A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “Mucky one for you this time, Doc,” said Frost.

  “Your ones usually are,” sniffed Drysdale. “Lead the way, please.”

  “Follow your nose,” said Frost, taking a deep breath as he bade a temporary goodbye to fresh air and led the way in, followed by the pathologist and his faded blonde secretary.

  The harsh emergency lighting hammered off the white tiled walls. Seeing the mess made the smell seem stronger than ever. Frost found a cigarette and lit up, only to be stopped by Drysdale.

  “Put that out, Inspector,” he snapped. “I can’t smell what I want to smell.”

  “Whatever turns you on, Doc,” muttered Frost, spotting a box of face masks on a chopping block and slipping one on thankfully. Drysdale disdained the offer and his secretary, following her master’s lead, shook her head, although she was looking distinctly green.

  Even with the mask on, the smell seeped through. There were too many people inside the tiny room, making it hotter than ever. “The bleeding place seemed twice the size in the dark,” muttered Frost to himself. “Everyone wait outside,” he called. “The doc can’t appreciate the bouquet with all you sweaty sods in here.”

  They needed no second bidding. With the lights streaming down, the scene looked even gorier than before. Forensic and SOCO had done a good job of sorting out the bloody pieces, which were laid out on green polythene sheeting like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. The head and limbs had been sawn from the trunk, which was naked. The hands and feet had been sawn from the limbs. Parts of the foot were missing—obviously the pieces that had been turning up in Denton Woods. The throat had been slashed, the stomach split and organs removed. It was like something out of Jack the Ripper.

  “Is she dead, Doc?” asked Frost.

  Drysdale, who didn’t appreciate Frost’s humour, gave him a cold glare and bent down to examine the carnage more closely. He prodded the trunk with his finger.

  “She’s been dead between one and two weeks.” His secretary briefly took away the handkerchief she had clasped to her nose and scribbled the great man’s findings down in her shorthand notebook. “Collect some of those maggots for the entomologist. He’ll be more precise.”

  Drysdale straightened up and consulted his wristwatch. “I can fit in a postmortem at three this afternoon. Get the body to the mortuary, with the other bits of foot you tell me you have found. Stress to the attendant I do not want it washed or cleaned in any way until I say so.” He pointed to the tiled floor. “And get samples of dried blood from all parts of the floor and walls . . . mark the location of each and take photographs. I need to confirm if any of it is human, which could mean she was killed in here.”

  “Sure, Doc,” nodded Frost, hoping he could remember all this. “So, for the record, cause of death?”

  “She more than likely died from the many knife wounds—her throat’s been cut, but I’ll need to do the autopsy to determine if that was the prime cause. Three o’clock, Inspector. And I’d be obliged if, just for once, you weren’t late.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Frost.

  Frost’s cigarette was alight the minute his foot touched the pavement. The rest of the team were huddled in their cars, most of them smoking. He watched the rear lights of Drysdale’s Rolls disappear round the corner, then called out, “As you’ve been so good, I’m letting you go back inside again.” He issued Drysdale’s instructions about getting the body over to the morgue, together with the other parts they had found previously. “He wants the matching set. And the flaming prat wants maggots and blood samples from all over the walls and floor and every bloodstain photographed. It would be easier to ask Lewis where he killed her, but Drysdale wants to do it the hard way.”

  He beckoned DS Hanlon over. “Arthur, get on to the Electricity people. I want the current restored to this place so we can get the refrigeration room operational. Drysdale’s bound to discover one of her nipples is missing or something, and we’ll have to send some poor sod back in to fish it out, so let’s get it chilled down. And we’d better have a uniform guarding the doors in case souvenir hunters want a bit of ear-hole for their scrapbook.” He raised his voice to address the others. “When you’ve finished, back to the station for breakfast—brains and liver on toast. And no pinching bits of meat for your dinner. It’s been counted.”

  “Superintendent Mullett wants to see you,” called Wells as Frost pushed through the swing doors.

  “He can go and—” began Frost, then picking up the sergeant’s urgent face-twitching signal that the superintendent was within earshot, hastily amended, “He can be assured he’s only got to ask.” He turned to see Mullett in the door way. “Oh hello, Super. Didn’t see you there.”

  “My office!” barked Mullett, spinning on his heels and marching back down the corridor.

  “It’s the third door from the end,” called Frost.

  Mullett got up from his chair and opened a window wide as Frost entered.

  “Yes, there is a funny smell in here, Super,” said Frost, flopping in a chair. “I noticed it the minute I came in.”

  Mullett frowned. “Hardly the time for cheap humour, Frost.” He looked the DI up and down, scowling his displeasure. “You look a mess. You’re dishevelled, unshaven, and those clothes have seen better days.”

  “Sorry,” said Frost. “Next time I fight for my life in the bleeding dark I’ll put my best suit on.”

  “Your sarcasm about the incident is misplaced, Frost. This should wipe that smile off your face. I have just had our local radio station on the phone, wanting me to confirm that a suspect arrested this morning is in intensive care with his fingers smashed and severe concussion following a savage kick in the head.” He repeated these last words to emphasise the seriousness. “A kick, Frost . . . in the head.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time,” said Frost. “I was defending myself. He came at me with a knife.”

  “To kick a man in the head, he would have to be down on the floor, Frost. You hardly needed to defend yourself when your assailant was on the floor.”

  “He was reaching for the bloody knife.”

  “You could have kicked it out of the way. The press are going to have a field day over this, and you can’t expect me to back you.”

  “That’s the last thing I would expect,” said Frost. “I only had one free hand.” He held up the strapped wrist. “This one was useless. I was groggy after hitting my head on the floor. This mad bastard had already taken a slice out of my ear and my cheek, just in case you think I cut myself shaving.” He touched the sticking plaster and wished it was bigger.

  Mullett dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Excuses, excuses. If Lewis dies . . .”

  His phone rang. Mullett frowned at it for daring to interrupt, then picked it up. “Mullett!” The frown vanished. He straightened himself up in his chair, smoothing his hair and straightening an already immaculate tie. “Good morning, Chief Constable. Yes, I’ve heard, sir.”

  Mullett covered the mouthpiece with his hand and hissed to Frost, “He’s heard about your brutal arrest—I’m not going to cover up for you.” Then back instantly to the phone. “Yes, sir. I’m dealing with that right now. I have Frost in the office with me . . . I—” He stopped dead. As if a switch had clicked, his expression changed. “I couldn’t agree with you more, sir . . . a very brave thing to do . . . tackling a man with a knife in the pitch dark . . . and he suffered minor injuries himself, did you know? Yes, sir . . . Funnily enough I was telling him that as you phoned . . . a credit to the Denton force.”

  Frost leant back in his chair and smirked.

  “One minor problem,” Mullett went on. “I’ve had the local TV station on accusing us of police brutality . . . Yes, sir, I shall certainly put them in their place. As you know, sir, I back my men to the hilt.” He ignored Frost’s exaggerated expression of disbelief. “His transfer request? . . . I’m doing my best to talk him out of it, sir, but his mind seems to be made up . . . Yes, sir, I’ll tr
y again . . . I agree we need men like him in the division . . . Thank you, sir.” He hung up and shuffled some papers on his desk, trying to reassemble his thoughts.

  “No need to talk me out of it, Super,” beamed Frost. “To help you out, I’ll stay.”

  “The Chief Constable is unaware of your forgeries and your obtaining money by false pretences, Frost. If he found out, there would be no question of you staying anywhere in the force you would be out on your ear and nothing I could do would stop it.”

  “I’m sure of that,” said Frost. He stood up. “Anything else?”

  Mullett waved him back into his chair. “There is something else, Frost. I’ve had DCI Skinner on the phone. He’s still tying up loose ends in his old division, but he should be able to return to Denton permanently in a week or two. And when he does he wants to bring his own Detective Inspector with him. So we want you to be ready to move out instantly. What have you done about selling your house?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” said Frost.

  “You’ve got to do more than think about it. You’ll need somewhere to live in Lexton. DCI Skinner has kindly given your details to estate agents there, who will be contacting you.”

  “DCI Skinner’s kindness overwhelms me at times,” said Frost. “And there was me thinking he was a lousy bastard.”

  “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Mullett. “As time is of the essence, Frost, I suggest you take the rest of the day off and get your house tidied up into a fit condition for estate agents to value it.”

  Back in his office, Frost phoned Taffy Morgan at the hospital. “How’s Lewis?” he asked.

  “He’s all right, Guv. He was only stunned.”

  “Oh dear. Mullett was hoping he’d die so he could boot me out. Are they keeping him in?”

  “Only for another twenty-four hours for observation.”

  “Right. I’ll get Sergeant Wells to send you a relief. I need you down here.”

  “The doctors are worried about his mental state.”

  “That’s funny, Taff. I’m worried about yours. What are they going to do about it?”

  “They reckon they should get him sectioned.”

  “Bloody good idea . . . he’s not going to be fit to plead and it will get him off our backs. I’ll get Bill Wells on to it.”

  He hung up. His head was hurting. His wrist was hurting. It wasn’t time for the next lot of painkillers, but he shook out a double dose and swallowed them dry. Dangerous to exceed the stated dose, it said. Well, he’d live dangerously. They weren’t doing any bleeding good anyway. He yawned and scrubbed his face with his hands. Why was he so bloody tired? Was it the tablets? He read the manufacturer’s warnings . . . the tablets could evidently cause everything from exploding eyeballs to heart failure . . . Should you experience any of these symptoms, stop taking the medication instantly and consult your GP. And yes, they could cause tiredness—Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.

  He yawned again. Of course he was flaming tired. What with all the sodding about with Lewis, he’d barely had half an hour’s sleep. Well, he wasn’t fit for work in this state. He’d obey his thoughtful Divisional Commander and go home for a couple of hours and have a kip.

  As he yawned his way through the lobby, Bill Wells called after him, “Mullett wants you again, Jack.”

  “He can bloody want,” said Frost.

  The minute his head touched the pillow, thoughts started whirling round his brain—all the things he had to do, all the things he hadn’t done—and he knew there was no chance of sleep. He lit a cigarette and lay there, staring upwards, watching the smoke writhe its way to the nicotine-stained ceiling. What was that song Peggy Lee used to sing—‘Don’t Smoke In Bed’? There was supposed to be a danger of dropping off to sleep and burning yourself to death when the bedclothes caught fire. The worst thing about smoking in bed as far as he was concerned was that the ash kept falling on his chest. He brushed away the latest deposit, stubbed the cigarette out and shut his eyes, willing sleep to pay him a visit. He was just drifting off when . . .

  The bloody hall phone rang.

  He tried to ignore it, but it rang and rang and rang.

  Cursing softly, he padded downstairs and snatched up the handset. “Frost.”

  “My name is Richard from Ripley’s estate agent’s. When would it be convenient to call to value your home?”

  “What did you say your name was?” asked Frost sweetly.

  “Richard.”

  “Then piss off, Richard.” He slammed the phone down, making the hall table shake. Sod it. Sleep was impossible now. And he’d have to face up to the fact that, like it or not, they were going to boot him out of Denton and he’d have to sell this place. An estate agent would have to call and put a price on it. Prospective buyers would come to have a sniff around, shake their heads and say, “We were looking for something bigger, cheaper, less scruffy, and in a better state of repair.”

  As he turned to go back upstairs a package plopped through the letter box. A plastic sack from Oxfam, who were inviting householders to fill it with unwanted clothing.

  If he was going to move into somewhere smaller he would have to chuck away a whole batch of stuff. The wardrobe was jam-packed with his late wife’s clothes. They could all go for a start. He made a detour to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face to chase away the last vestiges of tiredness, rubbed his chin and decided a shave could wait, then went back into the bedroom. There were so many dresses, coats, blouses, skirts, going back years. His wife had never thrown anything away. He shook them off their hangers and started stuffing them into the bag.

  Then he came to the red dress. The red, short-sleeved, low-necked cocktail dress. The dress she had worn that Christmas . . .

  The first Christmas after they had married. Their very first Christmas together in their own home, and it was all spoilt when the bloody phone rang and he was called back on duty because of the murdered girl—the girl Graham Fielding had raped and strangled.

  That stinking row . . . her tears, her threats . . . “If you leave me on Christmas Day I won’t be here when you get back!” Nothing would console her . . . He remembered her tear-stained face . . . but he had been called out on duty. He had to leave her.

  It was gone ten at night when he finally got back home, cold, tired, apprehensive and miserable. Their big day together ruined. The house seemed dark and empty. He called out her name. No reply. His heart sank. Had she gone to bed, or worse still, had she carried out her threat and left him?

  He walked down the passage to the kitchen, clicking on lights as he went. He steeled himself and pushed open the door The warm smell of cooking hit him in the face.

  The lights were off. His wife, in the red cocktail dress, was at the table, which she had laid with a red cloth, red serviettes and red candles, the reflected flames dancing on her skin. God, she was beautiful. He could see her now. Absolutely beautiful.

  She rushed to meet him. They kissed. They both kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .” They exchanged presents. She had bought him a super cigarette lighter which he lost after a week and didn’t dare tell her. He had bought her a sexy nightdress and another present. He called it a Marilyn Monroe nightdress as it was all she claimed to wear in bed . . . a bottle of Chanel No. 5, which had cost him a packet. “That’s the nightdress I’m going to wear tonight,” she told him.

  The most wondetful Christmas night of his life. What happened? How did things go avalanching downhill? Why did such deep, passionate love change to cold, sullen hate? How did his beautiful, loving wife change into the bitter, grim-faced woman who he had to sit and watch die? It was all his fault. She had ambitions. She wanted him to go places, but he knew his limitations.

  He realised he was crying. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks. He pressed his face into the red dress. The perfume—the Chanel. Was it his imagination or could he still smell the ghost of that perfume? God, what a night they had had . . .


  He looked down at the sack, half filled with her clothes. No point in being sentimental. Everything had to go, even the red dress.

  But he couldn’t do it. He put the dress back on its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. The rest of the clothes he crammed in, forcing them down to make room, then tied the sack.

  He sat on the bed and smoked some more, and thought of all the good times. Bloody hell. He was supposed to be a cynical bastard. That knock on the head was making him all sentimental and flaming weepy. Chanel No. 5 in the tiniest of bottles. “For that price I expected a pint at least,” he had told the sales girl when he bought it. It had cost him a packet. But she was worth it, every penny.

  He caught sight of the alarm clock. Damn. If he didn’t hurry he’d be late once again for Drysdale’s postmortem.

  The pathologist straightened up from the autopsy table and stepped back to allow the photographers to take their photographs of the dismembered body, which had now been cleaned up slightly.

  “She received a blow to the head which would have rendered her unconscious,” he told Frost. “Then her throat was cut—the way animals are slaughtered, I suppose.” He peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them in the disposal bin on top of his discarded plastic apron. “The dismembering of the body was carried out immediately after death.”

  Drysdale moved across to the sink and washed his hands, holding them out for the towel his faithful, ever-anticipating secretary had ready. “Our suspect is a butcher, I believe?”

  “Yes,” nodded Frost. “I don’t think he’ll ever stand trial. His solicitor has got doctors to say he’s unfit to plead and I don’t think we’re going to argue about that.”

  Drysdale pushed his arms into the sleeves of the overcoat his secretary was holding out, then looked back at the body on the table and shook his head. “In all my years as a pathologist, it never ceases to disgust me how people can do such things to fellow human beings.”