A Touch Of Frost (21 page)

“Well?” asked Webster as they quickened their pace to the interview room.

“Nothing,” replied Frost. “Not a bloody thing.”

Roger Miller was sprawled on one of the chairs in the interview room, dragging silently at a cigarette. At his solicitor’s suggestion he had discarded his trendy gear and was wearing a quiet grey business suit to present an illusion of soberness and responsibility.

Next to him, sitting bolt upright, was his solicitor, Gerald Moore, fat, pompous, and humourless, conservatively dressed in black. For the umpteenth time Moore sifted through his briefcase and rearranged the order of his papers.

Roger pushed himself up from the chair. “I’m not prepared to wait here any longer. I’m going.”

Gerald Moore raised an eyebrow in mild reproach. “Your father would wish you to stay.” The solicitor returned to his briefcase sifting.

Roger tore the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it on the floor. He’d been stuck in this miserable little room for nearly two hours. He wasn’t used to people keeping him waiting. Usually he only had to mention that he was Sir Charles Miller’s son and doors were flung open.

The door of the interview room was flung open, and a dishevelled character in a crumpled suit slouched in, immediately followed by a smartly dressed, younger, bearded man. Obviously a plainclothes man and his prisoner, concluded the solicitor, frowning at the intrusion and wondering if the scruffy prisoner was dangerous. He was about to point out they had come to the wrong room when the criminal dragged a chair over to the table, flopped down opposite his client, and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Frost.

A detective! thought Moore. This tramp! No wonder the crime rate is soaring.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, gents,” said Frost, “but a murder inquiry was taking our attention. I understand you’ve got something to tell us, Mr. Miller?”

Miller started to speak, but Moore cleared his throat loudly to remind his client that he was to be the spokesman. You had to watch every word you said to the police. “My client has prepared a statement. This is it.” He removed a neatly typed sheet of paper from his briefcase and slid it over to the inspector. Frost let it lie on the table.

“Before I read it, sir, spot of good news. We’ve found your Jag, Mr. Miller. It was parked in a lay-by near Denton Woods. Fairly undamaged—once the blood and bits of brain have been washed off it, it should be as good as new.”

The solicitor tightened his lips.

“Naturally we are pleased at the recovery of the car,” he said, making it absolutely clear that he was the one who was going to do all the talking, “but we are most distressed that while it was stolen and out of my client’s possession, it was involved in a death.”

“Stolen?” said Frost. “Is that what’s supposed to have happened to it?”

Roger Miller thrust his face forward. He didn’t like the attitude of this nondescript little pip-squeak. “I’m here to answer questions, not listen to your cheap insinuations.”

“Right,” said Frost, blandly, giving the twenty-year-old youth a twitch of a smile, “I’ll read your statement and then ask my questions.”

The statement read:

I returned home from the office at 6.25 p.m. I had brought some work back with me and I worked on it in my flat until 11.15 p.m. at which time I realized that some papers I needed to complete my work were still in my briefcase in my car. At 11.20 p.m. I left the flat and walked around the corner to Norman Grove, where I had left my car, a Jaguar, registration number ULU 63A. To my concern, the car was not there. I presumed it had been stolen so I immediately phoned Denton Police Station to report this fact. I then returned to my flat and went to bed. The first I knew about the tragic accident which caused the sad death of Mr. Hickman was when a reporter from the Denton Echo phoned me at my office at two minutes past nine this morning. I was extremely distressed to learn that my car was apparently involved, and I immediately contacted my solicitor and arranged to come to the police to help them in whatever way I can.

“Beautifully typed,” commented Frost when he finished reading it. He let it fall to the table. “You work for your father, I understand, Mr. Miller?”

It was the solicitor who confirmed for his client. “That is correct. In the head office of Miller Properties Ltd, the holding company.”

“I see,” said Frost, his head swinging from one man to the other. “And you’ve approved this statement, Mr. Moore?”

“Yes, and my client is now prepared to sign it.”

“I want to sign it right now,” said Roger Miller, pulling a rolled-gold Parker pen from his pocket. “I’ve wasted two hours already and I’ve got better things to do with my time than hang about here.”

“And I’m sure Mr. Hickman would have had better things to do with his time than having to hang about on a slab in the morgue,” murmured Frost, “but we can’t always choose what happens.”

“For a public servant you’re bloody insolent,” snapped the youth hotly, his pen scratching his signature across the foot of the page. He thrust the paper at Frost. “Can I go now?” He jerked his head at his solicitor, implying that whatever the inspector’s answer, they were leaving.

“Just a few minor points if you don’t mind, Mr Miller,” said Frost, whose finger had directed Webster to stand in front of the door, blocking their exit. “Please sit down. It shouldn’t take long.” He gave them a disarming smile as they returned to their chairs. “My trouble is, gentlemen, I’m not very bright. There are a couple of things in your statement that don’t seem to add up. I’m sure it’s my stupidity, so if you could see your way clear to explaining . . .”

“I’m sure it’s your stupidity, too,” said Miller condescendingly, “but try to be as quick as you can.”

Frost scratched his head as if completely out of his depth. “The first thing that puzzled me, sir, is the question of your leaving your briefcase in the Jag.”

Miller gave Frost a patronising smile. “And why should that puzzle you, Inspector?”

“According to all the witnesses we’ve spoken to, sir, you never drive the Jag to your office. You always use the firm’s car, the Porsche. So how did your briefcase get in the Jag?”

The solicitor confidently turned a questioning face to his client, then realized to his dismay that the youth was floundering, trying to think of an answer. Roger shook his head helplessly. Quickly, the solicitor said, “If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’d like a word with my client in private. I may have misunderstood his instructions.”

Frost and Webster trooped outside and waited. After five minutes they were called back in again.

“A lapse of memory,” explained Moore, removing the cap from his fountain pen, ready to amend the statement. “My client intended using the Jaguar car the following day, so he transferred his briefcase from the Porsche.”

“Let me get this straight,” Frost said, his finger drawing circles around his scar. “Your client drove the Porsche from his office, parked it in the basement car park at the flats, took out the briefcase and walked with it round the corner to Norman Grove, where he put the briefcase in the Jag, and then walked back to the flat?”

“Yes,” said Moore weakly. It didn’t sound at all plausible to him now the inspector queried it.

“Very logical, sir. So if you’d like to alter the statement to that effect we can all get on to more important matters.” Moore’s pen began drafting a suitable amendment. The words wouldn’t flow, and he had to keep crossing out and altering the text. “Oh, just one other thing,” Frost added. “As I said, we’ve recovered the Jag—but the briefcase wasn’t in it.”

Miller gave a superior sneer. “I imagine the thief took it.”

Frost seemed to receive this suggestion with open arms. “Of course, sir, I hadn’t thought of that. Briefcases full of office papers must be a very valuable commodity.” He paused, then said with studied casualness, “Just one other thing . . .”

Moore’s pen stopped in mid stroke and he tried not to show his anxiety. What bombshell was going to be dropped now? He wasn’t used to criminal work and was no longer positive that his client was telling the whole truth. He waited apprehensively, his eyes moving from the inspector to his client.

“You say in your statement, Mr Miller, that you reported the theft to the police, then went straight to bed in your flat.”

“That’s right,” answered Miller.

“You may not be aware of it, sir, but in the early hours of this morning we had an anonymous phone call reporting that a man had been seen trying to break into the balcony window of a fourth-floor flat at Halley House. We investigated. On getting no reply from your flat and fearing for your safety, we used the caretaker’s passkey to enter. Happily, there was no sign of an intruder. But the puzzle is, there was no sign of you, either, sir—and your bed had not been slept in.”

Miller sprang to his feet, sending his chair skidding across the floor. His face was brick red with anger. “You impudent swine! Are you telling me you had the temerity to sneak into my flat—to check up on me behind my back?”

His solicitor stood up, hissing at Roger to calm down. Miller, fists clenched, chest heaving, fought to gain control of himself. At last he nodded to his solicitor, then sat down. But if looks could kill, Frost would be stone-cold dead.

Moore capped his fountain pen and scooped up the statement, which he replaced firmly in his briefcase. “My client and I wish to reconsider our position, Inspector. At this stage we have nothing further to say.”

But Frost hadn’t quite finished. He addressed the youth. “Sorry to be a nuisance, but there is one more thing. I think it’s only fair to mention it so you can clear up all the lies in one hit. We have a witness who saw you driving the Jaguar away from Norman Grove yesterday evening.” Frost caught Webster’s puzzled look and beamed at him. It wasn’t true about the witness, but why should Miller be the only one allowed to lie?

With an unsteady hand, and feeling quite battered by the past few minutes’ experience, the solicitor zipped up his briefcase and led his client to the door. “We hope to be back to you within the hour,” he announced.

“I don’t think we can allow your client to leave,” said Frost. “This is a very serious charge.”

“Then I demand some time alone with my client.”

“Fair enough.” Frost gathered up his cigarettes and his matches. He was reaching for the door handle when Miller’s resolve broke.

“Wait, Inspector.”

Frost dropped his hand and slowly turned around.

Miller, the arrogance completely drained out of him, fumbled in his pocket for a slim, gold-and-black-enamelled cigarette case. He removed a cigarette which he kept tapping on the case. “I think I’d better tell you the truth.”

Moore pushed in front of him. “Not until you’ve discussed it with me.” He moved to Frost. “We have nothing to, say until we have reconsidered our position.”

“I didn’t park the Jag in Norman Grove,” continued Roger doggedly. “I wasn’t at my flat at all last night.”

Moore was shaking with rage. He grabbed his client’s shoulder and spun him around. “If you wish me to continue representing you, Mr. Miller,” he spluttered, “you will remain silent until we have talked together.”

“If you want to continue being my father’s solicitor, then shut up, you fat slob,” snapped Miller. “And take your greasy hands off of me.” The solicitor collapsed heavily on to a chair and dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Making sure that Webster had his notebook open and his pen poised, Frost asked, “So where were you last night, sir?”

“I was with a girl . . . I couldn’t mention her before—she is someone my father would strongly disapprove of.”

“In that case I’m beginning to like her already,” said the inspector.

“How long were you with her?”

“From seven yesterday evening until a little after eight this morning. The car was stolen from outside her flat. Damn it, Inspector, I couldn’t let my old man know where I was, so I pretended it had been taken from Norman Grove. Obviously, I had no idea it had been used in a hit-and-run when I phoned the police, otherwise I would never have tried it on.”

Frost said nothing. Webster’s pen sprinted across the page. Moore took off his glasses and held them to the light so he could better examine the dirt on the lenses. Then he put them back on his nose. “You were with her all night, from seven until eight this morning? You didn’t go out?”

Roger nodded.

“Would the girl corroborate all this?”

“Of course.”

The solicitor’s deep sigh of relief was followed by a smile of triumph. “In that case, Inspector, there is no way my client could have been involved in the death of that unfortunate man. He has an alibi.”

Frost’s deep sigh was one of regret. He was hoping for a confession, not more flaming checking up to do. “Would you mind giving us the lady’s name and address, sir?” he asked the young man sweetly. “Just in case we wanted to check your story.”

Her name was Julie King. She lived in an older-type house that had been divided up into six single-bedroom flats. It was situated in Forest View, a quiet backwater overlooking Denton Woods. The unlocked front door allowed access to a small hall containing a letter rack, a pay telephone, and a fire extinguisher. Julie King’s flat was on the first floor.

A flight of stairs took them up to a landing where two doors stood side by side. On the first, a card attached by a drawing pin read “J. King’. The door to the other flat still had a morning newspaper poking through the letter box and a pint bottle of semi skimmed milk lurking on the step.

“Flats of a couple of prostitutes,” observed Frost, making one of his ill-considered judgements. “One works days, the other nights. Let’s call on the day shift.” He thumbed the bell to Julie King’s flat.

“This isn’t a bad neighbourhood,” remarked Webster as they waited.

“As long as you don’t mind being raped,” said Frost. “The woods are only a couple of streets away.”

The door, held firm by a strong chain, cautiously opened a few inches. A female voice demanded, “What do you want?”