DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

wife’s doctor. It was Cadman who had diagnosed stomach pains as mere indigestion and kept prescribing the white peppermint mixture until the unbearable pains drove her to hospital. ‘An old tramp, you say?’
    ‘Yes, sir. I’ve seen him knocking around the district, but I don’t know his name.’
    ‘I suppose we can’t put the evil moment off.’ Frost pinched out his cigarette and stuffed the butt back into the packet. ‘Let’s get inside before people think you’re trying to pick me up.’
    One hand gripping the brass handrail, he followed Shelby’s torch cautiously down stone steps worn concave in the middle from the traffic of thousands of hurrying feet. The echoing, monotonous plopping sound of dripping water grew louder.
    ‘Do you know which police surgeon they’re sending us?’
    ‘Dr Slomon, sir. Mind that step . . . it’s a bit dodgy.’
    ‘Slomon!’ exclaimed Frost. ‘That snotty-nosed little bastard? He’ll want everything done by the book. I reckon I can kiss the party goodbye.’ He moved his foot down to the next step only to give a startled yell as something cold and wet leaped up and licked its way inside his shoe. ‘Flaming hell, Shelby, it’s awash down here. You might have bloody warned me.’
    ‘It wasn’t as bad as this before,’ said Shelby. The reflections from his torch beam danced in the rippling water which lapped at the bottom step. ‘One of the cisterns is overflowing and the body’s blocking the drain.’
    ‘This gets better and better,’ the inspector observed bitterly. ‘So where is he?’
    Shelby swung his torch and illuminated a sodden shape huddled in one corner. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to get our feet wet, sir.’
    They splashed over, the water finding holes in Frost’s shoes he never knew existed and reminding him of the pair of Wellington boots lying idle on the back seat of his car. The heap in the corner looked like a mess of wet rags, but the light of the torch revealed it to be a man. A dead man. He lay on his back in the flooded glittering of the urinal stalls, his long, matted hair bobbing in the rising water, wide-open, sightless eyes staring unflinchingly into the burning glare of the torch. The mouth was agape and dribbling, the beard and ragged overcoat filthy with vomit that stank of stale, cheap wine. The body of a derelict, a tramp who had crawled into some dark corner to die.
    Frost stared at the tired, worn-out face, a face long unwashed, grimed and greasy with dirt. ‘Good God, it’s Ben Cornish!’
    ‘You know him, sir?’ Shelby asked.
    ‘I know him,’ Frost replied grimly. ‘And so would you bloody know him, Constable, you spent more time on your job and less on looking for crumpet.’
    In the dark, Shelby flushed. He believed his womanising was a well-kept secret, but nothing seemed to escape the seemingly unobservant Frost.
    ‘He may look a bloody old man, Shelby, but he’s not much older than you.’ The inspector bent down, his hand slipping under the water to the back of the head, his fingers exploring and finding the sticky section where the skull moved under pressure. ‘He’s been living rough ever since his family chucked him out a couple of years back. He started out as a wino - cheap booze ‘laced with meths or surgical spirit - then he progressed to heroin.’
    ‘Heroin!’ exclaimed Shelby, his torch beam slowly creeping over the emaciated figure at his feet. ‘That’s an expensive habit.’
    ‘Well, by the look of him,’ observed Frost, ‘I doubt if he wasted money on nonessentials like soap and food. He used to be a lovely kid. A cheeky little sod. Look at him now!’ He prodded the body with his foot, then turned away. A match flared as he relit the butt. ‘I suppose you haven’t been through his pockets?’
    ‘Not yet,’ the constable admitted. ‘He’s a bit messy.’
    ‘Well, he’s not going to get any bloody cleaner floating in pee, is he? Is there any way to stop this damn water rising? It’s up to my ankles. I feel like a passenger on the Titanic.’
    Shelby paddled over to the far end of the fetid room leaving Frost in the dark. ‘I think it’s this one over here sir.’
    ‘Don’t give me a running commentary, son. Just fix it.’
    Shelby’s torch beam bobbed, then pointed upward to spotlight a cast-iron cistern tank which was meant to flush the urinal stalls at regular, hygienic intervals. It was brim-full, and water was cascading over the sides and down the wall.