DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

greater efforts. Cornish yanked its collar and dragged the animal down the passage where he slung it out into the back yard. As he slammed the door shut, there was a resounding thud as the dog hurled itself against it, trying to get back in.
    “In here.” He took them into more noise - a small kitchen where a whistling kettle on a gas ring was spitting steam and screaming for attention in competition with a transistor radio blasting pop music at top volume. Favouring neither, he pulled the kettle from the ring and snapped off the radio.
    At the sink a gaunt, straight-backed woman of sixty, hair and eyes jet black, a cigarette dangling from her lips, was methodically dicing vegetables with a lethal-looking knife. She didn’t look up as they entered.
    “It’s the police, Ma,” said Danny. “About Ben.”
    She turned, hostile and belligerent, then she seemed to read something in Frost’s face. Carefully, she set the knife down on the draining board, then wiped her hands on her skirt. “Sit down if you want to,” she said.
    They sat at the stained kitchen table with its cover of old newspapers. Frost fiddled for his cigarettes. He needed a smoke to bolster his courage.
    Webster’s foot was nudging something. A large cardboard box tucked out of sight under the table. He bent and lifted it up. An unpacked VHS video recorder. He looked at the man. “I suppose you’ve got a receipt for this.”
    Frost winced. “For Christ’s sake, son, there’s a time and a place . . .”
    But he was too late to stop Danny from snatching an old Oxo tin from the dresser and emptying the contents out on the table in front of the detective constable. “Yes, I have got a receipt.” He scrabbled amongst odd pieces of paper, then, in triumph, stuck a printed form under webster’s nose. “Here it is. You’d better check it in case it’s a forgery.”
    Webster took the receipt, read it briefly, then handed it back. “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry you haven’t caught us out, you mean?” The receipt was stuffed back in the Oxo tin. “Now say what you’ve got to say and get the hell out of here.”
    Stone-faced, Webster stared out through the uncurtained kitchen window into the back yard, which was strewn with parts of a dismantled motorbike. The dog had given up trying to break down the door and was nosing a mound of rusted tins. The nonstop wailing of the baby filtered through from the passage.
    "It’s about Ben, Ma,’ Frost said softly.
    "That shit,’ Danny snarled. ‘He’s caused enough pain and misery in this house. If you’ve nicked him, you can lock the door and throw away the key as far as I’m concerned.’
    Frost got up from his chair and offered it to the woman. "You’d better sit down, love."
    She shook her head. "Just say your piece, then go."
    Frost took a deep breath. "He’s dead, Mrs Cornish. I’m very sorry."
    She stood stock still, then felt for the chair and sat down.
    "He died last night," Frost added.
    Danny put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "How did he die? Drugs?"
    There was no way of tarting up the facts in fancy clothes. Frost told them about the beating, and how Ben had choked on his own stomach contents.
    The woman’s face showed no sign of emotion. "In a public lavatory?" she repeated tonelessly. "He couldn’t even die decently."
    "Good bloody riddance," said her son.
    Frost lowered his eyes to the newspaper covering the table. "We’re trying to trace his movements up to the time he died. When did you see him last?" Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Danny and his mother start at the question and exchange a look of guilt. But it was over so quickly he could have been mistaken.
    "We hadn’t seen him for months, and we didn’t want to," said the man. His mother nodded her agreement.
    Why don’t I believe you? thought Frost. "Did he have any enemies who might want to cause him harm?"
    Danny laughed scoffingly. "Enemies? Has a dog got fleas? He’d lie, cheat, or steal to get money for his drugs. He didn’t give a damn who he hurt in the process. He had enemies in this house, Inspector, and I, for one, am glad he’s dead."
    "So am I," said the mother, but her eyes were fixed on a photograph pinned to the dresser shelf, a photograph of a much younger version of herself, smiling happily, holding the hand of a small, serious-faced boy of about four or five. The boy was clutching a wooden fire engine. Sensing she was being observed, she tore her eyes