Stanley laughed. An overwrought laugh. “It’s not even bloody loaded, Mr. Frost.”
“What?”
“I fired my last cartridge half an hour ago. It’s empty — look.” His finger tightened on the trigger to demonstrate.
Frost’s arm swung out to knock the gun away, just in case Stan was mistaken, but even as he moved the explosive blast hammered at his ears. Stanley stared, open-mouthed, in horror, pointed an accusing finger at Frost and pitched forward, vomiting blood, the red stain on his chest spreading, spreading…
“Get an ambulance!” shouted Frost as armed police charged into the room. He cradled Stanley’s head in his arms. Outside a woman was screaming uncontrollably — Sadie Eustace.
“You silly sods!” yelled Frost. “The gun wasn’t loaded. You silly sods…”
Ingram had fired the shot.
They carried Stanley’s body out on a stretcher, the red blanket pulled up to cover his face. As Frost emerged Sadie lunged at him. “You bastard you let them kill him.” Webster and a woman police officer held her back. Frost walked on. There was nothing he could say to her.
Back in the room, the post-mortem.
“It wasn’t even loaded,” said Frost.
“I didn’t know,” said Ingram. “I saw him pulling the trigger. I didn’t know.”
“You’re not expected to know, Sergeant,” snapped Allen. “If a killer points a gun at a police officer and then pulls the trigger, you are entitled to assume the gun is loaded.”
“I quite agree,” said Mullett. “The person reproaching himself should be you, Frost. You placed this entire operation in jeopardy because of your cheap tactics. We’ll talk about this further in my office, first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Frost. Stan dead. Sadie widowed. That was all that mattered. He sat in a chair and lit a cigarette.
“We’d better see the press now,” said Mullett to Allen. He sighed. “Pity that damn shotgun wasn’t loaded. It would have made a splendid story.” They went out together.
Frost dribbled smoke and peered at Ingram through the haze. The sergeant looked shattered.
“I thought he was going to kill you. I saw him pulling the trigger. I didn’t know the gun was empty.”
“Sit down,” said Frost. “I think we ought to have a talk.”
Ingram sat.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it son?” said Frost.
“Yes,” muttered Ingram.
“I was hoping a bloke called Dawson had done it,” said Frost. “Dave Shelby had been knocking off his wife. But Dawson had an alibi. He was in some shooting contest until late evening.”
“Oh,” said Ingram.
Frost lit a second cigarette from the first. “He belongs to the same shooting club as you do. In fact you were both down for the clay pigeon shooting contest that afternoon, but you left early didn’t even go in for your heat. The club secretary told me. He said you left just before five with your shotgun tucked under your arm.”
“I wasn’t feeling well enough to shoot,” said Ingram.
“So the secretary said,” agreed Frost. He reached in his pocket for the packet of photographs and put them on the small table in front of him. “Shelby was knocking your wife off as well, wasn’t he?”
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.”
