Authors: R. D. Wingfield
Frost had to shout over the clatter of the hammering. "Just checking. Are you sure you phoned Mark Grover just before midnight?"
"Of course I'm sure. I told the tart - the lady - her!" He jabbed a thumb at Liz.
"Well," yelled Frost, 'in spite of what you told the tart, the lady, her, we seem to have a problem."
"And what's that?"
"The store switchboard shuts down at eight and all calls go to the answer-phone
Maltby gave a smug smile. "I didn't use the store's line. I called him on his mobile phone."
"His mobile phone?" echoed Liz in dismay. "I assumed you used the normal phone."
"Then you assumed wrong, darling, didn't you?"
"You told me he was definitely at the store."
"And so he was. Where else would he be?"
"Any bloody where he liked," said Frost. "He could have been having it away in bed with the tart, the lady, her, or he could have been back at home."
"Well, he wasn't, smart-arse. He was here working."
"And how can you be so bloody positive?"
"Because he bloody told me, that's why. Now if you'll excuse me, some of us have got work to do."
"All right," said Liz defensively as they walked back to the car. "It no longer proves he was at the store, but that doesn't mean he wasn't. We've got two other people who confirm he was there."
"You're too negative," said Frost. "He started off with three people supporting his alibi, and now there's only two. Let's go and see the night security guard."
They heard the radio squawking away as they neared the car. It was Cassidy at his smuggest. "Thought you'd like to know, inspector, I've got the case all tied up. Snell has confessed."
At first Frost couldn't take it in and stared at the handset in disbelief. "Confessed?"
"Coughed the lot - the mother and the kids. Said it all happened in a haze - he didn't know what came over him." There was a long pause. Frost, so sure Snell didn't do it, so bloody sure, couldn't think of a thing to say. "Are you still there?" asked Cassidy.
"Yes," said Frost hastily. "Sorry. Congratulations . . . good work." He did his utmost to sound sincere, but knew he hadn't succeeded. A rustling over the speaker as someone else took the microphone. It was Mullett.
"Whatever you are doing, Frost, I want you here, now - no excuses."
Frost switched off. "The bugger's confessed," he told Liz, still unable to believe it. "Which rather tends to shoot my theory that the father did it right up the arse."
She felt sorry for him. "You spotted an inconsistency that no-one else did, inspector . . . even Mr. Cassidy. You checked it out."
He flashed her a wry grin. "For a tart, a woman, a what's it, you're not at all bad, sergeant. Ah well, it's bollock-chewing time, folks. Back to the ranch."
Mullett was waiting for him and managed a quick jab with his finger at the chair just before Frost decided to sit anyway.
"Two things, Frost. The press have somehow got hold of the fact that you suspected Snell before the killings but did nothing about it. They're clamouring for a statement. Secondly, I've had Sir Richard Cordwell on the phone. May I take it you have not yet been in touch with him?"
"Not yet," said Frost.
"Not yet?" echoed Mullett in a tone of exaggerated disbelief. "You're telling me that you haven't even phoned to ask if, by some remote chance after last night's fiasco, the kidnapper had kept his side of the bargain?"
"I'm sure Sir Richard would have told us if he had," replied Frost.
"Pathetic!" snapped Mullett.
Frost nodded wryly. This time Hornrim Harry was right.
"You will not, I am sure," continued Mullett, 'be surprised to learn that there has been no such contact. Cordwell is convinced it is because of your clumsy intervention after promising to stay out of it." He leant forward. "You assured me nothing could go wrong. You gave me a categorical undertaking."
Frost did a mental playback of his conversations with the superintendent and was damn sure he had given no such assurance.
Mullett removed his glasses and polished them sadly. "I can't save you from the wolves this time, inspector." He oozed insincerity.
When have you ever? thought Frost.
"Now that he's laid out the money, Cordwell wants his pound of flesh. He was hoping to be feted as the saviour who paid the ransom and saved the child, but now that is no longer possible, he is settling for the benefactor whose excellent intentions were thwarted by police bungling. He has called a press conference for ten o'clock to tell everyone about the fiasco."
"There was no fiasco last night," said Frost. "We didn't show ourselves until long after the kidnapper had left with the money. The fact that the old boy Finch turned up on the scene with his fleabag of a dog had nothing at all to do with us."
A thin wintery smile from Mullett. "I imagine Sir Richard will tell the story slightly differently. But hear this, Frost," and he jabbed his finger at the inspector. "You are not dragging me down into the mire of your foul-ups." He waved a sheet of paper filled with his neat handwriting. "I am already drafting my report to the Chief Constable."
Frost nodded curtly as he stood up. "Don't take too much of the blame on yourself, sir, just to get me out of trouble . . . and don't overpraise me you know how embarrassed I get."
Mullett shrugged as he pulled the cap from his Parker fountain pen. He would let it go. With luck, the inspector wouldn't be with Denton Division much longer.
In the outer office the clatter of the typewriter suddenly started up as Ida Smith, Mullett's devoted private secretary, quickly returned to her typing after straining her ears to hear the music of her boss giving Frost a dressing down. She was loyal to Mullett and if he didn't like the inspector, then neither did she. In any case, the man was uncouth. That filthy seaside postcard! And she certainly wasn't bending down anywhere within jabbing range of that stubby finger. If it wasn't so embarrassing she would have put in an official complaint. She gave a malevolent smirk as Frost ambled past her. To her surprise he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. "It's good to know I've got at least one friend in this place, Ida," he said, giving her a little squeeze.
Like her boss, it took her a little time to recognize sarcasm. She returned to her typing, hammering the keys as if they were nails to be driven into Frost's coffin.
Sergeant Johnnie Johnson waylaid him as he was on his way to his office. "Jack - guess who's here to see you?"
Frost furrowed his brow as if giving this serious consideration. "Not Princess Di again I told her never to bother me at work."
"No."
"Then I give up." He was in no mood for guessing games.
"Tommy Dunn. He wants to see you."
"Well, I don't want to see him. He's dropped me right in it thanks to his bloody sticky fingers."
"He says it's urgent," insisted Johnnie, trotting behind him into the office.
Frost dropped into his chair, flicked through his in-tray and weeded out the two latest memos from Mullett, which he consigned to the rubbish bin. "What does he want?"
"He was charged with stealing last night. He wants you to get him off the hook."
"I want someone to get me off the bleeding hook. Tommy knows damn well I can't help him." He sighed. Dunn was a shit and a bastard, but he had done Frost one or two good turns in the past. "All right - wheel him in . . . but for Pete's sake don't let Cassidy know he's here."
Dunn was an overweight, useless-looking man. A red-faced Oliver Hardy without the little moustache, and in his late forties. He waited for Johnnie Johnson to leave before sitting down. "Sorry about last night, Jack."
"You dropped me right in it, Tommy. Right flaming in it!"
"Wouldn't have had it happen for the world, Jack," mumbled Dunn. "Look you've got to help me. I don't want to go to prison. You know how they love ex-cops inside."
"You won't go to prison for a first offence."
"It's not a first offence, Jack. I had a similar unhappy experience when I was security guard over at Casheasy's in Lexton, then there was - "
Frost cut him short. "Then how did you get a job with Savalot? I thought they vetted their security staff?"
"I fiddled my reference. I got some of their letter heading."
Frost held up a hand. "Spare me the details, Tommy. So what happened this time?"
"Silly mistake. I came out without any money so I took a couple of bottles from their spirits store. It wasn't pinching - I intended buying two bottles to replace them, but they caught me before I could do it."
"And what happened when they searched your house?"
"Another misunderstanding. They found some bottles of spirits and tried to make out I'd nicked them. But I'd bought them, Jack - days ago."
"If you had bottles in the house, then why did you have to take two more without paying? I'm sorry, Tommy. You're not only a silly sod, you're a lying bastard as well. I'm pretty gullible, but even I can't swallow that."
Dunn pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "I can't go inside, Jack. I couldn't face it. You're in with Cordwell. You've got to get him to drop these charges."
Frost gave a scoffing laugh. "Me in with Cordwell? He wants my head and my private parts on a platter, and with Mullett's help he's probably going to get them."
Dunn looked round to make sure the door was shut, then leant across the desk to Frost, his voice lowered. "A deal, Jack. I've got some dirt against him that you can use as a lever."
"I'm not getting involved in your bloody blackmailing capers," said Frost. "Forget it, Tommy. I can't help."
"At least listen to what it is, Jack."
Frost chucked him a cigarette and poked one in his own mouth. "All right, but make it quick."
Dunn took a long drag at the cigarette, squirted a stream of smoke then perched it on the edge of Frost's ashtray. "Do you remember that spate of forged ten and twenty pound notes we had in the town about eighteen months ago?"
Frost nodded. Some £30,000 worth had been passed before the bank twigged and the shops were put on the alert. They had never caught the gang, who had moved on to somewhere else and were eventually arrested in Manchester. "Mr. Allen's case. What about it?"
"Savalot got lumbered with about twenty thousand quid's worth of the forgeries."
"Too bad," said Frost, not giving a damn.
"If you remember, the gang started passing on a Friday - Savalot's big shopping day. We whammed the takings into the bank on the Saturday morning. Monday was a bank holiday and we were open on the Sunday as well - three days of peak trading. Tuesday morning, first thing, the bank phones us - the money we paid in on Saturday morning included four thousand quid's worth of forgeries. They told us how to spot them so we wouldn't take any more, but it was a bit bleeding late. We'd another three days' worth in the safe ready to pay in. Cordwell did his nut."
"I'm glad it had a happy ending," said Frost.
"You haven't heard the punch line yet, Jack. We didn't even get the forged notes back they were confiscated. So we checked the weekend's takings and there it was - another fifteen thousand quid's worth of phoney tens and twenties."
"There's going to be some point to all this, I hope," said Frost.
"Patience, Jack, patience. Anyway, once Cordwell realized we had all this duff cash and if he tried to pay it into the bank he would lose the lot, he went berserk, so he packed it all away in his safe. He's been hoping for a robbery or a fire so he can claim it off the insurance as genuine. And over the months he's been passing small amounts of it out to all his branches. It goes in the tills and gets handed out to customers in change. He's got rid of nearly two thousand quid that way and has only had a couple of come-backs. Anyway, let's jump to the ransom . . ."
A gleam flashed in Frost's eye. He was way ahead of Dunn now. "You're not trying to tell me he used the forged notes to help make up the ransom money?"
"Getting on for £13,000 worth. I don't suppose it's a crime to pay off a kidnapper in forged currency, but I bet he wouldn't want the public to know."
Frost leant back in his chair and beamed up at the ceiling. "Tommy, if you're telling me the truth . . ."
"I am, Jack, I am."
"Then not only are you off the hook, I might be as well." He opened the door and ushered Tommy out. "I'll be in touch but bake a cake with a file in it just in case." As Dunn turned the corridor, Frost was yelling for Burton. "Keep an eye on the shop, son. I'm off to see Cordwell."
Cordwell looked at Frost, his eyes glinting malevolently. "You've got two minutes, then the press conference. Have you caught the kidnapper or got the kid back?"
"No," said Frost.
"Then start scouring the Help Wanted ads, because you'll be out of a bloody job after today."
"I don't think so," said Frost.
"You sodded it up. You mounted an inadequate surveillance after assuring me you would not get involved. You let the kidnapper get away with my money and because the police were there, he won't release the kid, so you've got that on your bloody conscience."
"There's a rumour going around - " began Frost.
Cordwell banged his fist on his desk. "I am not interested in bloody rumours."
"You'll be interested in this one. The very strong whisper is that the reason the kidnapper hasn't kept his side of the bargain is because he didn't appreciate being paid out with forged banknotes."
Cordwell jerked back, wincing as if he had been hit, but quickly composed himself and picked up a paper knife which he gently tapped on his desk. He spoke quietly, looking at something behind Frost as if the matter was of no importance. "And who has been putting about these malicious rumours?"
Frost gave him a sweet smile. "A couple of nasty bastards - me for one, Tommy Dunn for the other."