Inspector.’ As he spoke the threat, he swayed from side to side like a snake ready to strike.
‘You’re too kind,’ cooed Frost.
With a furious, laser beam glare, Mullett ordered the inspector to wait for his return, then ushered his visitor out. Left alone in the old log cabin, Frost riffled through Mullett’s in-tray, but found nothing of interest. He was delighted to discover that Mullett’s cigarette box had been newly replenished for the recent visitor, so helped himself to a few, just managing to stuff them in his pocket and put on his contrite expression as the Divisional Commander stamped back, slamming the door behind him.
‘That’, said Mullett, ‘was unforgivable. Mr Knowles is a councillor, a member of the Police Committee and a personal friend of mine.’
And a big, fat drunken bastard to boot, thought Frost. But he hung his head and tried to look ashamed of himself.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Frost, trying to console a gloomy PC Collier with one of Mullett’s cigarettes. ‘You just misinterpreted the law. The law is that if you’re a friend of Mr Mullett’s, then you can get away with bloody murder.’
Collier squeezed out a smile, but was still upset. Frost inhaled deeply, then dribbled out smoke. Something propped against the desk caught his eye. He bent to examine it more closely. It was a brief-case. “What’s this?’
Sergeant Wells stretched over the desk to take a look and immediately panicked. ‘Flaming heck, it could be a bomb.’ His hand shot out for the phone.
‘Hold on,’ muttered Frost, crouching on his haunches to examine the object. ‘Collier, did that fat sod have a brief-case with him when you brought him in?’
‘Yes,’ answered Collier, relieved to provide the explanation. ‘He clung to it like grim death.’
With a grunt, Frost heaved it up on to the desk. ‘I wonder if there’s anything worth pinching inside.’ He tried the catch. It was locked, so he produced his bunch of skeleton keys.
‘You’re not going to open it, are you?’ ask Wells, his head anxiously flicking from side to side in case the Divisional Commander caught them in the act.
'Why not?’ grunted Frost, trying to force a clearly unsuitable key to turn.
Wells backed away. ‘I want nothing to do with it, Jack. Mullett’s still in the building.’
‘A suspected bomb,’ said Frost, his concentration all on the lock. ‘At great personal risk to life, limb and dick I am trying to defuse it… ah!’ The lock yielded with a click. He lifted the flap and looked inside. His jaw dropped and he emitted a long, low whistle. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’ He produced a handful of banknotes. Dirty, creased, well-used banknotes of mixed denominations, fives, tens, twenties, fifties… The sort of money that rarely saw the inside of a bank, or was declared on an income tax return. He dived in and produced a second handful, then riffled his thumb through them. At a rough guess there was something in ex cess of?5,000. ‘I wonder how much of this he gave to Mullett for letting him go? Right, let’s share it out.’ He proceeded to deal out the notes in three piles as if they were playing cards.
‘Put them back, Jack,’ pleaded Wells, now very agitated, his ears straining to catch the first sounds of Mullett’s approaching footsteps.
‘Why?’ asked Frost. ‘The sod’s obviously been up to no good. This is crooked money. It sticks out a mile.’
‘You’ve got no proof.’
‘The man’s a bastard, that’s all the proof I need.’ Reluctantly he stuffed the money back and let Wells lock the brief case away for safe-keeping. A quick peep up the corridor. The light was still on in Mullett’s office. ‘Ah well. No-one will dare commit a crime while Hornrim Harry’s still here, so I’m going off home.’
He poked his head round the door of his office where Gilmore was pecking away at a typewriter. ‘Come on, son. You can surprise your wife in bed with the lodger. We’re having an early night.’
Gilmore didn’t really consider nearly three o’clock in the morning to be an early night, but he didn’t argue. He scooped up his coat and hurried out after the inspector.
There were a few cars dotted about the station car-park. In its specially reserved parking space, sneering at Gilmore’s Ford, stood Mullett’s blue Jaguar. But making the Jaguar look like a poor relation was a gleaming black Bentley. Frost ambled over to it and peered through the tinted windows to the cream leather upholstery and polished figured walnut fascia. A jingle of keys and there was young Collier. ‘Why didn’t you tell me my new motor had arrived?’ asked Frost.
Collier grinned. ‘It’s Councillor Knowles’ car, sir. He went home by taxi. Mr Mullett wants me to drive it back for him.’
‘How can that bastard afford to run a bloody car like this?’ said Frost, walking around the vehicle and giving it his grudging admiration. He stopped in midstride. ‘Gilmore!’ Gilmore, waiting patiently by his own car, came reluctantly over. ‘Remember how Wally Manson told us he nicked those porno videos from an expensive motor?’
Gilmore nodded wearily. There were lots of expensive motors about. He hoped Frost wasn’t going to plunge head first in another of his wild, tenuous, proofless hunches.
‘And you remember how Wally said he jemmied open the boot?’ Frost pointed to the rear of the car. Gilmore moved forward to look. He had to agree. The boot had been forced open — and not too long ago.
‘And the bastard’s got a brief-case full of dirty money,’ Frost continued. ‘What’s the betting he’s been doing the rounds, flogging his dirty videos?’ Frost held out his hand to Collier. ‘Keys, son.’ He took them and unlocked the driver’s door. The aroma of rich leather and cigar smoke. He slid into the driver’s seat and rummaged about in the dash compartment. He found a button to press and a concealed drawer glided open. Inside were a dozen or more of the familiar pornographic videos. Triumphantly he showed them to Gilmore. ‘Proof enough for you?’
‘It’s a start,’ agreed Gilmore, reluctantly. He didn’t want to get involved. People like Councillor Knowles would always come out on top.
Frost told Collier to fetch the brief-case from Sergeant Wells. ‘Tell him I’m going to kindly deliver it in person.’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I’m risking my bloody job.’
Knowles lived in a large rambling house just north of the Bath Road on the outskirts of the town, standing in its own extensive grounds, completely hidden from the road by trees. Although it was well past three in the morning, lights still showed from the downstairs windows. They pulled up in front of a massive black oak door which was flanked by replica flaming torches lit by electric bulbs.
Up two stone steps, guarded on each side by stone watch dogs, to the door where the bell-pull, a heavy black iron ring on a chain, descended from the top of the porch. Frost tugged it and somewhere far in the bowels of the house a bell echoed. The ringing started a dog barking. A door slammed. Someone inside shouted angrily and the dog stopped in mid-bark.
Gilmore’s agitation was showing. Not only were they barging into someone’s house in the dead of night for the flimsiest of reasons, but it was the house of an important friend of the Divisional Commander who would have apoplexy if he knew they were there. Why the hell had Frost dragged him into this? Frost, striking a match on the rump of one of the stone dogs seemed blissfully unaware of the possible consequences of what he was doing.
They waited. Shuffling footsteps, then a light glowed through the coloured glass on either side of the door and a voice called, ‘Who is it?’
‘Police, Mr Knowles,’ said Frost. ‘You left your brief-case at the station.’
Bolts and chains clinked and the door opened wide enough for a hand to pass through. It closed round the handle of the brief-case. ‘Tell Mr Mullett, thank you.’ The brief-case vanished inside and the door jerked back. But it would not close. A scuffed, unpolished shoe prevented it.
‘What the hell!’ Knowles felt the door being pushed open. That damn, scruffy inspector, a cigarette drooping insolently from his mouth, was barging his way into the house.
‘If we could come in for a moment, sir,’ said Frost, kicking the front door shut behind him and snatching the brief-case back from Knowles who was clasping it tightly against a black and red silk dressing gown.
Knowles, the alcohol smell stronger than ever, quivered with rage and pointed dramatically to the front door. ‘If you aren’t out in thirty seconds I am getting on the phone to your Chief Constable.’
