Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “I don’t know. He bashed into me - nearly knocked me over.”

  “Start from the beginning,” said Frost.

  “Might I have a cigarette?”

  Frost puffed across a steam of smoke so Desmond could savour its quality second-hand. “These are really too good for you, Desmond, but tell me about tonight, and if you don’t leave anything out, you might get one.”

  “Well,” said Desmond, clasping his hands together,

  “I was out on my little nocturnal expedition, looking for courting couples, when I noticed this great big car parked very suspiciously. It was bouncing up and down on its springs and the most peculiar noises were coming from inside. I tiptoed over and peeped through the back window, and what do you think I saw?”

  “A disgustingly naked lady underneath a plump little man in red socks?” offered Frost.

  Desmond’s eyebrows soared in admiration. “Who’s a clever boy then? Anyway, while I was peeping, the man looks up from his endeavours and shakes his fist at me.”

  “You sure it was his fist he shook?” murmured Frost.

  “Anyway, I beat a hasty retreat. Good job I did, because a short while later there’s crashing and yelling and police whistles. I thought they might be after me, so I took one of my little shortcuts. Then this man suddenly looms up out of nowhere, carrying something bundled under his arm. He barges into me and sends me flying. When I pick myself up, there’s no sign of him, but the mac is lying on the ground. I picked it up, intending to hand it in at the police station . . .”

  “I bet you were,” scoffed Frost.

  “When,” continued Desmond, ‘this oaf of a policeman hurls himself at me. That is every word the gospel truth.”

  Frost chucked him a Three Castles and lit it for him, then prodded the mac. “Nothing in the pockets, I suppose?” he asked Burton.

  Burton looked embarrassed. “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t look.”

  “Well, look now,” said Frost.

  Picking up the mac, Burton went through the pockets. The left-hand pocket was empty, but in the other, something he first thought was the bottom of a pocket turned out to be a crumpled plastic bag. He pulled it out and, as he did so, he felt something else. Something the bag had wedged tight in the depths. A key. An old, worn Yale-type key. Not an original, but a copy, with no identification number.

  Collier was sent for some fingerprint powder just in case the rapist had forgotten to wipe it clean. He hadn’t!

  The screwed-up plastic bag was straightened out. Two holes had been cut from it. The inspector pulled it over Collier’s head. The holes matched his eyes. They had found the “Hooded Terror’s’ famous mask. Originally a waste-bin liner, it didn’t look at all impressive.

  Frost turned his attention to the key. He placed it in the centre of the table and stared at it.

  “It could be the key to the rapist’s house,” suggested Collier.

  “Yes,” agreed Frost. “All we’ve got to do is try it in every front door in the county. If it fits, we’ve got him.”

  “Rather like Cinderella’s slipper,” said Desmond.

  “Trust you to think of fairy stories,” said Frost, dropping the key into his pocket. “I’ll try it in Mullett’s front door tomorrow. You never know your luck.” He rose from the chair, all the tiredness and depression coming back.

  “Can I go now?” asked Thorley.

  “Take his statement, then chuck him out,” said Frost. “And get that mac over to Forensic’

  He left the interview room and drooped across the lobby, shoulders down, his scarf dragging behind him.

  “You all right, Jack?” asked Wells. “You don’t look too good.”

  “Just tired,” Frost told him. “I need some kip.”

  “Don’t forget you’ve got to see Mr. Mullett at nine o’clock sharp.”

  “I won’t,” said Frost, stepping out into the cold, dark, friendless night.

  Friday day shift

  He took the key from the black plastic mac and tried it in the lock. It slid in easily. He turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open on to a long, narrow passage. At the end of the passage was a woman, young, stark naked, her arms wide open, warm, welcoming. He ran to her, but there was Mullett barring his path. An angry, snarling Mullett.

  Frost woke with a jolt and opened his eyes to blazing sunlight. Sunlight? He sat up in bed and snatched up the alarm clock, staring in disbelief at what it was telling him. 11.30 a.m. It couldn’t be! The alarm was supposed to have woken him at seven. He had an interview with Mullett at nine. He tested the winding key. It was fully extended. Either he had forgotten to wind it last night or it had rung itself to exhaustion and he had slept right through it. Damn.

  Swinging his bare feet to the floor, he screwed shut his eyes against the harsh probing jab of the morning sunshine. Who wanted sunshine on a day like this? If he was going to get a bollocking, let it pee with rain.

  He broke all speed records dragging on his clothes, which were in a heap on the floor. Then he stopped, sat on the bed, and lit up one of Mullett’s cigarettes. What the hell? There was no point hurrying. If he skipped a shave, skipped breakfast, and roared nonstop to the station he would still be nearly three hours late.

  So why not be four hours late? A leisurely wash and shave, followed by a fry-up and plenty of time to try and think up some novel excuse, some heart-rending sob story that would stop Hornrim Harry stone cold in his tracks.

  Whistling happily, he bounced down the stairs, scooping up two letters from the mat, and taking them into the kitchen. The first was a statement of account from Bennington’s Bank. He wasn’t ready yet for more bad news, so he tossed it, unopened, into the kitchen bin. The second envelope was a mystery with handwriting he didn’t recognize. Propping it against the bread bin, he filled the electric kettle and switched it on. Two dubious-looking rashers of bacon sweated and cowered in the corner of the fridge. He took them out, sniffed them, and decided to chance it.

  The rashers were laid into the frying pan with a generous chunk of recycled dripping, then two eggs were cracked and dropped in, and everything started sizzling and spitting and filling the kitchen with greasy smoke. He turned his attention to making the tea. No tea bags left. Damn and flaming blast!

  He ferreted around in the rubbish bin and found a swollen, soggy used bag looking like a drowned mouse. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought as he dumped it in his cup and drowned it again in hot water. Then he buttered some bread, tipped the contents of the frying pan on to a plate, fished a knife and fork out of the washing-up bowl, and settled down to eat.

  Something white caught his eye. The letter. Sliding a greasy knife under the flap, he slit it open. A birthday card. He frowned and took another look at the envelope, which immediately explained itself. It was addressed to Mrs. J. Frost. Of course. Today was his wife’s birthday and the card was from someone who didn’t know she was dead. The handwritten message inside read “Happy Birthday from Gloria . . . still at the same address . . . would love a letter.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Gloria? Who the hell was Gloria? He thought he had let everyone know. Giving up, he replaced the card in its envelope.

  He had forgotten today was her birthday. But then, he always did forget. Time after time that awful realization as he descended the stairs and saw the pile of cards on the mat.

  He recalled her last birthday, when she was in hospital and looked nearly twice her age. And the birthdays when they were first married, when she was different, when everything was different, when his jokes made her laugh, when they were happy together. How had it all changed? He was no different. He never changed. And that was the trouble. She wanted him to change, to be a big success. But he couldn’t.

  He jerked himself back to the present and to the cold food congealing on the chipped plate. “Happy birthday, love,” he muttered, dropping the card on top of the bank statement in the rubbish bin. He supposed he ought to put some flowers on her grave, pretending that th
is time he had remembered. Pushing the plate away, he lit up the last of Mullett’s Three Castles and decided no flowers. It would be hypocritical.

  Mullett buzzed through on the internal phone yet again. “Is Inspector Frost in yet?” A routine that was fast becoming a regular feature of his day.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said Sergeant Johnny Johnson. As if there was any doubt! He knew darn well Frost wasn’t in. Hadn’t he been ringing his house continually since five to nine getting only the engaged signal? The inspector must have left his phone off the hook again, but Mullett couldn’t be told that.

  “I want to see him the second he gets in . . . the very second,” said Mullett grimly.

  “The very second,” echoed Johnson, who seemed to know this script by heart. He banged the phone down and yelled for Webster.

  “You went to Mr. Frost’s house, Constable?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” replied Webster. “As I told you, his car wasn’t outside.”

  “Did you knock on his door?”

  “No point, Sergeant. If his car wasn’t outside, then he wouldn’t be in.”

  “You go straight back to that house, Constable, and you knock, kick, and bang at that bloody front door. If you get no answer, then go and find him. And next time I tell you to do something, do it properly!”

  “Hear, hear,” said a familiar voice. “Morning all.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Johnson yelled at the inspector. “Mr. Mullett’s been having kittens?”

  “Kittens?” frowned Frost. “I thought we’d had him doctored.”

  The sergeant could only bury his head in his hands. “It isn’t funny, Jack. Look at the time! It’s gone twelve. You were supposed to see him at nine.”

  Frost made a great show of consulting his watch. “I can spare him a few minutes now if he likes.”

  Johnson snatched up the internal phone and punched out Mullett’s number. “Mr. Frost is here now, sir. Yes sir. Right away sir.” He turned to the inspector. “The Divisional Commander’s office, Jack. Now!” He replaced the phone, then clicked on a smile to greet a woman who wished to report strange goings-on at the house across the street.

  Frost spun on his heels to answer the summons when Collier called him back. “A call for you on your office phone, Mr. Frost. A woman. She wouldn’t give her name.”

  “Right,” said Frost, making a sharp right-hand turn toward his office.

  Johnson looked up from the complaining woman. “Where’s Mr. Frost gone?”

  “His office, I think,” answered Collier.

  “His office?” screamed the sergeant. “Mr. Mullett’s waiting for him. Attend to this lady, would you.” He pushed Collier toward the woman.

  The internal phone rang. Mullett was getting impatient.

  “Leave it!” yelled Johnson, too late. Collier answered it and held the phone out to the sergeant. “The Divisional Commander for you.”

  “Run and fetch Mr. Frost,” shrilled Johnson, pushing Collier in that direction.

  “What about me?” snapped the woman.

  “Be with you in a moment, madam,” replied Johnson, his head spinning. “Yes, sir,” he told the phone. “Yes, sir, I did tell him. I think he had another urgent call, sir. Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He replaced the receiver and wiped a hand wearily across his face.

  “They’re always at it, morning, noon, and night,” said the woman. “Here . . . where do you think you’re going . . .?”

  Frost pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “No, we haven’t got your sovereigns back yet, Lil. I know we’re a load of lazy good-for-nothing bastards. Have I ever denied it? When I have some news, I’ll tell you . . . and the same to you, Lil.”

  He hung up, looked at his desk and shuddered. It was awash with papers. Where did they all come from? He scooped up an armful and transferred it to Webster’s desk so he could have a frown at it when he came in. He poked a cigarette in his mouth and pressed the top of the gas lighter he had found in the kitchen drawer. A six-inch column of flame seared past his nose and reminded him why he had stopped using it.

  The door crashed open. A panting Sergeant Johnson. “For Pete’s sake, Jack!”

  “Oh blimey,” said Frost. “Hornrim Harry!” He sprang to his feet for the sprint to the Commander’s office and then saw the other shape behind Johnson. Mullett, his face tight with rage.

  “My office, Frost . . . now!” He spun on his heel and stamped out. The ambient temperature seemed to have fallen by thirty degrees.

  “I tried to warn you, Jack,” hissed Johnny Johnson. “I’ll start a collection for you.”

  “You worry too much,” said Frost, marching to the Star Chamber with his chin held high.

  Miss Smith, Mullett’s mirror, was at her typewriter, her face simmering with displeasure. His anger was her anger. With a passable impression of the Commander’s glare, she stared icily at Frost as he passed her.

  “The Commander said you were to go straight in,” she snapped.

  Frost had been caught out like that before. He knocked.

  A snarl from the inner sanctum. “Come in!”

  Mullett sat stiff and straight behind the satin mahogany desk, Frost’s personal file open in front of him. It was his intention to bring up again all of the inspector’s past misdeeds and to suggest without equivocation that Frost should look elsewhere for employment as he clearly lacked the attitude and discipline necessary to be a police officer. He kept his eyes down, ignoring Frost’s ambling entrance. But before he could pull the pin out of his first grenade, Frost got in first.

  “Sorry about this morning, Super, only I suddenly remembered it was my wife’s birthday. I thought I should put some flowers on her grave.”

  A brilliant pre-emptive strike which put Mullett completely off his stroke. “My dear chap,” he said, ‘do sit down.” He made a mental note to ask Miss Smith to check the files to ensure the date was correct, then he paused and bowed his head for a few seconds to show respect for the dead. That down, he steeled himself for the unpleasant task in hand.

  “Operation Mousetrap, that un authorised fiasco of last night. You knew my permission was essential and would only be given if I was assured the plan was viable. Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “Sorry about that, Super,” said Frost, his legs crossed, his unpolished shoe waggling. “I tried to see you, but you’d sneaked off somewhere.”

  Mullett’s lips tightened. “I was at County HQ. You only had to pick up the phone, but instead you flagrantly disobeyed standing instructions and went ahead regardless, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you gave Sergeant Johnson the impression that I had agreed to it.”

  “He must have misunderstood me,” said Frost brazenly. “Still, no harm done.”

  Mullett leaned back in chair, wide-eyed with incredulity. “No harm done? A police woman was injured.”

  Frost shrugged. “A few bruises and a black eye. I’ve seen brides come back from their honeymoons with worse than that.”

  “She could have been killed, Inspector.”

  “She could have won fifty thousand pounds on the pools, sir, but she didn’t.”

  Burying his face in his hands, Mullett felt like crying. How could you reason with a man like this? He picked up a newly sharpened pencil from his pen tray and twiddled it between his fingers. “I’m taking you off the case, Inspector.”

  Frost’s jaw dropped. He looked disbelievingly at Mullett as if the man had taken leave of his senses. “You’re bloody what?”

  The pencil snapped in two between Mullett’s fingers as he stiffened with fury. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, Frost,” he croaked, anger making his voice barely audible.

  “Sorry, Super,” said Frost in the tone of a man pulled up on some minor and obscure breach of etiquette, ‘but I want to stay with this one. I think I’m close to cracking it’

  “Yes . . . the plastic mac and the door key,” said Mullett, referring to his notes. “Pass them all over to Mr. Allen. It’
s his case from now on. By the way, how are you getting on with your murder inquiry that drug addict?”

  “Not too well,” said Frost, mentally adding ‘as well you know, you four-eyed git.”

  “Then you’ll have more time to concentrate on it now you’re off the rape case, won’t you?” smiled Mullett, showing the interview was at an end by pulling his in-tray toward him and taking out the letters for signature. “One last thing. The Chief Constable is very concerned at our mounting number of housebreakings Let that be your number-one priority. That will be all, Frost.” He unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and began signing his letters only to see his pen jump and splutter ink all over Miss Smith’s pristine typing as Frost left, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.

  He put the letter to one side for retyping, then buzzed Miss Smith for some aspirins. There had to be some way he could get rid of the man.

  The door slamming was repeated as Frost fumed back into his own pigsty of an office, where he further vented his rage by giving his in-tray a right-hander, sending the contents flying all over the floor. He spun around on Webster, who was regarding his tantrum with amused tolerance. “Don’t just sit there plaiting your beard, Constable. Help me pick this lot up.”

  Without a word, Webster began gathering up the papers, smirking with inward satisfaction at Frost’s rage. Obviously he had been given a roasting by the Divisional Commander for last night’s debacle. And it served the stupid fool right.

  Frost was down on his knees after a couple of burglary reports that had found their way under his desk just out of reach. He poked at them with a ruler and managed to fish one out. “By the way, son. As of today I’m off the rape case.”

  Webster grunted noncommittally.

  “How’s your girlfriend this morning?” said Frost, reading through the form.

  “She’s come to work,” the constable told him, ‘wearing dark glasses to hide the black eye, but otherwise OK.” And no thanks to you, he added under his breath.