‘I’m starving,” said Lambert.
“Then you speak for all of us,” said Frost, reaching for his scarf. “Let’s go.”
He turned his head as Morgan, looking well satisfied with himself, sauntered in. “Sorry it took so long, Guv. Something came up.”
“Something went up, you mean,” said Frost. “You were supposed to take that tom to the hotel and come straight back. Skinner will have your guts for garters if he finds out he’s not a first-footer.”
“She didn’t want to go to the hotel, Guv. She wanted to go home. She was shagged out.”
“And we all know by whom,” grinned Frost. “Care for some brekker?”
He slept for a couple of hours at his desk and was woken by the clanging of the cleaners’ buckets as they mopped up the corridor outside. He clicked on his desk lamp and looked at the wall clock. Eight forty-five. He’d had barely two hours’ sleep and felt shagged out and dirty. He rubbed his eyes, reached for his cigarettes then pushed the packet away. He’d smoked himself sick last night and his mouth tasted like the contents of a week-old ashtray. The fried food from Nick’s café was churning away in his stomach and making him feel queasy. Coffee, that’s what he wanted. He detoured to the washroom on his way to the lobby, to splash cold water on his face. He looked at the weary drawn, grey face staring back at him from the mirror. “You poor old sod,” he muttered, dabbing himself dry.
The coffee helped a little. Johnny Johnson grinned as Frost came down the stairs.
“Had a rough night, Jack?”
“Bleeding rough,” nodded Frost. “Has Skinner charged Kelly and the cockle-seller yet?”
“He’s charged Kelly with the drugs, but the woman was taken violently ill and is in Denton General.”
“Ill?”
“Food poisoning, I think. She threw up all over Skinner’s best suit.”
“I’m beginning to take to her,” said Frost. “I think I’ll nip over to Denton General and have a few words with her. What did she say about the phone?”
“He couldn’t get much sense out of her.”
“And she’s in Denton General? I’ll just nip over and try and jog her memory.”
“Skinner won’t like it,” said Johnson.
“Which adds to the pleasure,” smirked Frost.
The cleaners were mopping and polishing the seemingly endless corridor that crawled round the hospital to Nightingale Ward, where Bridget Malone was a patient. The staff nurse in charge had just come on duty and had to refer to the admission doctor’s notes.
“Nothing too serious. Food poisoning. She can go home today.”
“I’ll just pop over and cheer her up,” said Frost. Bridget Malone’s complexion was still tinged with green. A plate of cold, congealed porridge lurked sullenly on a tray beside her. She was sipping a bright-yellow mug of hospital tea with obvious distaste.
“We left a urine sample in a yellow mug on a tray near here,” said Frost, dragging a chair to the side of the bed. “You haven’t seen it by any chance?”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, then she remembered. “You’re the copper who was at the house last night.”
“Once seen, never forgotten, love,” said Frost. “I want to talk about that mobile phone.”
“What mobile phone?”
Frost sighed deeply. “Don’t sod me about, Bridget. You know damn well what phone. The mobile we found in your airing cupboard. The murdered girl’s phone.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. She stared wide-eyed at Frost. “Dear Sweet Mother of God. Not little Debbie—not that poor girl?”
“Yes, that poor girl.”
“Dear Mother of God. I never knew . . .” She crossed herself. “May I die in the bed I’m lying in, Inspector—I never knew. I’d never have taken it had I known.”
“Taken it? From where?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t bleeding know? Don’t sod me about!” roared Frost.
There was a clatter of footsteps as the staff nurse came over. “Please keep your voice down. There are sick people here.”
“Sorry love,” muttered Frost. He turned back to the woman. “If you can’t remember where you got it, I’m arresting you for murder and you’ll be doing porridge as well as bleeding eating it.”
“Murder? I wouldn’t have touched a hair on that poor innocent child’s head. Those girls, they just left stuff lying around. They were just asking for it to be pinched.”
“You stole stuff from the kids’ lockers?”
“All the lockers. I was teaching the school a lesson. I was going to put it all back.”
“I bet you bleeding were,” sniffed Frost. “So when did this happen?”
“On my mother’s life, Inspector, if I hadn’t been taken sick, I’d have put it all back.”
“You’re a lying cow, Bridget. When did you nick it?”
She screwed her face in thought. “Let me see . . . Wednesday . . . Yes, it was Wednesday, the day before I was taken sick.”
“You’re a bleeding liar, Bridget. Debbie was killed on Tuesday night and she had her phone with her. You and Kelly killed her, didn’t you?”
Her eyes spat fire. “Don’t you dare accuse me of a thing like that, Inspector. You can go to hell. If you want to talk to me, get my solicitor. I’m not saying another word.”
Frost stood up and scraped his chair back against the wall. “I’m going for now, Bridget. But remember what big Arnie said . . . ‘I’ll be back.’ ”
Back in the car, he radioed the station to send a WPC to stay with Malone until she was discharged and take her straight to the station. Then he turned the car off the main road and headed down the side streets to Debbie’s house.
Mrs. Clark was haggard with grief. Her hair was uncombed as before, her dress not buttoned properly. The house felt cold and empty—it felt like a place where someone had died. She took him into the living room. Cards of condolence were strewn on the carpet.
“It’s about your daughter,” began Frost uneasily.
She stared at him as if deeply surprised. “She’s at school. My Debbie is at school . . .” Then her body shook and she collapsed into a chair. “She’s not at school . . . she’s dead. My Debbie is dead.”
“I know, love, I know,” sympathised Frost. God, this was going to be bloody difficult. He sat himself down in a chair opposite her. “A couple of questions and I’ll be on my way . . . it won’t take long.”
She stared at him intently, then leant forward dropping her voice. “Her father killed her. He lusted after her. He was jealous of that boy.”
“You might be right,” nodded Frost gravely, “but we’ve got to get a few facts straight before we can make an arrest. It’s about Debbie’s mobile phone. You said she took it with her the night she went missing?”
She blinked at him. “Her phone? I bought it for her twelfth birthday.”
“Yes, love. But the night she went missing, did she take the phone with her?”
“I made her take it. Every time she went out, I made her take it. I said terrible things might . . .” Her body shook, racked with sobs, “. . . terrible things might happen.”
“And she took it?”
“I always made her show it to me. She held it up. She said, ‘Look, Mum, I’ve got it.’ ”
“You’re sure about this, Mrs. Clark? It’s very important.”
“Of course I’m sure.”
18
“Skinner wants you,” said Wells, “and he’s spitting blood.”
“You did say ‘spitting’? I’m not going in if it’s the other end,” said Frost. He groaned. “Ah, well. Let’s get it over and done with.”
He took a quick look in his own office on the way down. A heap of niggling chase-up memos from Mullett lay in his in-tray, together with a report from SOCO about the coins removed from the call box. Only ninety pence in assorted coins. One of the l0p pieces had a segment of a finger print which matched the fingerprint on the
video wrapping paper. The same woman each time. Big deal! They now knew it was the same woman, but still didn’t know who she was. But what else did he expect? He gave a deep sigh. Things were getting on top of him. The little unexpected lucky breaks that often came to his rescue seemed to be on unauthorised leave. He wished he was! Flaming fat-guts Skinner was no help. He’d dumped all the cases on him, ready to take the credit when they were solved and to bullock Frost when things went wrong. And talking of bollocking, he’d better go in and see what Chubby Chops wanted this time.
The typewritten notice pinned on Skinner’s office door read DCI SKINNER. ROOM 12, with an arrow pointing down the corridor. Frost poked his head inside. It was empty of furniture and a white-overalled workman was splashing paint on the walls. He looked up at Frost.
“You the gentleman from next door, squire?”
“First time I’ve been called a gentleman,” said Frost, “but yes.”
“We’ll be starting on your office next week. Understand you’re leaving?”
“In my own bloody time,” snapped Frost, slamming the door. Bloody Skinner, ordering the coffin while the corpse was still phoning for an ambulance.
Room 12’s door had a pinned notice: DCI SKINNER—KNOCK AND WAIT. Frost barged straight in.
Skinner sat behind a paper-laden desk in a tiny room jam-packed with furniture from his office. He glowered at Frost. Standing in front of him was WPC Kate Holby. She was biting her lip hard and looked on the verge of tears.
“I didn’t hear you knock.”
“Ah—that’s why I didn’t hear you say ‘Come in’,” said Frost.
Another scowl from Skinner. He turned to Kate. “Now get out. You’ll hear more about this.”
She brushed past Frost and left.
Skinner leant back in his chair. “I’ll give that girl something to cry about. If she can’t obey orders, she’s out. I gave her a specific job to do and I find her out on surveillance at the Blue Parrot.”
“I ordered her to do that,” said Frost.
“I don’t care a sod about you. She obeys my orders, not yours. She’s on probation. I’ve got to do a report on her suitability. Well, I’m reporting that she’s unsuitable and that will be that.”
“Even you wouldn’t do that,” said Frost.
A nasty grin crawled over Skinner’s face. “Wouldn’t I just?”
“You wouldn’t,” said Frost as he sat down, “any more than I would report you for having sex with an under-age prostitute and bringing her to the station. I wouldn’t stoop so low—unless I had to, of course.”
The colour drained from Skinner’s face. “Under age?” he croaked.
Frost nodded. “Fifteen this year.” He had no idea how old she was, but Morgan had taken her home last night so he knew where she lived, and he’d get her to lie if necessary.
Skinner was trying to pull himself together. He gathered up the papers on his desk and patted them into a neat stack. “You’re too bleeding clever for your own good,” he muttered.
“Thank you,” said Frost. “Praise from you is praise indeed. What did you want to see me about?”
Skinner waved a hand at the papers on his desk. “You know what these are? Overtime claims . . . unauthorised overtime claims. I’m the one who authorises overtime, Frost, not you.”
“Superintendent Mullett—” began Frost.
“And not Superintendent bleeding Mullett—you take your orders from me, not him. What did that Irish tart say about the phone?”
Frost told him.
Skinner snorted. “She took it from the girl’s locker? Just what I thought.”
“Mrs. Clark said Debbie had it the night she was killed.”
“Then she’s wrong. It can’t have been in two bloody places at once, can it? The kid probably left it at school by mistake and lied to her mother. You’re wasting everyone’s time following that line of inquiry, so drop it. Bridget Malone is a petty, bog-paper-nicking thief, not a murderer, and Patsy Kelly’s a drug-dealer—I’m letting the drug squad deal with him. I’ve phoned the school. They don’t want to prosecute the woman, so that’s that.”
His phone rang. “Skinner.” He pulled the hand set away from his ear as a stream of invective poured out. “Mr. Beazley, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Skinner. I think we have a mutual friend . . . yes, he’s the one. Up to now this whole thing has been a complete mess. I’m going to kick arse to make sure it’s dealt with as it should be. You have my word on that, Mr. Beazley, you have my word.” He hung up and rubbed his ear. “More bloody money was taken last night while you were gallivanting around picking up a bog-paper nicker. I want Beazley off my flaming back, so do a proper surveillance for a change tonight and catch the sod . . . Comprende?”
“Arrivederci,” said Frost.
Skinner stared at him, wondering as usual whether Frost was taking the mickey or was just plain stupid. A noise from his old office distracted him. “How’s that lazy sod next door getting on?”
“What, Superintendent Mullett?” asked Frost innocently.
“You know damn well who I mean. And he’s doing your office next week, ready for your successor. Have you sold your house yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Then get a bloody move on. You start at Lexton the week after next.”
As Frost got up to go, Skinner suddenly remembered. “Where’s the change from my twenty quid?”
“I gave it to your granddaughter,” said Frost. “The under-age one.”
Back in his office, he sat and smoked, staring at the nicotine-stained ceiling. The thought that he would have to give this up and move to some sterile cupboard in Lexton added to his depressed mood. He hated to admit it, but Skinner was right about Kelly and Malone. Villains, yes, drug-dealers and petty thieves, yes, but killers and torturers of kids, no. So, with them off the suspects list they now had to try and trace the woman who was making the phone calls to Sandy Lane about the video.
He made his way over to the Incident Room to see if they were having any luck with the registration numbers of the few cars that had been in the vicinity at around the time the woman made the call.
Kate Holby was sitting at the corner desk with stacks of box files around her, transferring the contents to the computer. It was a boring, seemingly never-ending job. She looked as depressed as he felt. He wandered over to her. She looked up and gave him a weak smile.
“I’ve just had a word with Skinner, love. He won’t be doing an adverse report on you.”
Her face brightened. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me, love,” said Frost. “I just pointed out one or two things to him and, living saint that he is, he realised he’d made a mistake.”
He moved across the room to Collier, who had the phone to his ear and was scribbling something down on a sheet of paper.
“What are you doing, son?” asked Frost when the call finished.
“Jordan and Simms are out checking on the cars that were in the vicinity last night when the phone call was made. All vehicles cleared so far.” He waved the A4 sheet at Frost. It was a list of registration numbers, ticked and marked when the owners had been traced and called on.
One registration number wasn’t ticked. Frost jabbed it with his finger. “What about this one?”
“That’s a lorry Inspector. You said check only cars.”
Frost stared at the number. A little bell started ringing deep in the dark depths of his memory Where had he seen that registration number before? It was on a list. It was definitely on a list of some sort. “Check it out, son.”
He waited while Collier tapped away at the computer. A name flashed up on the monitor. “Registered to Kenneth Taylor, Denton Farm Produce Ltd.”
Frost shook his head. It still didn’t mean anything. “By the way, we’re back on surveillance duty at the Fortress cashpoints tonight. After midnight this time. Skinner has promised Beazley that he is going to crack this case personally, and we mustn’t let our
Chief Inspector down, must we?”
As Frost returned to his office, DC Morgan hastily stuffed the Daily Mirror in a drawer and pretended to be busily filling in forms.
“We’re back on cashpoint surveillance again tonight,Taff, so it will give your dick a rest.”
Morgan grinned. “I’ve got details of the cars picked up on CCTV around the time the money was taken from Fortress last night. No common factor.”
He passed the file across to Frost, who idly flipped through it while digging in his pocket for a cigarette. Then he froze. Staring up at him was the registration number of the Denton Farm Produce lorry. He turned another page. There it was again. He looked up. “Taff, come here.”
Looking apprehensive and wondering what he had done wrong now, the Weishman joined him. “Yes, Guv?”
Frost stabbed a finger. “Why wasn’t this one checked? The same vehicle on three of the four nights?”
“It’s a lorry, Guv. You said don’t check lorries.”
“You prat,” snarled Frost. “Why do you only obey orders when it’s the wrong flaming thing to do? The same flaming lorry turning up every night around the time the money was taken from the building society. Didn’t you think that was more than a flaming coincidence?”
“Now you come to mention it,” began Morgan, but Frost was already on his way to the Incident Room.
“Collier, what was the address of that bloke from Denton Farm Produce?”
“Rose Cottage, Shadwell Road,” Collier told him.
Frost punched the palm of his hand. “Shadwell Road? That’s within spitting distance of where Billy King lives—the one whose cashpoint card was stolen. This could be the bloody lead we’re looking for.” He snatched up the phone and called Control. “Get on to Jordan and Simms. Tell them to drop everything and pick up a Kenneth Taylor, Rose Cottage, Shadwell Road for questioning in connection with the theft of a bank card. And tell him I want to thank him personally for hitting Morgan on the head the other night.”
A Killing Frost Page 36
