick?’ grunted Frost, following Collier down the hall into the kitchen, where PC Howe and Dr Mackenzie, the duty police surgeon, were looking down at the sprawled body of a man wearing dark ski goggles lying face-down on the floor. An open window above the sink made the curtains flap. The carpet around the body was wet with blood. At its side was a long-bladed knife, also stained with blood.

Mackenzie looked up as Frost came in. ‘Dead,’ he announced. He sniffed. ‘You smell lovely, Jack. You didn’t bring a bottle with you, by any chance?’

Frost grinned and bent down to lift the head of the corpse and pull back the goggles so he could see the face with its expression of open-eyed surprise. Frowning, he straightened up. ‘I know this sod.’

‘You should do, Inspector,’ said Howe. ‘Ronnie Knox, burglary robbery GBH. Came out of the nick after doing a three-year stretch last March. You sent him down.’

‘Rumour had it he’d got a job and was going straight,’ said Frost.

‘You shouldn’t believe rumours, Inspector,’ said Simms.

Frost leant his head against the cool wall and half closed his eyes. The bloody headache kept pounding away relentlessly, like a bass beat at a disco ‘All right. So what happened?’

Mackenzie held up a hand. ‘I’m not interested in what happened, Jack. I’ll read all about it in the papers. I’m tired and I’ve got patients to kill tomorrow.’ He took a chit from his bag. ‘Just sign so I can claim my fee, then I’ll be off.’

Frost took the form and the proffered pen and tried to focus on the details. He squinted at the time entered on the form, then at his wristwatch.

‘You’ve put the wrong time down. It’s half past eleven, not five past midnight.’

‘I get paid an extra ten quid if I’m called out after midnight,’ said the doctor.

Frost scrawled his signature and handed the chit back. ‘You can get in trouble for making false claims, Doc.’

‘Only if you’re caught,’ said Mackenzie, zipping up his case.

‘That must have been where I went wrong,’ said Frost bitterly.

The door closed behind the doctor and Frost again asked for details.

‘The householder is a bloke called Gregson – John Gregson,’ said Jordan.

Frost frowned, then stopped frowning because it made his headache worse. ‘Hold on a minute. Gregson?’ His memory raced through the data base in his brain. ‘Little fat bloke, bald head? He’s got form – robbery with violence. I put him away five years ago. An ex-burglar is burgled. Poetic justice.’ He nodded to Jordan. ‘Carry on, son.’

‘He’s asleep in bed,’ continued Jordan, ‘when he hears a noise from the lounge. He creeps downstairs, clicks on the light and there’s this bloke in goggles unplugging his video recorder.’

‘Show me the lounge.’

‘Through here,’ said Jordan, leading Frost out of the kitchen and into a room leading off the hall. The heavy curtains in the lounge were drawn and a video recorder with trailing leads was on the carpet in front of the TV set. Frost gave the room a cursory glance, which didn’t seem to provide him with any flashes of inspiration, so he returned with Jordan to the kitchen.

‘Carry on, son.’

‘Goggle man barges past him and makes for the kitchen, to get out through that window – the way he got in.’

Frost moved to the window. ‘Doesn’t seem to have been forced.’

‘Gregson said he left it open. He’d brought an Indian in and the kitchen stank of curry.’

Frost stared out through the window on to the darkened back garden, to the rear of which was a tall wooden fence.

‘He got over that fence, and through the conveniently open window,’ continued Jordan.

Frost nodded. ‘So he legs it to the kitchen. What next?’

‘Gregson goes to grab him. The bloke suddenly starts flashing a knife – that knife – ’ He pointed to the knife by the body, ‘and starts jabbing. He stabbed Gregson in the arm.’

Frost looked at the long-bladed, razor carving knife on the floor. ‘That’s a big bastard. You don’t carry that just for getting stones out of horses’ hooves.’

Jordan grinned. ‘So to defend himself, Gregson grabs a kitchen knife from the worktop and gets his jab in. The burglar slumps to the floor, Gregson dials 999. The ambulance arrived shortly after we did, confirmed he was dead and left.’

‘Where’s the knife Gregson used?’

Howe held up a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a blooded kitchen knife.

Frost went to the tap and splashed cold water on his face. His head was still thumping and his stomach churning. He wasn’t up to all this. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. It was bloody hot in here, even with the window wide open. ‘Let’s have a word with.. .’ He paused and blinked helplessly. He had forgotten the bloody bloke’s name.

‘Gregson,’ Jordan told him and led him upstairs.

Gregson – fatter, balder and older than Frost remembered him, now in his fifties – was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. He was still wearing his pyjamas, which were garish purple and bloodstained. His wrist bore a bloodstained bandage. Taffy Morgan, lolling in a chair next to him, jumped up as Frost entered. ‘Mr Gregson, Guv,’ he said, as if Frost didn’t know.

Frost pulled up the chair Morgan had vacated and slumped down in it. ‘We’ve got a dead body downstairs, Mr Gregson,’ he said.

Gregson looked up and stared at Frost. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him. I just don’t know how it happened. It was all so confused. I was dripping blood. I was just holding the knife to protect myself. He must have moved forward. I never even knew I’d stabbed him. He just looked at me, all sort of surprised, then slumped to the floor and there was blood – lots of blood.’ He shook his head as if to try and erase the memory Frost listened patiently, trying to ignore the ominous churning in his stomach. He hoped the bathroom was next door. If it was downstairs he wasn’t sure he’d make it. He suddenly realised that Gregson was looking at him, expecting an answer to an unheard question. ‘Sorry what was that again?’

‘I said what is going to happen to me?’

Life imprisonment for you and?50,000 compensation for the burglar’s family, the way our bleeding law is going, thought Frost. Aloud he said, ‘Too early to say at this stage, Mr Gregson.’ He sighed with relief as his stomach eased up a bit, then screwed up his face, trying to remember what Jordan had told him. ‘He was unplugging your video when you spotted him?’ Gregson nodded. Frost beckoned Morgan over. ‘See if you can find chummy’s car or van. It shouldn’t be too far away.’

‘His car?’

‘He’s not walking down the street in the small hours with a video recorder tucked under his arm like Anne Boleyn’s bleeding head, now is he? Even our own PC Plods might find that a mite suspicious.

‘What sort of car has he got?’ asked Morgan.

‘How the bleeding hell would I know?’ retorted Frost.

‘Then I wouldn’t know either, Guv, would I? If we knew where he lives, I could go to his house and ask.’

‘No!’ said Frost sharply. ‘If he’s married, or living with someone, we’re going to have to break the news that he’s dead and I’m not up to that at the moment.’ He could just see himself throwing up all over the bereaved. ‘Forget the car for now.’ He turned his attention back to Gregson. ‘We’re going to have to ask you to come to the station to make a statement, Mr Gregson. Put some clothes on and let the officer have your pyjamas. We’ll need them for forensic examination.’ He paused. What the hell was nagging him? The bed. Of course. It was a double bed.

‘Are you married, Mr Gregson?’

Gregson kept his head bowed. ‘Yes.’

‘And where is your wife?’

Gregson stared blankly at Frost for a while before replying. His voice was flat. ‘She left me over a month ago.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. And where is she now?’

‘I don’t know. I came home from work and there was a note on the table saying she’d left me and she wasn’t coming back. I had no idea. There was no hint… I thought we had a perfect marriage.’

Frost shook his head sadly. ‘Rotten luck. And now this…’

He told Morgan to take Gregson to the station, then trotted downstairs to join the four uniformed men who had made themselves mugs of instant coffee and were drinking, oblivious to the sprawled body on the floor. The window where the dead man had made his entrance was still wide open and the cold air was starting to clear Frost’s head. He took the offered mug of coffee. ‘Is there anything to eat in this house? I’m starving.’

Jordan looked in the fridge. ‘Yoghurts?’ he offered.

‘Sod that,’ said Frost. ‘Find some bread and make us all some toast.’

While Jordan began feeding bread into the toaster, Frost filled them in on his conversation with Gregson. ‘Probably a straightforward self-defence killing, but let’s break all my rules and be thorough for a change. I get a feeling there’s something not quite right here. He says his wife left him about a month ago – probably couldn’t stand the sight of those bleeding purple pyjamas. Anyway, check that she’s not buried in the garden. And knock up the neighbours. They might be able to throw some light on where she is.’

Simms consulted his wristwatch. ‘A bit late to be knocking people up, Inspector.’

Frost squinted at his own watch, but his alcohol-blurred vision made it impossible to read, so he nodded. ‘First thing in the morning then. And as soon as SOCO have finished, root around and try and trace where her parents live. They might know where to find her. Ah…’ This as Jordan passed round a plate of buttered toast. For a while they munched quietly. ‘Mind how you eat it,’ warned Frost. ‘I don’t want toast crumbs all over the bleeding corpse. And someone wash up afterwards, otherwise the next time he kills a burglar he won’t ask us back.’ Supersaves own brand of washing-up liquid on the window ledge reminded him he was no further forward with the bloody blackmailer. Tomorrow… tomorrow… he’d think about what to do about that tomorrow. ‘Any more of that toast left?’

Jordan was popping another load of bread in the toaster when the door crashed open. A furious-looking Detective Chief Inspector Skinner was framed in the doorway. ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’

‘Bloody hell… the filth,’ muttered Frost to himself. Aloud he said, ‘We’re just taking a meal break.’

‘A meal break? Looks more like a bloody picnic – and all round the flaming corpse. If the press got hold of this…’ He jerked his head at Frost. ‘A word, Inspector.’

Frost followed him out to the hall, like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study.

‘Thank your lucky stars you’re being transferred, otherwise I’d have had you demoted and back on the bloody beat,’ snarled Skinner.

‘I’m only here because they couldn’t find you,’ said Frost.

‘That’s no flaming excuse.’ Skinner’s nose twitched. ‘And you’re drunk.’

‘I’m bloody not,’ retorted Frost hotly, but he was conscious this lacked conviction as he was slurring his words and swaying slightly. He grabbed the door handle for support.

‘Go home,’ ordered Skinner. ‘You’re off this bloody case. I’ll take this up again with you tomorrow.’

Frost sat huddled in the back seat of the area car as Jordan drove him home. A thousand thoughts were spinning round his head, but he couldn’t focus on any of them. There was something wrong, something nagging, and he couldn’t think what it was. ‘Pull over, son. Stop for a while. I want to have a think.’

Jordan slid the car into a side street and switched off the engine. He took the offered cigarette.

For a while they smoked, Frost’s eyes half closed as he went over the events of the burglary. Then he said, ‘I think I want to have a word with Gregson again, son. Take me hack to the station.’

‘Skinner ordered me to take you straight home, Inspector,’ said Jordan.

‘So who are you going to obey?’ asked Frost. ‘A fat-bellied sober chief inspector or a drunken sod like me?’

Jordan drove him to the station.

As he sat opposite Gregson in the Interview Room, he suddenly realised how dead tired he was. He stifled a yawn. ‘A couple of things about this killing bother me,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you can clear them up.’ He shook a cigarette from the packet and offered one to Gregson, who declined with a wave of his hand. ‘Ronnie Knox,’ mused Frost as he lit up. ‘He was a classy villain.’ He shook out the match and dropped it in the ashtray, then looked up and beamed at Gregson. ‘You used to do a spot of burglary yourself, didn’t you? Not in Ronnie’s class, of course.’

Gregson’s head came up with a jolt as he vaguely recognised Frost. He pointed a querying finger.

‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘It was me who sent you down. I collared you and Ronnie. What about that for a coincidence?’

‘I remember you now,’ said Gregson. ‘It was a long time ago. I learnt my lesson in jail and packed it in when I came out. Besides, I was getting too fat to climb through kitchen windows.’

Frost gave an understanding nod. ‘But Ronnie kept himself in good nick. Like I said, he had class. He used to stake out these posh houses – usually when the owners were away – went in for jewellery, objets d’art, that sort of thing, not tuppence-ha’penny video recorders. And out of all the houses with rich pickings he could have chosen, why did he pick – if you’ll pardon the expression – your shit hole of a place?’

‘We used to look for easy access,’ said Gregson. ‘Like I told the other bloke, I’d left the window open – I guess it was an open invitation.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Frost knowingly. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But there’s one other thing. That dirty great knife he brought with him. It was far too big for his pockets and he’d need both hands free to climb over your fence, so where did he put it?’

‘I expect he stuck it in the waistband of his trousers,’ suggested Gregson.

‘Flaming hell, no,’ said Frost. ‘Climbing the fence with that stuck down his trousers – he’d have cut his flaming dick off. And how the hell would he know your window was open? He couldn’t have seen it until he climbed the fence.’

Gregson shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And another thing,’ continued Frost. ‘You said you switched on the light and found him unplugging your clapped-out video recorder? With the lights out and those heavy curtains drawn, it would have been pitch dark in there – and he didn’t have a torch.’ His headache started playing up again – he was wishing he hadn’t started all this. It was Fatso Skinner’s case anyway. ‘If he climbed over your fence, we’ll find wood fibres on his clothes, but I’ve got one of my funny feelings we won’t find any. And once we trace your wife, I reckon she’ll tell us that the knife Ronnie was supposed to have brought with him was in the house all the time – which would rather shoot your burglar story right up the arse. Might save us all a lot of time if you told us the truth, don’t you think?’

Gregson buried his head in his hands. ‘My wife… she left me for him.’

‘What, for Ronnie Knox?’

Gregson nodded. ‘He came round here to collect her things. They were going away together to Spain. He taunted me. The bastard taunted me. I lost my temper. The knife was on the worktop.’

‘You killed him, then made out he’d broken in?’ said Frost.

‘I found an old pair of ski goggles of mine and put them on him. Then I slashed my arm with the knife, put his dabs on it and left it near the body.’

‘You didn’t stand a bleeding chance of getting away with it,’ said Frost. ‘As soon as we talked to your wife she’d have blown your story sky high.’

‘A wife can’t testify against her husband,’ said Gregson.

Frost gave a scoffing laugh. ‘If you believe that, you’re a bigger prat than I thought.’

‘What the bleeding hell is going on here, Frost?’ Skinner, his face brick-red with rage, had crashed into the Interview Room.

‘There were a couple of points – ’ began Frost, but Skinner wouldn’t let him finish.

‘Sod your couple of points. I told you to go home. This is my case. Now go… now…’

Frost waved goodbye as the area car drove away, then staggered into the house, dead tired. The little red light on his answerphone was flashing. He pressed the ‘Play Message’ button. A voice he didn’t recognise. A shrill, angry voice. A woman’s voice. ‘You rotten, lousy, stinking bastard.’ He shook his head as he clicked it off. Too tired to worry about it, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

He had been asleep barely an hour when he woke with a start. That woman on his answer phone. Of course! Of bloody course! It was Carol, the big-breasted, roly-poly pathologist. His date. He had forgotten all about her. Sod, sod, and double sod. He groaned as he drifted back into a troubled sleep to dream fitfully of consummation with the naked pathologist, all warm and steaming, big-breasted and hungry-mouthed, hands exploring… A moment of bliss, shattered when bleeding Skinner burst in at the moment of penetration, waving those flaming forged car expenses… The alarm woke him.