Authors: R. D. Wingfield
The old woman was waiting for Frost as he pushed through the doors to the lobby. She hurried towards him, eyes glowing. "You've got them back. The sergeant says you've got them back."
He smiled, but she had wrong-footed him. Who the hell was she? Then he placed her. Of course . . . the old dear who'd had her husband's medals pinched. Bloody hell. He hadn't had time to sort out half the stuff they'd found stacked behind the cistern in Lemmy Hoxton's house. "Your medal yes, love . . . If you'd like to formally identify it . . ."
He took her into the main interview room and they waited for Burton to lug in the large cardboard box. The medal, in its black case, was. near the top. It deserved more respect than being piled on top of the other junk. He gave it to her.
She beamed her delight. "I never thought I'd see this again." She took the DFM out and held it close to her cheek. "He wanted our son to have it. There was going to be a baby, but I lost it when our house was bombed and I had a miscarriage. The doctor said it would have been a boy."
Frost nodded in sympathy and explained they would have to hang on to the medal for a little while. "Don't worry, love, it'll be safe here. I'll look after it." Look after it! He grinned wryly to himself . . . as well as I looked after forty grand's worth of jewellery from the Stanfield robbery? Which reminded him of the treat to come. He was going to have to face Mullett about that.
"And you've found the photographs. That's such a relief!"
Photographs? What was she on about?
There was a wad of photograph wallets held together with a rubber band in the box. Frost had only skimmed through them briefly. Most of them looked like family snaps. It seemed Lemmy had scooped up everything he could lay his hands on, whether it was of value or not.
She had pulled out the top wallet and was shuffling through the photographs. "I'd hate to think of these falling into the wrong hands." She gave Frost a conspiratorial wink and nodded towards Burton. "Do you think he's old enough to see these?" She handed them over.
Frost stifled a yawn as he took the photographs. More black and white family snaps. Then he sat up straight. "Bloody hell!"
Black and white postcard-sized prints, but not for family viewing. They showed a young, pert, dark-haired girl in a bedroom. Completely nude. "Bloody hell!" he said again as the girl in the photograph cupped her breasts with widespread fingers to reveal rosebud-like nipples, or turned her back, peeping over her shoulder and showing a lovely tight bottom. Then his jaw dropped. He recognized her. He pointed to Mrs. Miller. "It's you!"
She nodded roguishly. "My husband did his own developing. He used to get his chemicals and paper from the R.A.F photographic section. It was hard to come by during the war."
"Bloody hell!" repeated Frost for the third time. "You were a little cracker." He showed them to Burton who grinned his approval. Reluctantly, he stuffed them into the wallet and handed them back to her. "You'd better take these with you, love. They'll get us all too excited if you leave them here."
She dropped them in her handbag and snapped it shut. "I wasn't always old, you see," she said wistfully.
"Good job I wasn't around then," said Frost. "Your husband wouldn't have got a look in." He showed her out. When he returned to the interview room, Burton was packing the stuff back in the box.
"Hold on, son," said Frost. "Let's see what other goodies Lemmy had stacked away."
In an old chocolate box they found lots of pornographic photographs, some involving children. There was a set of photographs of a man dressed in women's underwear. Frost showed them to Burton. "I like his frilly knickers, but the beard puts me off." There were letters. Frost read through one and whistled softly. "This is a blow by blow description of what this couple got up to while her old man was away," he told Burton. "And I use the word "blow" advisedly."
"This one's a bit naughty too," said Burton, showing him a deckle-edge sheet of light green notepaper.
Frost found another letter, still in its envelope which gave the name of the recipient. An address Frost recognized. Inside was a letter and a Polaroid colour print of a woman bending over an armchair. A big, hefty woman. Her skirt was up and her knickers were round her ankles. A man in a mortar-board and gown was standing over her, wielding a long leather strap. Frost skimmed through the letter. The writer, a man, was arranging to call round the following evening and was detailing the punishment he meted out to naughty girls. His name and address were not included. Stapled to it was the carbon of a letter to him from the woman explaining how naughty she had been. "Some old tom!" sniffed Burton.
"Not an old tom as it happens," corrected Frost. "She's a retired civil servant . . . lives in one of those posh houses in Charter Street."
"You know her?"
"Not as a client. You know her too, son. She's a friend of Mullett's wife - they both serve on the same hospital committee or something. She reported some money stolen from her bedroom after a man from the Water Board called . . ."
"I remember now," interrupted Burton. "The very next day she claimed she was mistaken and nothing was pinched after all."
"That's her," nodded Frost. "We never suspected it at the time, but I reckon she must have received a blackmail threat - pay up or we send the photos to the vicar, sort of thing." He pulled the photograph towards him and studied it. Behind him the door creaked open.
"Inspector Frost!"
Frost groaned. Flaming Hornrim Harry, ready to give him a bollocking for leaving the loot unattended. He turned with a surprised smile. "I was just on my way in to see you, super." He held up the photograph. "Just for the purposes of elimination, the man in the mortar-board isn't you by any chance?"
Mullett took one look at the photograph and flushed angrily. "You know damn well it isn't. My office - now!"
Mullett's voice droned on and on as Frost sat in the chair, his face a look of rapt attention, his mind miles away, trying to filter out Mullett's drivel as he turned over the day's events in his mind. If Mullett's wife's mate was being blackmailed, it was a near certainty that Lemmy had been putting the squeeze on others for stuff pinched from bedrooms during his Water Board scam. Which meant Lemmy was a blackmailer as well as a thief and here was a strong motive for murder. Perhaps one of his victims had decided that enough was enough. He opened his ears, but Mullett still hadn't finished.
". . . not the sort of behaviour I expect from an officer under my command . . ."
He clicked the sound off again. The first thing to do would be to call on this woman and see if she could throw any light on Lemmy's death. Come on, Mullett hurry up and finish . . . I've got work to do. He became aware of a welcome silence. Mullett had stopped at last and was looking at him questioningly.
"You've finished, sir? Good - sorry and all that. Won't happen again." He snatched up the bag of jewellery and made for the door before the superintendent could think of any more of his shortcomings to moan about.
"Wait!"
It was a tone that could not be ignored, even by Frost. He turned slowly. "Sir?"
"That photograph you showed me . . . there was something familiar about it."
"Don't worry, super . . . I'll try and keep you out of it."
Mullett tightened his lips and stretched out a hand for the Polaroid print. "Let me see it again." He studied it, then took off his glasses and polished them slowly. "It's Mrs. Roberts."
"Top marks!" cried Frost. "I would never have recognized her just from her bare behind . . . although, of course, I've never seen it before . . ."
Mullett reddened. "I recognized the room," he snapped.
"Of course, sir," said Frost. "Whatever you say."
Mullett glowered. "My wife and I have been there many times . . . those pictures . . . that bookcase . . ."
"Oh, I see, sir," said Frost, leaving a lingering tinge of doubt in his voice to annoy Mullett further. "You probably sat in that self-same chair she's bending over, hope excitement doesn't make her dribble."
Mullett wiped his eyes wearily and replaced hi glasses. "Look, Frost, this is all very embarrassing. She's a friend of mine and she's very big in the town."
"She's even bigger round the buttocks," said Frost.
Mullett ignored this. "What do you intend doing with it?"
"I'm going round to her house to show it to her."
Mullett stared hard at the surface of his desk am moved his fountain pen a fraction of an inch. "I think i would be better if I handled that. She's a good friend, but she could also be a very bad enemy. If I could return th photograph and let her know we were keeping her nam out of it, it would make things go a lot smoother in our later dealings."
"Sorry, super," said Frost. "You're too late. I think she's been blackmailed already. In fact it could be th reason Lemmy Hoxton was killed." As he filled Mullett in, the superintendent became more and more agitated.
"I'd prefer it if you would drop it, Frost. I'm sure she' not involved in murder. Dammit, she's a family friend."
Frost adopted his air of puzzled incomprehension. "I this a bit of the Judges' Rules that I've missed, sir - that shouldn't question any murder suspect who happens to be a friend of yours?"
Mullett leant forward, his face creased with anger "You know damn well that's not what I meant. Of course you must question her. If, by some remote chance, she is involved, then you have my full permission. But if this goes wrong, if it blows up in our faces, I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks."
Frost retrieved the photograph and slipped it into his pocket. Mullett, as usual, had covered himself both ways and couldn't lose. "I knew I could rely on your full support, super."
He looked in the murder incident room and yelled for Burton to come with him. Mrs. Roberts was a big woman and he didn't fancy tackling her on his own.
Mrs. Emily Roberts lived in a small, semi-detached house at the end of the road. A neat front garden fronted by a trimmed hedge led to a porch and a front door with coloured leaded lights. The bell push surround was polished brass which Frost smeared by jamming his finger on it. After a pause, the door opened suspiciously on a length of chain and even his warrant card wasn't enough to gain admittance. She snatched it from him and went off to phone the station to make sure they were not imposters. She still remembered the fake Water Board official, but even he looked the part while this scruffy individual who thrust a dog-eared warrant card at her looked nothing like a policeman.
She had demanded to speak to her friend Stanley Mullett, the Divisional Commander. Mullett, who had sounded a trifle edgy on the phone, confirmed that Frost was one of his officers, although he wasn't exactly sure what case the inspector was on at the moment.
They were ordered to wipe their feet, which Frost did very perfunctorily, and were marched into the living-room where a cheery coal fire blazed. She meant for them to sit in the hard chairs, but the scruffy one made for one of her large, leather armchairs. "Lovely chair," remarked Frost, sinking down. "Feels brand spanking new."
Her heart skipped a beat. Was it her imagination, or did he stress the word 'spanking'? She smiled bleakly. "How can I help you?"
The room looked exactly as it did in the photograph, but the woman, large, almost mannish, in her tweed trouser suit, seemed light years away from the baby-talking writer of the letter imploring 'teacher' to correci her errors. "You reported a robbery some months ago; Mrs. Roberts," said Frost. He wished she would sit down. She was standing, towering over him, making him crick his neck as he talked to her.
With an airy wave of the hand she dismissed the nonsense about the robbery. "All a mistake, as I told your officer at the time."
"We're wondering if it was a mistake."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"We think there was a robbery, which you reported, but you then realized he had taken certain items you didn't wish the police to know about."
She drew herself up to her full height, towering over him even more. "There was no robbery. Nothing was taken. I can't help you."
"Why don't you sit down?" said Frost. "Or is your little botsy-wotsy sore?"
She stared, mouth gaping. At first she thought she hadn't heard him correctly and then her eyes widened in stunned shock as he produced the envelope and the photograph.
"Not exactly full face," said Frost, 'but we're pretty certain this is you."
She tried to snatch it from him, but he drew his hand back. "How dare you!" she hissed. "How dare you." Her mouth opened and closed, but that was all she could think of to say.
"Sorry about this," said Frost, sounding as if he meant it, 'but when you lift stones, all sorts of nasty things come crawling out. I'd just like to get a couple of things sorted to help with our enquiries."
"I'm not saying another word." She dropped down in the armchair opposite him and folded her arms defiantly.
"Fair enough," smiled Frost. "Bank up the fire and get your hat and coat. We can continue this down at the station. It's not very private there, I'm afraid, but if you're not ashamed of what you've been up to, then what the hell . . ."
She said nothing, but the defiant look withered.
Frost took a folder from Burton and flipped it open. "On 5th August you telephoned your personal friend, Mr. Mullett, to report a burglary. A man posing as a Water Board engineer gained entrance to your house and after he had left you discovered valuables missing from your bedroom. Within twenty minutes of your phone call you received a visit from Detective Sergeant Hanlon. You gave him a list of stolen items brooches, pearl necklace, gold powder compact, silver bangle . . . total value nearly £2000."
He tugged out the list. "This is what you said were stolen." He held it in front of her. She stared straight ahead as if it wasn't there.