injustices of working under Sergeant Wells. On the screen, a young girl in pigtails who didn’t look much older than twelve was sprawled naked on some grass, sunbathing. The camera moved to show a man with a riding crop watching from the cover of some bushes. Behind the man a board read Trespassers Will Be Punished.
‘Where did you get that video?’ demanded Gilmore, sharply.
Snatched too abruptly from his morose meditation, Collier started, spilling instant coffee down the front of his uniform. He reached out to switch off the set, but Frost grabbed his wrist. ‘Leave it, son. Where did you get it?’
‘We only borrowed it, Inspector. We were going to put it back.’ He held up a video case which had the typed label A Thrashing For Fiona. It was one of the haul of pornographic videos removed from the newsagent’s.
On the screen the naked girl was on her knees, pleading with the man who was slapping the riding crop against his leg.
‘Go and fetch Sergeant Wells,’ ordered Frost, dragging another chair in front of the set.
Collier registered dismay. It was unlike the inspector to report people. ‘I only borrowed it, sir.’
Dragging his eyes from the TV set where the girl was across the man’s knees, being thrashed with the riding crop, Frost gave a reassuring grin. ‘Don’t worry, son. I’ll tell him I took it. Just send him in.’
Gilmore spooned instant coffee into three mugs and filled them with boiling water. He passed one to Frost and sat beside him in the chair vacated by Collier.
A clatter of footsteps up the passage and Wells came in. ‘Look, Jack, I haven’t got time . . .’ He stopped dead as he caught sight of the screen. ‘Bloody hell . . .!’ He grabbed the other chair and sat down.
Engrossed, Frost gulped down his coffee, unaware that he hadn’t added his usual three heaped teaspoons of sugar. The man was now using the riding crop to do something unspeakable. ‘He caught her trespassing,’ Frost told Wells, explaining the plot.
‘Serves her bloody right,’ said Wells. ‘She’ll think twice before she does it again.’
The video finished abruptly. Frost fed another one in. The title read Animal Passions. An interior scene this time. The same pigtailed girl, naked and with a dog, a large white and brown Great Dane with a torn left ear, its tail wagging furiously. The girl lay on her back. The dog, slowly and deliberately, was licking her.
‘I bet he prefers that to Pedigree Chum,’ croaked Wells.
‘Who wouldn’t,’ said Frost.
Gilmore looked at his watch. Nearly two o’clock. He’d told Liz he’d try and pop in during the shift, even if it was only for half an hour. He tried to catch Frost’s attention as the fool sat there, eyes bulging, like a schoolboy with a dirty book. ‘Do you mind if I take a break, Inspector? About half an hour or so? I’d like to pop home.’
‘Sure,’ muttered Frost, his eyes glued to the screen where the dog, tongue lolling, whites of eyes showing, was coupling with the girl.
This was too much for Gilmore who turned away in disgust. As he reached for the door handle it was abruptly snatched away from him as the door opened and there, framed in the doorway like an avenging angel, stood a furious and angry Mullett.
The internal phone rang.
Gilmore stared at Mullett, open-mouthed. Bloody Frost had dropped him in it again. He was sure the Divisional Commander had gone home.
Frost and Wells, eyes fixed rigidly on the screen, were blissfully ignorant of this visitation and Gilmore could do nothing to alert them.
Mullett pushed Gilmore to one side and strode into the rest room. He stood between the two men and the TV set and glowered down at them, his face thunder black.
Wells nearly had a heart attack.
‘Hello, Super. This is a pleasant surprise,’ said Frost, managing an unconvincing grin.
The phone kept on ringing. Glad of something to do, Gilmore answered it. It was Collier warning them that the Divisional Commander was on his way in.
‘Thank you,’ hissed Gilmore through clenched teeth, ‘but we know.’
‘What the devil is going on here?’ spluttered Mullett. ‘I look in on my way back from a function and what do I find? The lobby floor plastered with vomit, a junior officer left on his own to cope and the station sergeant and other officers in the rest room, watching . . .’ His eyes bulged as he looked over his shoulder to see just what they were watching,