Frost 1 - Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

  "Oh, yes?" said Sandy warily, sensing a favor was about to be asked.

  "I'm in trouble with this dead cat story, Sandy. I want you to kill it."

  Sandy patted some papers on his desk into a neat pile. "You're too late, Jack, we're already printing. Sorry - I would if I could, you know that."

  Frost leaned forward and dropped his voice. "Supposing I could give you a better story?"

  Sandy's nose twitched, but he pretended only a casual interest. "Like what?"

  "Fleet Street stuff, Sandy boy. Strictly speaking our press office should send it direct to the agencies, but when you've got obliging friends who think nothing of spending 12p on your dinner . . ."

  The reporter studied Frost's face carefully, then, reaching for his house phone, made up his mind. He spoke into the mouthpiece. "George - kill that page-one story about the police exhuming the cat, and stand by for something better." He hung up. "It had better be good, Jack."

  Frost told him that the gun that killed Fawcus back in 1951 also fired the bullet that put an end to Garwood's life the previous night, Sandy's lower jaw dropped, then a smile traveled from one large ear to the other. "You're an ugly old sod, Jack, but I love you," and snatching up the phone he dictated a new story direct to a typist. The headline was to be 1951 KILLER STRIKES AGAIN - AMAZING STORY. The various facts and figures he was able to pluck from his fingertips paid tribute to an elephantine memory. Finished at last he spun his chair round to face the inspector. "What chance of an early arrest. Jack?"

  "We're following up several leads," trotted out Frost, trying to think of just one.

  "Tomorrow, Jack, we'll have a proper lunch The sky's the limit - up to a tenner a head. Now, off the record, what leads have you got?"

  "Damn all," said Frost, "and that's exaggerating. You keep your lunch and give me some information instead. Do you remember a bloke called Powell, Manager of Bennington's back in 1951?"

  "Stuck-up sod." recalled Sandy. ''His son killed himself."

  Frost stripped the cellophane from a fresh packet and offered a cigarette to the reporter. "Tell me about the son."

  Sandy tugged an ear in thought. "A bloody hero during the war but a near crook after it. He started up this dubious investment company, then blew most of his clients' money on horses and women. Criminal charges, would have been preferred if the old man hadn't stepped in and made his losses good. Had to sell his house and they now live in a wooden hut in Denton Road."

  Ash dropped from Frost's cigarette to his coat. He spread it about with his hand. "And, in spite of the old man's sacrifices, he kills himself?"

  "Yes - in front of a tube train. They had to scrape him off the rails. He still owed a couple of thousand then, but the old man dug a little deeper and got it together somehow and all the creditors were satisfied." He looked up. "Hello - that bloke with the wonky hooter - isn't he your assistant?"

  And it was Clive, wending his way through the maze of desks, a scowl of urgent agitation on his face. Frost excused himself to Sandy and hurried over to the detective constable.

  "What's up, son?" Then he noticed the smoldering anger.

  "Not here, sir - outside," and Clive spun on his heels leaving Frost to trot dutifully after him. In the street the young man stopped and, with eyes blazing, almost snarled at his superior officer.

  "You and your bloody hunches!"

  When the hospital phoned him about his wife, he knew. Before he picked up the phone, he knew . . . and he knew now. He held his breath to still the churning turmoil within.

  "What is it, son?"

  "Tracey Uphill. They've found her. She's dead!"

  The wind groaned and wailed.

  He knew where they'd found her, but he had to ask.

  "Where, son?"

  "Where do you bloody-well think? Stuffed in that trunk at the vicarage, along with the filthy books and the pornographic photographs."

  WEDNESDAY (5)

  The car screamed round the corner and juddered to a halt outside the front door of the vicarage where other cars were parked, including the Divisional Commander's blue Jaguar with its damaged rear wing.

  A uniformed man at the door saluted "Second floor, Inspector, first door."

  They took the stairs two at a time and pushed into the vicar's photographic studio where a silent group of men clustered around the opened cabin trunk Frost barged through and looked down into the staring, frightened eyes of eight-year-old Tracey Uphill, who was no longer pretty. A swollen tongue protruded obscenely from her twisted mouth. She wore her warm blue coat but would never be warm again. Frost gently touched the marble flesh with probing fingertips. The flesh was soft. He spotted the doctor at the back of the group and looked to him in mute enquiry.

  "Rigor mortis has gone, Jack, so I reckon she's been dead since Sunday. You'll need a P.M. to pin it down to the hour, but the pathologist should be here shortly. We've had to drag him from a Christmas dance.''

  Frost dropped his eyes to the tortured white face. "How was she killed, Doc?"

  "Manual strangulation." The doctor moved the head slightly to show the marks on the throat. "No attempt at sexual assault as far as I can see, but I don't want to disturb her too much. You know what a fussy devil that bloody pathologist is."

  A uniformed man coughed to attract Frost's attention. "We found these in that corner cupboard, sir," and he pointed to a stack of dirty books and nude photographs. "We imagine they were removed from the trunk to make room for the body."

  Frost gave them a fleeting glance and grunted "The property of the vicar," said Mullett loudly, deciding it was time to make his presence felt "We can see the sort of person he is."

  "Yes," snapped Frost, still looking at the girl, "exactly the same sort as the rest of us." He waved the books away. The constable was hurt, wanting the inspector to examine them and realize their enormity. "There's nude pictures of young girls, sir - local girls."

  "I know," said Frost, impatiently, "I saw them when we searched here the other day." And not a very thorough search, he reflected bitterly, remembering how he'd hustled Clive Barnard along, and the body must have been here all the time. Then he realized Mullett was talking to him.

  "Did I understand you to say you saw these books and photographs, Inspector?" The voice was shocked. "There was no mention of them in your report - such as it was."

  Frost lit a cigarette and shrugged. "No, sir, I didn't think it relevant at the time." His eyes went back to the body.

  Mullett's voice rose to shrill and accusing incredulity. "You saw these pieces of filth, and you didn't think them relevant?"

  But Frost, deep in thought, flicked an impatient hand at his Divisional Commander. "Later sir, later Everyone in the room stiffened. Mullett was ready to explode but managed to control himself in time. He took several deep breaths, determined not to create a scene in front of the others, but as soon as he got Frost back to the station . . .

  "Who found the body?" asked Frost, completely unaware of the tension in the room.

  The area car driver who had answered the 999 call stepped forward. "The vicar's wife, sir. She went to that cupboard to see if she could find any spare hymnbooks for the carol service and found the obscene books and photographs heaped on the floor. She suspected they had come from the trunk. She opened it, and there was the kid."

  Mullett reasserted himself. "The vicar's in his study downstairs, Frost. His wife's in the lounge. She's very upset and I thought it better to keep them apart at this stage."

  "Has the vicar said anything?" asked Frost.

  The area car driver pulled out a notebook. "Another bloody memory man," snorted Frost, but undeterred the constable flicked through until he found the right page. He cleared his throat and read.

  "The vicar said he had no idea how the child had got there. He last used the room about a week ago and last saw the child when she left Sunday school last Sunday afternoon. His wife, Mrs. Bell, was hysterical and I couldn't get much sense out of her, but she said - " and he
dropped his eyes to the notebook for the exact words, " - 'I knew it would come to this one day, I just knew it'." He shut the book with a snap and replaced it in his breast pocket.

  Frost made no move.

  "Well, Inspector," said Mullett with forced heartiness, "I expect you'll want to question the vicar right away. We'll hang on here until the pathologist arrives."

  Frost ignored him and sank to his knees by the trunk. Heedless of the shocked protests, he turned the body to one slide and plucked something from the back of the blue coat, then he jerked his head abruptly at Clive.

  "Come here, son. You want bloody facts, do you? Here's a bloody fact." He pointed then looked up at Mullett. "I don't want to speak to the vicar, sir, and I don't need any bloody pathologist to tell me who killed this kid." He gently replaced the tiny corpse in its original position and looked at Clive who nodded grimly. There could be little doubt. All day long they had both been brushing and brushing to get the damned things off their clothes and the back of the girl's coat was smothered in them . . . hairs - black, brown, white, tabby - from the mangy moulting fur of many different cats.

  "Come on, son," and Frost moved to the door.

  "Where are you going?" asked Mullett, frowning.

  "To arrest Martha Wendle for murder," said Frost, and was clattering down the stairs before Mullett could ask any more stupid questions.

  They were going too fast for safety, but fortunately the roads were empty. Frost refused to waste time walking through the woods. "Take the private road, son," he ordered. Then: "Why are we slowing down?"

  "We're coming to the gate," explained Clive. "It's locked."

  "Drive through it," said Frost.

  "It'll damage the car," exclaimed Clive, horrified.

  "Sod the car, son. Smash through it. It'll make me feel better."

  So Clive gritted his teeth and pressed down hard on the accelerator. The gate grew bigger and bigger until it filled the windscreen, then struck the car with a hammer blow. A splintering sound, something shot up in the air and crashed on the car roof, then there was snow and open road ahead.

  "Saves all the sodding about with a key," murmured Frost, looking back at the wreckage with satisfaction. The dark crouch of the cottage leapt up in front of them and Frost was out of the car while Clive was still applying the brakes.

  No lights anywhere. He hammered at the front door. Silence. He sped round to the back and rattled the handle. Locked, but a tiny sound of movement from within. He charged it and bounced off, bruising his shoulder painfully. Clive joined him and kicked near the lock as he had been taught and the door crashed open and they fell into the kitchen with its smells of boiled fish and leaking cats.

  She was sitting in the dark, waiting for them, green unblinking eyes staring from her lap.

  "We've just come from the vicarage," said Frost.

  "Yes," she said, not needing to ask any questions.

  Clive went into the other room to fetch the oil lamp and the light showed her broken and resigned. "I didn't think anyone went into those rooms," she said.

  "You sodded it up," murmured Frost, gently. "The sort of thing I usually do. You picked the wrong room. It was his photographic studio. Anywhere else and we might never have found her." He cautioned her and asked if she had anything to say.

  Martha stood up and the cat leaped from her lap. "They might as well have their fish." A newspaper parcel of fish heads was tipped into a saucepan and the ritual of boiling began.

  "Children come here and torment me. They throw stones . . . break windows . . . call me a witch." She screwed up the fishy sheet of newspaper and dropped it into a battered enamel bucket. "Last Sunday that child came - Tracey Uphill. She kept banging on my door. When I opened it, she would run off, calling me filthy names. Where do children learn such language?" The water boiled over and she lowered the gas. "I find it best to ignore them so they get fed up and go away, but this one kept on and on. Then she started throwing stones. My kitten was outside. My lovely white kitten."

  "The one we dug up in the garden?" asked Frost.

  Martha nodded. "She hit it with a stone. Broke it's back. It screamed with pain. I had to put it out of its agony. The child turned to run, but fell. I was so angry, I grabbed her throat. I shook her." She clenched the fingers of her strong hands, then thrust them out of sight under her apron. "I shook her and shook her . . . And then she was dead."

  The fish heads rattled in the saucepan. Clive's pen raced across his notebook.

  "When I realized what I had done, I was horrified . . . and frightened. I had to hide the body. At first I was going to bury her with the kitten, but it seemed so obvious. Then I thought of Dead Man's Hollow. No one ever goes there. I took my spade and dug in the dark. It was like some macabre joke. The very spot I had chosen . . . something was already there. Human remains!" She paused and shuddered.

  "You'd uncovered the arm of the skeleton?" asked Frost.

  "Yes. I think I screamed. Then I pulled myself together, covered it up again, and returned to my cottage."

  "So that's how 'the spirits' knew what was buried there?"

  "Yes. When you first called, the child's body was still in the cottage. I had to put you off the scent."

  "You didn't put me off the scent, Miss Wendle, you confused me - which isn't very difficult, I'm afraid. But Tracey wasn't here when we searched your cottage this afternoon."

  "You were too late. I'd already hidden her in the vicarage. I'd just driven back from there."

  "Too late! The story of my life," said Frost. "Why did you choose the vicarage?"

  "I'd been there many times before with my spiritualist meetings. I knew there were lots of old rooms no one ever went into. I'd booked the hall for another meeting and had to go there today to make final arrangements. I took the child's body in my car. No one saw me. I carried her up the stairs into a darkened room. There was an old trunk covered with a sheet. It seemed ideal. There was a padlock, but it just fell off. I opened it. Inside were a lot of old books. I took them out and put the child inside. I didn't think anyone would find her."

  She turned the gas off under the saucepan and emptied the contents onto several plates. The floor was alive with cats, purring in anticipation . . . the cats whose fur had betrayed her.

  Frost emerged from Mullett's office smoking an enormous red and gold banded cigar which a delighted Divisional Commander had pressed on him from his special V.I.P. box. It forced Frost's lips apart and weighted his head down. Bloody Mullett had been bubbling over with joy as if they had found the girl alive and well . . . but his elation was really due to the fact that the girl had been proved to be dead before the police were called in and no possible blame could be attached to Denton Division for its handling of the search. He was overjoyed that Frost had obtained a signed statement from the Wendle woman, tidying up all loose ends, but even this might have kept his cigars firmly in their box were it not for the telephoned message of praise received from the Chief Constable.

  And so, with the token of his commander's esteem reeking in his mouth, Frost tramped the stone corridor back to his office. He felt deflated and tired, what with Mullett babbling away like a bloody girl and the kid cold and dead in the trunk. He'd carried the news himself to the mother, who didn't break down. She'd shed all the tears she could cry. Thanking him in a flat, lifeless voice, she had poured herself a large drink and shrunk down very small into a chair. Frost sat with her for ten minutes, but she acted as if he wasn't there, so he took his leave. And Mullett had given him a cigar.

  The door of search control was ajar. He peeked in at a room empty and silent for the first time since Monday morning. A poster of Tracey fluttered on the wall - Have You Seen This Girl? Yes, he'd seen her . . . and tomorrow he'd see her again on the autopsy table as the pathologist cut and tore and probed.

  Young Barnard was waiting for him in the office.

  "You were right about the woman then, sir."

  Frost took the soggy-ended cigar from h
is mouth and mashed it to brown pulp in his ashtray. "Yes, son, for the wrong bloody reason, but I was right. And if you're going to praise me up, for God's sake forget it. I'm up to here with praise from our illustrious commander. To hear him going on you'd think it was the greatest piece of detection since The Mousetrap." He found a cigarette packet in his drawer, chucked one to Clive and lit one for himself. "I did sod all. I suspected the poor cow partly because I hate her mangy cats, but more for the skeleton, and she had nothing to do with shooting Fawcus."

  "You spotted the cat hairs on the coat," protested Clive.

  "It just happened I was the first to spot them. If I hadn't, then Forensic would have done so, and they'd have analyzed them and given us the bleeding things' pedigrees." He patted his scar and yawned widely. "Barely ten o'clock and I'm tired. It must be old age."

  Was that the time? Clive checked his watch. "Er . . . will you be wanting me any more tonight, sir?"

  "No - you push off early, son. Mr. Mullett says you're to report direct to Inspector Allen tomorrow, so you'll need all the sleep you can get. You don't mind walking home, do you? I'll be hanging on here for a while and I might need the car."

  As Clive left him, the earlier mood of depression seemed to have lifted and he was sitting at his desk, dribbling smoke through his nose and moving mounds of paper to new positions. He was singing himself a parody of a once beautiful Frank Sinatra song.

  "Maybe she's waiting,

  Just expectorating

  Onto her old shabby dress . . ."

  WEDNESDAY (6)

  The church clock grated and whirled and hurled a salvo of eleven chimes over a sleeping town.

  Martha Wendle, awake in her bunk in the women's cells, heard it as a vague sound, barely impinging on her racing jumbled thoughts. The kitten ... the lovely white kitten, its skull crushed and blood streaming from its nose. And that child. Why didn't she run away when Martha first shouted at her? Why did she stay and throw stones? If Tracey had run away she would still be alive and life would have gone on as usual. But now the child was dead, her cats would die, and children would throw stones at her empty cottage windows. If only she could turn back the clock, relive it again, force the child to run away.