DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

to the cells.
    The cell area had its own peculiar smell. From the drunk cell the stink of stale beer, urine, and vomit; from others the heady aroma of unwashed bodies too-long-worn socks, and carbolic. But all of these well-established odours were fighting a losing battle with the unwashed Wally Peters. Frost paused outside the cell door, lit a cigarette, took his last lungful of nontoxic air, then marched in.
    “Blimey, Wally,” he spluttered, ‘you stink to high heaven!”
    “I don’t make personal remarks about you, Mr. Frost,” retorted Wally huffily. He was seated on the edge of his bunk bed, huddled over an enamel mug from which he noisily sucked tea with much working of his Adam’s apple. “What am I here for?”
    Frost rested his back against the painted brick wall. “It’s about Ben Cornish, Wally,” he said gravely. “About what you did to him.”
    Wally didn’t even blink. He took the mug from his mouth and belched. “I enjoyed that, Mr. Frost.”
    “I thought so from the sound effects, but what about Ben, Wally? You’d better tell me.”
    Wally sniffed hard and looked up at the detective. “You told me he choked to death, Inspector.”
    “I was wrong, Wally. He was murdered. Beaten up and jumped on until he died.”
    The tramp’s lower jaw sagged and tea dribbled down the dirty grey stubble of his chin. “Murdered?”
    “That’s right, Wally, and all his belongings pinched. What have you done with them?”
    “I wouldn’t hurt a fly, Mr. Frost, you know that. And I wouldn’t hurt Ben - we was mates. Murdered? God, I’m never going to sleep down them lavatories again.”
    Frost flicked cigarette ash on the stone floor. “You were hanging about there last night. Did you see anything?”
    “Only that copper sniffing around.”
    “When did you last see Ben?”
    “Yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock down by the railway embankment. He was twitching and sweating and he kept clawing and scratching himself. He said he was going to meet some blokes down the toilets that evening who were going to sell him some drugs.”
    “What blokes?”
    “A couple of new blokes. He said they hadn’t been in Denton very long.”
    “And how was he going to pay for the stuff?”
    “He said he thought he knew where he could get some money. He wouldn’t tell me where, though. That was the last time I saw him, Mr. Frost, on my dead mother’s eyesight, I swear it.”
    Frost shook a couple of cigarettes from his packet and gave them to the tramp. “Thanks, Wally. You can go now if you like.”
    “They’re getting me a dinner, Mr. Frost,” explained Wally. “I’ll go when I’ve had it. Thanks for the fags.”
    “All part of the service,” said Frost, banging on the cell door to be let out. “Tell your friends.”
    Webster was waiting for him in the office. A search of the convenience and the surrounding area revealed no trace of anything like a plastic bag, full of Ben Cornish’s odds and ends, or empty. The scene-of-the-crime officer had crawled over the premises and had probably found the fingerprints of everybody who had used the toilets since Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, but none likely to be of any help.
    Frost filled Webster in on Wally Peters and the claim that Ben Cornish intended to buy drugs from two new pushers. “Get on to Drug Squad, son. I want to know about two new suppliers who are supposed to have come into the district recently. And ask them to check up on all known users with a history of violence - where they were between nine and eleven last night when Cornish was being killed.”
    As he waited for Webster to finish the phone call, his internal phone buzzed. Control to report that the allegedly stolen Jaguar owned by Roger Miller had been found. Charlie Alpha had located it in a clearing to the east of Denton Woods. There was no doubt it had been involved in an accident. The near-side headlamp was missing, as was the front licence plate, and there were traces of blood all over the wing. Control had arranged for the vehicle to be towed in for a detailed examination. Frost thanked Control, then scribbled a note to remind himself to check whether or not the plastic screws from the Jaguar’s licence plate had been recovered.
    That done, he had a quick look into the Crime Statistics file in the vain hope that someone might have crept in during the night and finished it off for him. No such luck, so he dropped it back in the filing cabinet.
    Webster finished his call to