and done nothing for our own. What on earth am I going to tell the Chief Constable?’
The drone of Mullett’s voice roared and faded and Frost had to jerk his head up to keep awake. He fought back a yawn. This was all his life seemed to be lately, making balls- ups, getting bollockings from Mullett, and then sent out to make a fresh balls-up.
‘… and, in any case, I had told you to concentrate on the senior citizen killings. So leave the Paula Bartlett case for Mr Allen and try and find that other suspect you let slip through your fingers. I want no more mess-ups.’ He leant across his desk, his chin thrust out. ‘Are you receiving me, Inspector?’
‘Loud and clear,’ said Frost. ‘Loud and bloody clear.’
1.15 a.m. The lobby had a sour smell. A mixture of stale beer and spilt whisky. Wells was shouting at PC Jordan who, helped by young PC Collier, was struggling with a man in evening dress. The man’s legs kept giving way and he seemed ready to collapse in the pool of vomit at his feet. At last they managed to sit him down safely on the bench.
‘Anything in from the Met on Simon Bradbury?’ asked Gilmore.
‘How the hell do I know?’ snapped Wells, irritably. ‘I don’t keep track of every bit of paper that comes in and out of this building. And another…’ He stopped short and yelled, ‘Take him outside! Quick!’ The drunk was being sick again. Jordan and Collier grabbed him, but too late. More vomit pumped out and they jumped back just in time as it splattered on the lobby floor. Eyes squinting, the drunk tried to make out what the mess was at his feet.
‘Bloody marvellous!’ cried Wells, and he looked around for someone to vent his anger on. PC Collier decided this was a good time to take a refreshment break and sidled out towards the rest room, but didn’t quite make it.
‘And where do you think you’re going, Collier?’
‘Refreshment break, Sergeant.’
Wells consulted his watch and found, to his disappointment, that Collier was entitled to his break. ‘Right. When you come back you can clean up this mess.’
‘That’s not my job, Sergeant,’ Collier protested, firmly.
‘Your job is to do what I bloody well tell you to do,’ yelled Wells as Collier stamped out, slamming the door behind him. Red-faced Wells charged, fists clenched, after him. ‘I’ll have you, Collier.’
Frost cut across to bar his way. ‘Hold it, Bill. Hold it,’ he said, soothingly. ‘We’re all tired and overworked.’ He poked a cigarette in the sergeant’s mouth and led him back to the desk. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘There’s a kettle in the rest room,’ said Wells. ‘You might bring me one.’
The only occupant of the rest room was Collier who was huddled in a chair in front of a 14-inch colour TV set, warming his hands round a mug of instant coffee and brooding over the injustices of working under Sergeant Wells. On the screen, a young girl in pigtails who didn’t look much older than twelve was sprawled naked on some grass, sun bathing. The camera moved to show a man with a riding crop watching from the cover of some bushes. Behind the man a board read Trespassers Will Be Punished.
‘Where did you get that video?’ demanded Gilmore, sharply.
Snatched too abruptly from his morose meditation, Collier started, spilling instant coffee down the front of his uniform. He reached out to switch off the set, but Frost grabbed his wrist. ‘Leave it, son. Where did you get it?’
‘We only borrowed it, Inspector. We were going to put it back.’ He held up a video case which had the typed label A Thrashing For Fiona. It was one of the haul of pornographic videos removed from the newsagent’s.
On the screen the naked girl was on her knees, pleading with the man who was slapping the riding crop against his leg.
‘Go and fetch Sergeant Wells,’ ordered Frost, dragging another chair in front of the set.
Collier registered dismay. It was unlike the inspector to report people. ‘I only borrowed it, sir.’
Dragging his eyes from the TV set where the girl was across the man’s knees, being thrashed with the riding crop, Frost gave a reassuring grin. ‘Don’t worry, son. I’ll tell him I took it. Just send him in.’
Gilmore spooned instant coffee into three mugs and filled them with boiling water. He passed one to Frost and sat beside him in the, chair vacated by Collier.
A clatter of footsteps up the passage and Wells came in. ‘Look, Jack, I haven’t got time…’ He stopped dead as he caught sight of the screen. ‘Bloody-hell…!’ He grabbed the other chair and sat down.
Engrossed, Frost gulped down his coffee, unaware that he hadn’t added his usual three heaped teaspoons of sugar. The man was now using the riding crop to do something unspeakable. ‘He caught her trespassing,’ Frost told Wells, explaining the plot.
‘Serves her bloody right,’ said Wells. ‘She’ll think twice before she does it again.’
The video finished abruptly. Frost fed another one in. The title read Animal Passions. An interior scene this time. The same pigtailed girl, naked and with a dog, a large white and brown Great Dane with a torn left ear, its tail wagging furiously. The girl lay on her back. The dog, slowly and deliberately, was licking her.
‘I bet he prefers that to Pedigree Chum,’ croaked Wells.
‘Who wouldn’t,’ said Frost.
Gilmore looked at his watch. Nearly two o’clock. He’d told Liz he’d try and pop in during the shift, even if it was only for half an hour. He tried to catch Frost’s attention as the fool sat there, eyes bulging, like a schoolboy with a dirty book. ‘Do you mind if I take a break, Inspector? About half an hour or so? I’d like to pop home.’
‘Sure,’ muttered Frost, his eyes glued to the screen where the dog, tongue lolling, whites of eyes showing, was coupling with the girl.
This was too much for Gilmore who turned away in disgust. As he reached for the door handle it was abruptly snatched away from him as the door opened and there, framed in the doorway like an avenging angel, stood a furious and angry Mullett.
The internal phone rang.
Gilmore stared at Mullett, open-mouthed. Bloody Frost had dropped him in it again. He was sure the Divisional Commander had gone home.
Frost and Wells, eyes fixed rigidly on the screen, were blissfully ignorant of this visitation and Gilmore could do nothing to alert them.
Mullett pushed Gilmore to one side and strode into the rest room. He stood between the two men and the TV set and glowered down at them, his face thunder black.
Wells nearly had a heart attack.
‘Hello, Super. This is a pleasant surprise,’ said Frost, managing an unconvincing grin.
The phone kept on ringing. Glad of something to do, Gilmore answered it. It was Collier warning them that the Divisional Commander was on his way in.
‘Thank you,’ hissed Gilmore through clenched teeth, “but we know.’
‘What the devil is going on here?’ spluttered Mullett. ‘I look in on my way back from a function and what do I find? The lobby floor plastered with vomit, a junior officer left on his own to cope and the station sergeant and other officers in the rest room, watching…’ His eyes bulged as he looked over his shoulder to see just what they were watching, obscene, bestial videos.’
Wells was on his feet, his mouth opening and closing in the hope that his brain would provide him with something mitigating to say. Gilmore wished the ground would open and swallow him. At the first opportunity he would request an interview with Mullett to explain that he was not there from choice.
Frost didn’t appear to be paying his Divisional Commander much attention, but leant forward to study the antics on the screen more closely.
Mullett’s lips compressed as he bottled up his rage. This was the last straw. ‘Would you please wait outside,’ he asked the other two men. A mad scramble for the door as they raced to comply, leaving the inspector as hostage for the superintendent’s fury.
Frost dragged his chair closer to the TV set. Angrily, Mullett pushed in front of him, blocking his view. ‘If I might have your attention,’ he began icily then nearly burst a blood vessel as Frost had the temerity, the brazen- faced in subordinate impudence, to reach out and push his Divisional Commander to one side.
‘How dare you,’ he spluttered when the words finally came.
Flapping a hand for Mullett to be quiet, Frost roared out, ‘Gilmore… in here! Quick.’
The detective sergeant came back in the room, looking first at the purple-faced, rage-quivering Mullett, then at Frost who was on his knees operating the rewind button on the video recorder. Like a silent film in reverse, the
