'Look out, Sidney, you're dribbling,' said Frost.
Snell wiped his mouth. 'I get a sexual kick out of it, but I don't kill — I couldn't.'
Frost sat down on the bunk beside him and lit up a cigarette. 'According to your statement, the kids woke up and started screaming
… all three of them. You had to silence them, so you used the pillow
… and then their mother came running in and you had to kill her as well.'
'No!' Snell was almost shouting now. 'Mr. Cassidy put the words in my mouth. I couldn't kill anyone. I'm terrified of death and dead bodies.' He waved away the cigarette Frost was offering. 'They made me look at my mother's dead body in the hospital. She was all shrivelled up. She looked horrible.'
'She looked pretty bleeding horrible when she was alive,' said Frost.
'I thought they were showing me the wrong body… but it was her. I ran out and never went back. Do you think I'd want to see any more dead bodies after that, Mr. Frost?' He shook his head firmly. 'No way… no way!'
'If you want to withdraw your confession,' said Frost, 'then tell Mr. Cassidy. This isn't my case.'
Snell ignored him, eyes glazed in recollection. He was back in the house that cold, frosty night. 'I tiptoed over to the kids' room. I pushed open the door and held my breath. It was so quiet that should have warned me something was wrong. You can usually hear kids… they make a hell of a row when they're asleep, snorting and snuffling. But I was too excited to worry. There was this little boy. He had little podgy arms lying on top of the eiderdown. I pulled back the sleeve of his pyjamas and pricked him, very quickly. It doesn't hurt them, Mr. Frost. They get frightened when they wake, but it doesn't hurt them. I broke the skin, but he didn't murmur or wake up. I let go of his arm and it just dropped down. And when I touched his face, he didn't move, and I couldn't hear him breathing. None of them were breathing. Then I realized he was dead… they were all dead. I was in a room with three dead kids. I panicked. I charged straight out through the front door and into the street.'
'Was there anyone about in the street at the time?'
'An old boy with a dog. I nearly sent him flying.'
'We know about him. Anyone else?'
'I didn't see anyone. I just raced for the car and got the hell out of there. You've got to help me, Mr. Frost. I'm innocent.'
Frost dropped his cigarette end and stamped it to death on the cell floor. 'You're not innocent, Sidney. You're a perverted little bastard who interferes with kids. We might have got you for the wrong crime, but so what the end result's the same. You get put away and everyone's happy.'
'But if I'm banged up for this, Mr. Frost, it means the real killer gets away with it.'
Frost sighed. 'All right, Sidney, I'll have a sniff around and see what I come up with but don't hold your breath.' He yelled for Bill Wells to let him out. 'Gross miscarriage of justice,' he told the sergeant.
'The only miscarriage of justice would be if they ever let the sod out,' said Wells.
The tottering heap in his in-tray looked ready to fall over at any minute. He skimmed through it to see what he could throw away. A thick wad turned out to be the Crime Rate Detection Statistical Analysis that Liz had prepared with the request that he should check through it and sign it as correct. He signed it unread and hurled it into his out-tray. Then all the papers on his desk fluttered as Cassidy, his face distorted in anger, burst in and jabbed an accusing finger. 'You've been talking to Snell?'
'He asked to see me.'
'Whether he asked to see you or not, he is my prisoner and this is my case. You ask me first understand?'
'All right,' shrugged Frost. 'Keep your hair on.' He was getting more and more fed up with Cassidy.
'What did he want to see you about or did you intend keeping that to yourself?'
'He said he didn't do it.'
Cassidy fluttered pages of stapled typescript in Frost's face. 'He has signed a confession!'
'He wants to withdraw it.'
Cassidy's face went a dirty brick red. His fists clenched and unclenched as if he was ready to punch Frost on the chin. 'It may not fit in with your crack-pot theories but Snell, the man you refused to arrest, has admitted everything. He did it the kids and the mother. So stay away from him. This is my case and I don't want you ruining it to satisfy your own personal ego.' With one last sizzling death-ray of a glare, he spun round and stamped out of the office, nearly sending Burton flying as he did so.
Burton had to clear his throat to attract Frost's attention. 'Mr. Cassidy sounded a bit upset?' He tried hard to keep the pleasure out of his voice.
'You noticed it too?' said Frost in mock surprise. 'I thought it was just me. What can I do for you?'
'You told us to keep an eye on Ian Grafton's place.'
Frost frowned. 'Then I'm sure I had a good reason for it but who the hell is Ian Grafton?'
'The bloke who took Tracey Neal to the bank when Carol Stanfield was abducted.'
'Ah the bloke with the pigtail. What about him?'
'A lot of expensive hi-fi equipment was delivered there this morning. Nine hundred and ninety-five quid's worth.'
He now had Frost's full attention. 'Right check with the shop. Find out how he paid for it.'
'I did,' said Burton, sounding hurt. It was the first thing he had done. 'Cash. Spot cash.'
Frost unhitched his scarf from the hat-stand. 'I think he's worth another visit, son.'
'What now?' asked Burton.
Frost paused. His mind was still on Snell and the three dead kiddies. 'No. There's something I want to do first. That security guard who said Grover and his mate never left the store. I want to talk to him.'
'But that's Mr. Cassidy's case,' Burton pointed out. 'Didn't he just say '
Frost's hand flashed up to cut him short. 'I didn't quite catch what Mr. Cassidy said, son. He was shouting so much. But I'll check with him when we get back.'
The security guard, Paul Milton, lived in a small, three-bed roomed terraced house on the far side of the golf course. If it wasn't for the swirl of damp mist clinging to the green, the bungalow where the tragedy took place could just about be seen, from his upstairs window. Milton's wife, a six-month-old baby in her arms, let them in. 'He's just gone up to bed,' she told them. 'He's on nights this week.'
They followed her into the dining-room where a chubby boy of two was sitting in a high chair chewing solemnly on a slice of bread and jam.
'We would like to see him,' smiled Frost. 'It won't take a minute.'
'Paul!' she yelled, as she plonked herself down next to the high chair and started shovelling Heinz baby food down the infant's throat.
'What is it now?' replied an irritated voice from above. 'I've only just this bloody minute gone up.'
'Police!'
'What do they bloody want?'
'If you bloody come down you'll find out.'
Paul Milton, tucking his shirt inside his trousers, staggered into the room. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven. 'I should be asleep,' he moaned to Frost. 'I'm on duty tonight.' He sat in a chair next to his wife. 'What can I do for… Shit!' The expletive because the baby had spat a mouthful of food all over him. The little boy in the high chair dropped his bread and jam on the floor and started to cry. 'It's like a flaming madhouse in here,' he yelled as his wife placidly retrieved the slice of bread, picked off the worst of the fluff and returned it to the child. He stood up and buttoned his shirt collar. 'We'll go in the lounge.'
He led them out into the passage, but as his hand reached for the door handle to the lounge, he hesitated and did a U turn. 'Perhaps the kitchen would be better.'
But nothing could have been worse than the kitchen which was a tip, even by Frost's low standards. Unwashed plates and saucepans piled high on the draining board, bits of food on the floor alongside a long- unemptied cat's litter tray. A nappy bucket, filled to overflowing, was parked alongside the washing machine. Milton shook a chair to dislodge a heap of mucky bibs and nappies and waved a hand for Frost to sit. The invitation was hastily declined, as was the offer of a cup of tea
Frost lit up a cigarette. He wasn't sure if it was the cat's litter tray or the nappy bucket that was getting to him, but hoped his cigarette smoke might improve the atmosphere. 'Couple of questions to ask you, Air Milton. I know you've covered all this ground already, but I just want to be absolutely sure. It's about Mark Graver.'
