Hard Frost (28 page)

   "Dark blue," replied Liz.

   He sucked in smoke and coughed, shaking ash all over a memo from Mullett complaining about the inadequacy of his daily call reports. "Could be a clue there, somewhere." He heaved himself up and snatched his scarf from the hat-stand. Something was nagging away at him, something just out of reach, something he knew he should have picked up, but the more he tried to remember, the more it crept back to cower in the dark, inaccessible recesses of his mind. He had to get out of the office and think. "I'm off to see her doctor. Let's find out if he agrees with the husband about her suicidal tendencies."

The waiting room was crowded, people hunched up coughing, snuffling and groaning in counterpoint to children running around, screaming unchecked. If you weren't ill when you went in, you certainly would be after a few minutes of this.

   The receptionist was flustered. Patients were annoyed with her because the doctor was running late, the phone was ringing nonstop, and this scruffy man, claiming to be a detective, wanted to nip in in front of people who had been waiting for nearly an hour. "I don't know when he will be able to see you. We're very, very busy," she said.

   "That makes two of us," said Frost.

   She looked up as a patient emerged from the surgery clutching a prescription form and was about to ask the next patient to go in when this scruffy man scooted in before the surgery door closed and before she could warn the doctor.

   "I thought I was next," said one of the women indignantly. "I'm writing to the General Medical Council about this."

   The doctor, a plump young man in his early thirties, was at his desk, scribbling something in a register. He didn't look up as Frost entered. "Please sit down, Mrs. Jenkins. What's the trouble?"

   "The sex change operation didn't work," said Frost, sitting as requested.

   The doctor looked up startled. "I thought - "

   "I'm not a patient," said Frost, sliding a warrant card across. "Police."

   The doctor stared at the warrant card as if Frost had just dumped a hand grenade with the pin removed on his desk. "Look, officer. I think my solicitor had better be present. I never touched that girl. She stripped to the waist, I gave her a normal examination. I know she was only fifteen - "

   "Hold it," interrupted Frost. "This is nothing to do with that . . . I wish it were, it sounds quite juicy. I'm enquiring about another patient of yours Mrs. Nancy Grover, Cresswell Street."

   In his relief, the doctor couldn't have been more helpful. He dragged a file from his filing cabinet and opened it up. "Yes those poor children. I had no idea she would do anything like that."

   "What were you treating her for?"

   "Depression - paranoia. She imagined people were following her everywhere she went, watching her, staring at her through the windows of her bungalow at night when her husband wasn't there."

   "And the bastard rarely was there, was he? Shouldn't she have had specialized help?"

"Yes. I wanted to send her to a consultant psychiatrist, but she wouldn't go. I prescribed tranquillizers, but I don't think she took them."

   "You say she was imagining she was being watched . . . that a man was looking through her window. Could this really have happened?"

   "It's possible. It's difficult to be certain with patients like her. They are convinced that things that only happen in their own minds are actually occurring. She was so upset because her husband didn't believe her."

   "What do you think brought it all on?"

   The doctor gave a sad smile. "Three children, another on the way. A husband who worked most of the day and was then out drinking most of the night. No relatives or close friends she could confide in. It was all getting too much for her."

   Frost stared at the desk in silence. He felt so sorry for the poor cow. He stood up. Thanks, doc."

   Angry faces sped him on his way out of the waiting-room. Outside in the darkened street, the first heavy drops of rain were splattering the pavement.

   "Penny for the guy, mister?"

   He froze. The small boy standing in front of him with his palm outstretched, a misshapen Guy Fawkes propped up in a push chair at his side, was the spitting image of Bobby Kirby. But it wasn't Bobby, of course.

   "You didn't ought to be out," said Frost.

   "You tight-fisted old sod," said the boy, trundling off with the push chair

   Frost watched him go and wondered if parents should be warned of the dangers. He'd have a word with Mullett when he got back.

   As he turned the key in the ignition and his engine tried to cough itself into life, the radio called him. Burton sounding excited. At first Frost couldn't take in what he was saying, his mind was still on that poor woman and her kids, terrified because someone had been staring in the house. Her husband didn't believe her and had left her all alone. Could the face at the window, the face that everyone thought was only in her mind, have been the face of Sidney Snell? He shuddered, then realized Burton was still talking.

   "Sorry, son - I didn't catch that."

   Burton told him again, slowly and clearly as if the poor old sod was going deaf. This time Frost was able to share the DC's delight. The first stroke of luck they had had in the Lemmy Hoxton case.

   The television set bought posthumously with Lemmy's credit card had been registered for the guarantee.

   They had a name and address.

Chapter 11

"He registered the guarantee!" said Burton triumphantly. "Douglas Cooper, 2a Merchant Street, Denton. And he's got a record." He handed the inspector a photostat of the record sheet.

   Frost didn't need to read it. "I know Duggie Cooper, son. I've nicked him a couple of times . . . breaking and entering, handling stolen goods, obtaining money under false pretences."

   He looked at his watch. Ten past two. He shook his wrist with annoyance. He must have forgotten to wind the damn thing last night. "Have we got time to give Duggie a tug before the ransom caper?"

   Burton checked his own watch. Six thirty-five. The ransom call was due to be made at eight. "Not really," he said.

   "Let's do it anyway," said Frost.

   Merchant Street, a narrow side road to the north of Denton, was jam-packed with parked cars, most of them without a current tax disc. Burton had to double park at the end of the street and they walked back to the house. A dark grey Ford transit van stood outside Duggie's house and this reminded Frost that he should get someone to keep an eye on the boyfriend of Tracey Neal with the light brown van.

   Cooper answered their ring. A thin-faced, shifty-eyed man in his late thirties, he had a little toothbrush moustache with dark, greasy hair brushed straight back. His face fell when he saw who his visitors were. "Mr. Frost!"

   "Just passing," said Frost. "Knew you'd never forgive us if we didn't drop in and say hello." He pushed past Cooper and went straight into the lounge. There it was, in the corner, gleaming and dominating the room, a large screen Panasonic television set. Frost plonked himself down on the settee and pulled out his cigarettes.

   Cooper hurried in after them looking very agitated. "What do you want, Mr. Frost?"

   Frost tutted reproachfully. "Since when do friends have to have a reason for calling on each other?"

   "I ain't done nothing," said Cooper.

   Frost cupped a hand to his ear as if he had difficulty in hearing what Cooper was saying. "You give us permission to search your house, did you say? That's damn decent of you, Duggie. It saves all that sodding about getting a warrant." He nodded to Burton, who scuttled up the stairs before Cooper could stop him.

   A woman bounded into the room. Duggie's wife Jean hadn't started out as a redhead and the various colour changes she had gone through before reaching her present shade had left their mark on the final result. "There's a bloke going up our stairs," she shouted, stopping abruptly in mid-protest when she saw Frost. She screwed up her face in annoyance. "Oh no - just what we bloody need!" Hand on hips, she glowered at her husband, then spun back to Frost. "Don't try and tell me he's done something, because he never does damn all. He sits on his arse in the house all day and never does a bloody stroke." The thudding of Burton's feet across the ceiling made her look up. "What's he looking for? There's nothing in the house that shouldn't be here . . ." And then she saw the expression on Duggie's face. "At least, there bloody well had better not be!"

   "Nice telly," said Frost, nodding at the set in the corner. "Must have cost a bomb."

   "It's all legitimate," she snapped. "We've got the receipt." She darted across to the sideboard and pulled open a drawer. "It's in here . . ."

   Duggie sprang across and pushed the drawer shut. "No, it isn't," he said.

   She frowned. "What are you talking about? I saw it there this morning."

   "No, you didn't," he hissed. "I lost it . . . weeks ago."

   "But I saw . . ." And then the penny dropped. With an icy glare at her husband which said, I'll sort this out with you later, she turned to Frost, smiling sweetly. "Duggie's right. We lost it."

   "Then it's lucky I called in," said Frost. "Because I've got a copy of the receipt here." Humming to himself, he unfolded the photostat and pretended to check the details. "Panasonic . . . Model No. TXT2228 . . . serial number . . . call out the serial number, would you, Duggie it's on the back."

   He waited as Duggie moved the heavy set with difficulty and read it out. "TXT2822311Y."

   "Check," beamed Frost, folding the receipt and returning it to his inside jacket pocket. He stood up. "Sorry I troubled you, Lemmy . . ." He frowned. "Why did I call you Lemmy? Your name isn't Lemmy . . . I must be going bloody mad." He took the receipt from his pocket again as if to check the name.

   "All right, all right," said Duggie. "It was bought with Lemmy Hoxton's credit card. He owes me, so he let me use it." He fumbled for a cigarette and lit up with a none too steady hand.

   "Ah," said Frost, sitting down again. "I knew there was a rational explanation. When did he give you his card?"

   "The same day Iixnight the telly."

   "You bought the telly and gave the card back to him?"

   "Of course."

   "What deodorant does Lemmy use?" asked Frost.

   "Eh?" frowned Duggie. "What's that got to do with it?"

   "It must be bloody strong stuff, because the day he lent you the card Lemmy would have been stinking the place out - he'd been dead for two months."

   "Dead?" Duggie's mouth gaped open, the lighted cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

   Frost nodded cheerfully. "Dead - the way Domestos kills ninety-nine per cent of known germs. You killed him and took his credit card."

   "Killed him?" echoed Duggie, his face now a chalky white.

   "Him? Kill Lemmy?" screeched his wife. "Don't make me laugh. He wouldn't kill a bloody fly."

   "A bloody fly hasn't got a credit card, has it?" asked Frost. He looked up as Burton returned carrying a drawer from a dressing-table.

   "Found this upstairs," said Burton. It was crammed with cheap jewellery, silver-plated photo frames, trinket boxes, tawdry stuff, most of which Frost recognized from the list of articles stolen by the phoney Water Board inspector.

   "Dear, dear," said Frost. "I might have overlooked you murdering Lemmy, but stealing from old ladies . . . Douglas Cooper, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder and robbery. Anything you say, etc. You know the rest off by heart."

   "I never damn well killed him," cried Duggie.

   "On being charged, the prisoner said, "It's a fair cop, guvnor, you've got me to rights," chanted Frost. "Come on, Duggie. We're off to the nick."

   Duggie's wife was boiling with rage. "That bloody telly. You had to be clever and buy it. There was nothing wrong with the old one."

   "You said you wanted a big one," answered Duggie, meekly.

   "She didn't mean the telly," said Frost, hustling him out. "Come on - I'm running late."

There was a sour, stale smell in the interview room. Someone had been sick in it recently and the lingering aroma was proving its superiority over the cheap pine disinfectant used to swab it out.

   Burton fed a cassette into the recorder and announced who was present while Frost lowered himself carefully into the chair opposite Duggie.

   "Right, Duggie," said Frost. "Time to make a clean breast of all your naughtiness. We found a quantity of items believed to be stolen in your house today. Would you like to tell us about them?"

   "No comment," said Duggie.

   "We also found a television set known to have been purchased with Lemmy Hoxton's credit card some two months after his death. Would you like to tell us about that?"

   "No comment," said Duggie.

   "Are you going to say "No comment" to everything I ask you?"

   "No comment," repeated Duggie, stubbornly.

    "Switch the bleeding tape off," said Frost. "Interview terminated at whatever time it is." He rammed a cigarette in his mouth. "You're a prat, Duggie. We don't need your statement. I've got enough evidence to convict you without it. I don't think you killed Lemmy - you haven't got the bottle - but I need an arrest and you are tailor made. As long as I get a conviction, I score the Brownie points and the fact that you didn't do it is neither here nor there." He jerked a thumb at Burton. "Take him back to his cell."

   He wandered back to his office where Liz Maud was working diligently through a pile of returns, too busy to look up. He sat at his desk, trying to work out where he was with the cases they were handling. The dead Dean Anderson was connected with the Bobby Kirby kidnapping and, hopefully, this would be resolved tonight when they nabbed the kidnapper picking up the ransom. A message on his desk from Newcastle police stated there was no sign of Snell back at his flat, but they were keeping a close watch. So that case was in abeyance until they found him. Another sheet of paper on his desk detailed the findings of the lab who had analysed the contents of Lemmy Hoxton's stomach and were able to report that Lemmy had died within two hours of consuming a meal consisting of salmon fish cakes, chips and peas, washed down with a carbonated Coke drink.