“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.
A tap on the door. The summons to the torture chamber, he thought. But that treat was still to come.
“Lady to see you,” announced Johnny Johnson.
He hoped and prayed it wasn’t Sadie. Not this morning. He couldn’t face her.
The lady was Mrs. Cornish, straight-backed, dressed in mourning black, and clutching an ugly brown handbag. Frost sprung to his feet to shake the rubbish off a chair so she could sit down.
“What brings you here then, Ma?”
In answer, she undid the clasp of the handbag and took out a small paper bag. She tipped its contents on to his desk.
Sovereigns, all minted in the reign of Queen Victoria. Frost counted them. There were forty-one.
He looked at her incredulously. “Where did you get these?”
“I stole them from a tin box in Lil Carey’s piano,” she said. “There were seventy-nine in all.”
“And what happened to the rest of them?” Frost asked.
“Ben took them.”
“Ben?”
She nodded. “Tuesday evening he pushed his way into the house begging me for money for drugs. He was in a terrible state. He couldn’t stop himself shaking and looked as if he hadn’t eaten for days. I said I’d give him food but not money. I left him alone while I went down to the corner shop for some eggs. When I came back the house had been turned upside-down and Ben had gone. He’d taken one of the bags of sovereigns. The other bag was too well hidden, otherwise he’d have taken that as well.”
“What time was this?”
She snapped her handbag shut. “A little after nine.”
A little after nine! The pieces were all slotting together. He could visualize it. Ben hurrying from the house, desperately anxious he shouldn’t be late for his meet with the two drug pushers, the sovereigns heavy in the pockets of that ragged filthy overcoat, enough to buy many little packets. But he didn’t buy any. By nine thirty he was dead.
And yesterday two drug pushers were arrested with the sovereigns in their possession.
It now made sense. Better for them to confess falsely to a burglary than risk being linked by the coins to the murder.
“Those bastards killed my son,” said Mrs. Cornish.
Frost scooped the coins back into the bag. “Let’s get our basic facts straight. You never stole the se coins from old Mother Carey. Danny, perhaps, or even your daughter-in-law — I spotted her family allowance book in Lil’s piano but not you, Ma.”
She met his gaze and stuck out her chin defiantly. “It was me. I’ll swear to it in court.”
The internal phone buzzed. Miss Smith informing him that the Divisipnal Commander would see him now.
“Tell him to wait,” said Frost.
