DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

flared as Thorley lit an an old brass oil lamp which spluttered and spat out choking black smoke, but at least masked most of the other odours. He cranked up the wick, then replaced the glass chimney. They could now make out, dimly, the camp bed, some upholstered chairs rescued from a rubbish heap, and a card table on which were four food-encrusted plates and various half-finished tins of beans and pilchards. The floor was carpeted with dirty socks, unwashed underclothes, and empty spirit bottles.
    “Be it ever so humble,” said Desmond, noting their disapproval.
    “Humble?” snorted Frost. “It’s a bloody shithouse.”
    “That,” sniffed Desmond, ‘is rude.” He fluttered a hand toward the chairs. “Sit down if you like, but be careful. The cat’s been sick somewhere and I’m still trying to find out where.” He flopped himself down, but they opted to stand.
    “Did you have a visit from one of our police officers yesterday?” Frost asked him.
    He flapped a vague, limp hand. “I might have done, Inspector, but my memory’s not at its best at this unearthly hour.” His tongue flicked along his lips. “You wouldn’t, by chance, have some alcoholic refreshment about your person?” He spoke like a failed actor, which is exactly what he was.
    From his mac pocket, Frost produced a miniature bottle of Johnnie Walker, part of the spoils from the party. He held it by the neck and swung it from side to side. Desmond’s eyes locked on to it like heat-seeking missiles.
    “Information first, drinkie-poos second,” promised the inspector. “You had a visit from a policeman yesterday?”
    A happy smile lit Thorley’s face as he recalled the incident. “A lovely boy, my old darling. His name was Shelby so good-looking and so macho. He suggested it was I who phoned the constabulary the other night when that poor woman was so brutally used.”
    “And was it you?” asked Webster, keeping close to the door, where a thin whisper of air was trickling through.
    Thorley’s gaze was transferred from the bottle to the constable. “Oh yes. I confessed all to him. How could I lie to someone with such long eyelashes as he had.” He leaned forward to study Webster’s face.“But not so long as yours, dearie.”
    Frost tugged at Webster’s sleeve to remind him who was supposed to be doing the questioning. “Do your courting later, son,” he whispered.
    “I couldn’t help your constable very much,” admitted Thorley. “I found the girl. Like any law-abiding citizen, I phoned the police. That was all there was to it.”
    “Did you see anyone that night?” Frost asked.
    “Not a soul, my dear.”
    Frost put the bottle back in his pocket.
    “I saw one person only,” added the podgy man hurriedly. “But not in the woods. As I was hastening to the phone box, there was someone in front of me, walking very quickly.”
    The bottle came out again. “Description?”
    “I only saw him from the back. Medium height, dark clothes.”
    “What were you doing in the woods at that time of night?” asked Webster.
    “Just taking a stroll,” replied Desmond.
    “It was a bit more than that,” said Frost. “You like sneaking around in the dark spying on courting couples, don’t you Desmond?”
    The podgy man grinned sheepishly. “A harmless hobby. And that’s how I found the girl. I was taking a late-night stroll, ears ever alert for the sounds of casual copulation, when I came across the poor dear all still and naked. I really thought she was dead.”
    “Did you see anyone jogging during your prowl around?” Frost asked.
    Desmond pushed out his lips in thought. “No, Inspector, I didn’t. You often see knobbly-kneed men in running shorts, or joggers in track suits going round and round the paths, but I don’t recollect seeing any last night.”
    It was clear he could tell them nothing more, so Frost handed the bottle over and they took their leave. Like a good host, Desmond saw them out.
    “I like your friend,” he whispered to the inspector.
    “He’s not used to the ways of men,” said Frost, steering the scowling Webster out into the clean, fresh-tasting air.
    They hacked their way back to the car.
    “What time is it?” asked Frost.
    Webster brought up his watch. “Four fifty-six.”
    “Drop me off at my place and then let’s get some sleep. I’ll see you back at the station at noon.”
    “Yes,” yawned Webster.
    The sky was lightening. Somewhere, way off in the distance, a rooster crowed,