The sergeant sprung up. “How dare you, you swine…!”
“You don’t have to put.-on an act for me, son’ said Frost wearily, “I’m an unworthy audience.” He sorted through the photographs and pulled one out. “This is Shelby with Dawson’s wife. It was taken on Tuesday afternoon. If you turn it over you’ll see that these instant pictures all carry a printed number. This is number seven.” He sorted through to find another which he turned facedown. “This is number eight, which means it was taken after the other one.” He flipped it over. “The lady with Shelby it’s your wife, isn’t it?”
Ingrain stared at the photograph. Two nude figures interlocked. He didn’t say anything.
“That must have been taken Tuesday night,” Frost went on. “It couldn’t have been much later because the next day he was dead.”
The detective sergeant seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph.
Frost went on. “You were at the party Tuesday night so Shelby had the coast all clear. He’d parked his patrol car out of sight near the toilets and was on his way up to your place when he noticed the grille was broken. He was just about enough of a policeman to investigate, and he found Ben Cornish’s body. He was all fidgety that night. I thought he’d been up to something, but he was just anxious to be on his way for a spot of fun with your Stella and his camera.”
Ingram picked up the photograph, then turned it facedown. “I never knew this was going on,” he said.
With tired sadness, Frost shook his head. “You did, son. That’s why you killed him.”
“Eustace killed him,” said Ingram. “Shelby’s notebook was found near his car.” He waved away Frost’s offered cigarette.
“The grass in that field was wet with dew,” said Frost. “The notebook was supposed to have been lying there all night, but it was bone-dry. I never twigged at the time, but I’m a slow old sod. It was dumped there a few minutes before it was found and by you, my son.”
“No,” said Ingram.
Frost dabbed at the gash on his wrist. “It’s difficult to get rid of every trace of blood. You’ve probably scrubbed and scrubbed the inside of your motor, but I bet it wouldn’t take Forensic long to find what you’ve missed. Shelby must have been bleeding like a pig.”
Jagged blue flashes from outside as the press took photographs of Allen and Mullett.
“Shelby and your wife expected you to be away at your shooting match Wednesday afternoon. But you suspected something was going on so you left early. You crept into the house and found them together beating the hell out of the bedsprings. Is that what happened, son?”
Ingram stared down at the floor and then had to turn his head away as he found his eyes focused on the section of bloodstained carped where Eustace had been lying.
“No. I didn’t catch them in the act, Mr. Frost. I didn’t want to. I suspected what was going on, but I didn’t want to believe it. I got back early and there was Shelby’s patrol car down the side street. I parked alongside and walked toward the house. The blinds were drawn in our bedroom. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want to believe it. But after a while, the door opened and out he came, smirking all over his damn face. When he saw me, he charged off to his car and roared away. I followed and eventually managed to force him to stop in Green Lane.”
“Where we found his abandoned police car?” Frost prompted.
“Yes. I was beside myself with rage. I wanted to hurt him. He was laughing, taunting me. He said if I wasn’t able to satisfy Stella, it was no wonder she had to turn to a real man.” He hesitated, unwilling to go on. “I will have a cigarette if you’ve got one, Inspector.”
Frost handed him the packet, then lit the cigarette for him.
“Go on, son. I’m a good listener.”
“The shotgun was on the back seat. I only meant to scare the hell out of him. I think that’s all I meant. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. God, his face! In my dreams I see his face!” He shuddered.
“Why did you drag him to your car?” asked Frost. “Why didn’t you leave him?”
“I was going to take him to the hospital, but I soon saw it was far too late. I found a secluded spot to dump him, cleaned up the car, then drove home. I said to Stella, “Did you have a good day?” and she said, “Yes — did a bit of shopping and baked a cake.” And she asked if I’d had a good day, and I said, “Marvellous.” Both of us lying our heads off.”
Frost shrugged his shoulders. “I’d have done the same, son.”
“I don’t know how long I thought I could keep quiet. I wanted to tell someone. I felt sure it would all come out.”
“And then you heard about Stan Eustace and the armed robbery.”
“Yes. Everyone but you assumed Eustace had killed Shelby. I wanted to keep the suspicion on him. I had to get rid of the notebook anyway I’d found it in my car.”
“So you planted false evidence?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“So it must be a godsend for you now that Stan Eustace is dead and can’t tell his side.”
“You’ve got to believe me, Mr. Frost. I really thought he was going to kill you. That’s why I fired for no other reason you’ve got to believe me.”
“Supposing I’d got Eustace out of this alive and he was charged with Shelby’s murder. What then? Would you have come forward, owned up?”
Ingram bowed his head dejectedly. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. All I know is I didn’t mean to kill Shelby, but he’s dead. Now Eustace is dead and everyone believes he did it. Can’t we leave it like that?”
Frost pinched his scarred cheek to try and bring some life back into it. “It would be a nice easy way out, wouldn’t it, son? The trouble is, I’m a cop. Not a very good one, perhaps, but still a cop. I don’t really know why I became one, but one thing I’m sure of, I didn’t become a cop to turn a blind eye to planted evidence — or to let a dead man, even if he was a crook, be wrongly accused of murder. Your way would be easy. It would keep everyone happy. But it would be wrong son. I just couldn’t do it.”
Ingram took the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it through the open window. “It had to be you, Mr. Frost, didn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, son,” murmured Frost apologetically. “I’m always around when I’m not wanted.”
“So what are you going to do… arrest me?”
Frost shook his head. “Best if I don’t son. Much better if I’m kept right out of it. As it was you who shot poor old Useless Eustace, a voluntary confession might make nasty-minded people less inclined to query your motives. What do you reckon?”
Ingram nodded.
“And I’d be a lot happier if we didn’t have to bring these into it.”
Frost held up the photographs. “Shelby’s widow has suffered enough.”
Again Ingram nodded.
“So keep my name out of it. Make it a voluntary confession, all off your own bat. It’ll make things a lot easier for you.”
Ingram heaved himself out of the chair and moved slowly to the door. He paused as if to say something, but shook his head and went out, closing the door firmly behind him.
Frost sighed and looked at his watch. A shuffling of feet made him turn his head. Webster was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.
“Hello, son. Didn’t know you were there. Been there long?”
“Not very long, sir.”
Sir? This was the first time Webster had ever called Frost ‘sir’
“You didn’t hear any of that, I suppose?”
Webster paused, then lied. “No sir, not a word.”
“That’s what I thought,” lied Frost. He stood up. “Let’s have an early night, son. I’ve got to report to Mullett for a bollocking first thing in the morning and I don’t want to keep yawning in his face.”
Saturday day shift
Frost sat in his office and smoked, waiting to be summonsed to the Divisional Commander’s office. Seven minutes past nine. Mullett was prolonging the agony, making him sweat.
The news of Ingram’s arrest had shocked everyone. Apparently he had walked up to Detective Inspector Allen in the middle of the press conference and confessed to the accidental killing of Dave Shelby. This further blow to the prestige of Denton District, following so hard on the heels of the fiasco of the shooting of the now-cleared Stan Eustace, had fanned the flames of Mullett’s fury. Frost wasn’t looking forward to the coming interview.