DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

its wet, flattened grass, “I’ve got a hunch. I reckon he’s going to try it on again tonight.”
    “Oh yes?” grunted Webster. He just couldn’t care less. He had had his fill of Frost and was counting the hours until he would be off duty and round to Susan Harvey’s little flat with the door bolted and the phone off the hook.
    “The weather’s getting colder,” Frost went on. “He’s going to have to grab his opportunities. If he does his stripping-off act much longer he’ll end up with a frostbitten dick.” He scuffed the grass with his foot, already anxious to be away, but Webster suddenly bent down and tugged at something, a scrap of cloth caught on the lower branch of a bush. He held it out to Frost, who backed away. “It’s not a clue, is it, son? I’m not in the mood for clues.”
    By the look of it, the scrap of cloth had been hanging around the woods for years, but Webster slipped it into a small plastic envelope. “I’d like to send this to Forensic . . . unless you’ve any objection?” His tone dared Frost to demur.
    “If it makes you happy, son. Now let’s get the hell out of here before you pick up any more rubbish.” He squeezed back through the gap to the path, while Webster protested that they hadn’t even begun to search the area. “We haven’t got time,” said Frost, hurrying back to the car. “We’re never going to nab this sod by sniffing around for clues. The only way we’ll do it is by catching him in the act - in flagrante dick-o, as the lawyers say.”
    “And how are we going to do that?” asked Webster.
    “I’ve got a plan,” said Frost, grateful to be back in the car after the cold dankness of the forest. “I’ll tell you when we get back to the office. Next port of call, the bank. I’ve got to get some money.”
    Webster was turning the key in the ignition when another car roared up and skidded across to block their path. A plump little man in a blue mac and a porkpie hat jumped out and hurried over to them.
    “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Inspector,” puffed Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon, out of breath. “Mr. Mullett’s screaming blue murder - something about a wrecked car - and Johnny Johnson says they can’t get in touch with you by radio.”
    “It’s on the blink,” said Frost.
    “It’s been turned off,” accused Hanlon, clicking the switch.
    “I don’t understand these technical terms,” said Frost, firmly switching it off again. “Now speak your piece, Arthur. I’ve got to go to the bank.”
    “I’ve found someone who was with Ben Cornish on Tuesday evening,” reported Hanlon. “They call him Dustbin Joe, so you can imagine what he smells like. He was just about coherent, and his breath stank of me ths but if we can believe him, he reckons he saw Ben about eight o’clock Tuesday evening and Ben told him he was on his way round to his mother’s to try and tap her for some money.”
    “Now that’s very interesting,” said Frost, scratching his chin thoughtfully, ‘because his family said they hadn’t seen him for weeks.”
    “The statement’s on your desk,” said Hanlon. “Just sniff, you’ll find it.”
    “You’re a little gem, Arthur,” beamed Frost. “Now, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me. I’m the man who never was.” He closed the car door. “Change of plan, son. Let’s go straight to Mrs. Cornish.”

    Mrs. Cornish, who had affected indifference to her son’s death, was wearing the black woollen dress she had worn at her husband’s funeral. Frost didn’t comment on this fact. He sat with Webster in the tiny kitchen which reeked of fried onions, a smell that threatened to rouse Webster’s stomach to further rebellion. The yapping, snarling mongrel in the yard kept leaping up and banging its nose on the window in its frenzied efforts to rip them to pieces.
    She folded her arms belligerently. “Like I told you, we hadn’t seen him for God knows how long. Hadn’t seen him and never wanted to see him.”
    “Ben met someone Tuesday evening, just after eight, and said he was on his way round here,” said Frost.
    “Well, he didn’t come,” said the woman flatly, ‘and I would have slammed the door in his face if he did.”
    A banging as the front door closed, then footsteps along the passage. Danny pushed into the kitchen, stopping dead when he saw the two detectives. “What the hell?” he exclaimed. For a moment he looked as if he was going to turn tail and