“It might be better if I explained to the inspector what this is all about,” said the MP, determined that things be run his way. Mullett nodded weakly.
Miller sucked hard on his cigar. “I’ll be brief, Inspector. Through no fault of his own, my son, Roger, has been involved in this nasty hit-and-run business. Roger wasn’t driving; he wasn’t even in the car, but, as you can imagine, my political opponents are sharpening their knives. You can picture the headlines: “Son of Law-and-Order MP Butchers Old-Age Pensioner in Hit and Run.” Now, I’m not asking for special treatment just because I happen to be an MP. All I want is a fair and unbiased investigation.”
“You’d have got that anyway,” said Frost.
“I don’t doubt that for one minute,” went on Miller in his sincere voice. “Your Chief Constable, who happens to be a personal and very good friend of mine, has already assured me of that. My son, of his own free will, has come here to assist you in any way he can. The important thing is to prove his innocence so conclusively that we can scotch rumours before they have a chance to spread.”
There was the rasp of a match as Frost lit his fourteenth cigarette of the day. Mullett edged the ashtray forward to receive the spent match, but was too late. Frost’s foot ground the carpet, and the smell of burning wool joined the other aromas.
The cigarette waggled in Frost’s mouth as he spoke. “If your son’s innocent, I’ll prove it, Sir Charles, but if he’s guilty I’ll prove that as well.”
“That’s all I ask,” said the MP. “Do your duty, Inspector.” A pause, then, slowly and significantly, he added, “Clear my son and you won’t find me lacking in gratitude.” Frost’s eyes narrowed as the implication registered, but Mullett was up, steering him by the arm, and pushing him through the door before he could snap back.
“Roger Miller is in the interview room with his solicitor, Inspector. I want you to see him right away and let me know the outcome.”
Police Sergeant Johnny Johnson stilled his rumbling stomach as the wall clock told him he had another forty-nine minutes to go before he could take his lunch break. A breeze from the lobby doors as Jack Frost clattered through on his way to the interview room. The very man! He flagged him down.
“Mr. Frost!”
Frost ambled over. “I’m very busy, Johnny.”
“Too busy to notice the smell?”
Frost tested the air, then smiled. “You’ve got Wally Peters for me?”
“He’s down in the cells awaiting your pleasure.”
“I’ll see him now,” said Frost forgetting all about Roger Miller. He turned toward the cells.
“Hold it. I’ve got stacks of messages for you.” He scooped up some notes. “First, from Mr. Baskin of The Coconut Grove. Wants to know what’s the latest on his robbery.”
Frost took the note and, without reading it, screwed it into a ball and tossed it in the rubbish bin. “If he phones again, tell him we’re vigorously pursuing our inquiries. Next.”
The second note was passed over. “A Mr. Max Dawson asking if we’d found his daughter. He wants to see you.”
This note Frost put in his pocket. “I’ll fit it in as soon as Webster gets back. Any more?”
“Yes. Message from the hospital. Tommy Croll discharged himself this morning.”
Frost whistled softly.” Did he leave a forwarding address Las Vegas or the Bahamas?”
Johnny lowered his voice. “You reckon Tommy nicked that money, then?”
“I sincerely hope he did,” replied Frost, scratching the back of his head. “He’s the only suspect I’ve got. Send a car round to his house and bring him in. Is that the lot?”
Hopefully, he turned to go, but the sergeant had one last bullet to fire.
“Mr. Gordon of County buzzed through. It seems that the absence of Denton Division’s crime statistics is holding up the computer return for the entire county.”
Hell, thought Frost. When am I ever going to get the chance to do them? He went down the stairs to the cells.
The cell area had its own peculiar smell. From the drunk cell the stink of stale beer, urine, and vomit; from others the heady aroma of unwashed bodies too-long-worn socks, and carbolic. But all of these well-established odours were fighting a losing battle with the unwashed Wally Peters. Frost paused outside the cell door, lit a cigarette, took his last lungful of nontoxic air, then marched in.
“Blimey, Wally,” he spluttered, ‘you stink to high heaven!”
“I don’t make personal remarks about you, Mr. Frost,” retorted Wally huffily. He was seated on the edge of his bunk bed, huddled over an enamel mug from which he noisily sucked tea with much working of his Adam’s apple. “What am I here for?”
Frost rested his back against the painted brick wall. “It’s about Ben Cornish, Wally,” he said gravely. “About what you did to him.”
Wally didn’t even blink. He took the mug from his mouth and belched.
“I enjoyed that, Mr. Frost.”
“I thought so from the sound effects, but what about Ben, Wally? You’d better tell me.”
Wally sniffed hard and looked up at the detective. “You told me he choked to death, Inspector.”
“I was wrong, Wally. He was murdered. Beaten up and jumped on until he died.”
The tramp’s lower jaw sagged and tea dribbled down the dirty grey stubble of his chin. “Murdered?”
“That’s right, Wally, and all his belongings pinched. What have you done with them?”
“I wouldn’t hurt a fly, Mr. Frost, you know that. And I wouldn’t hurt Ben we was mates. Murdered? God, I’m never going to sleep down them lavatories again.”
Frost flicked cigarette ash on the stone floor. “You were hanging about there last night. Did you see anything?”
“Only that copper sniffing around.”
“When did you last see Ben?”
“Yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock down by the railway embankment. He was twitching and sweating and he kept clawing and scratching himself. He said he was going to meet some blokes down the toilets that evening who were going to sell him some drugs.”
“What blokes?”
“A couple of new blokes. He said they hadn’t been in Denton very long.”
“And how was he going to pay for the stuff?”
“He said he thought he knew where he could get some money. He wouldn’t tell me where, though. That was the last time I saw him, Mr. Frost, on my dead mother’s eyesight, I swear it.”
Frost shook a couple of cigarettes from his packet and gave them to the tramp. “Thanks, Wally. You can go now if you like.”
“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.