A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “I don’t like this, Jack,” moaned Hanlon.

  “If we get caught, I’ll take all the flak,” said Frost. “I’m a better liar than you. But we won’t get caught.” He tugged his mobile from his mac pocket. “Taffy, we’re in the house. Get round the front, keep out of sight and warn me if they come back.” He turned to Hanlon. “You search downstairs, Arthur. I’ll do the upstairs. Don’t switch on lights, use your torch. Let’s see if we can find that kid.”

  They searched. No trace. Frost peeped out of the back window. “There’s a shed in the garden, Arthur. See if she’s in there.”

  Frost was beginning to feel despondent. He had been banking on finding Jan O’Brien in Janet Leigh’s house. Hanlon came back, shaking his head.

  “She’s not there, Jack. There’s no sign she’s ever been here. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Don’t let’s waste a flaming golden opportunity Arthur. Do a more thorough search. See if we can find the video camera and the tapes or anything to tie her to the murders.”

  They went round each room methodically, looking everywhere where tapes could be hidden. There was a sideboard in the dining room which looked promising.

  “Quick, Arthur. You look in the cupboards, I’ll go through the drawers.” They found nothing.

  The pantry. Nothing.

  The airing cupboard. Nothing.

  The bath was free-standing without panels, so no hiding place there.

  Frost flashed his torch to the landing ceiling. No trapdoor to a loft.

  “The bedroom, Arthur. Our last hope—don’t trip over the po.”

  Frost went through the dressing-table drawers while Hanlon poked about in the wardrobe.

  Nothing.

  “Shit!” cursed Frost.

  He nearly missed the A4 manila envelope in the drawer of the bedside cabinet. He wasn’t interested in it—he was looking for videotapes—but something made him look inside.

  He whistled softly.

  “Bloody hell, Arthur. We’ve got them.” It wasn’t the tape. It was two colour photographs of Debbie Clark, bound, gagged and naked.

  He pushed the photos back in their envelope and sighed with relief. “We’ve got the bastards, Arthur.”

  “But without a search warrant, Jack.” Frost carefully put the envelope back in the drawer where he’d found it. “Then we’ll get one. Morgan can stay outside and arrest them if they come back. We’re going back to the nick to make out a search warrant, then I’m dragging old Miller out of her pit and getting her to sign it.”

  They were halfway back to the station when a wailing siren made them pull over to one side to allow a fire engine to go roaring past.

  “Off to get some chips,” grunted Frost, but then he saw a red glow cutting through the night sky way over to the north of Denton. He nudged Hanlon and pointed. “Look over there, Arthur—a fire, and a bloody big one.”

  His radio crackled. “Control to Inspector Frost.”

  He clicked on the mike. “Frost.”

  “999 call, Inspector. House fire.”

  “We can see it from here. Where is it?”

  “Dunn Street, Inspector. Number 23.”

  Frost frowned, and then he jerked back in his seat. “Twenty-three Dunn Street. Kelly’s house!”

  “Yes, Inspector. The fire brigade have recovered two bodies. They suspect arson.”

  “We’re on our way,” said Frost, screeching the car into a U-turn.

  There were fire engines and police cars with flashing blue lights, which gave a macabre tinge to the cluster of dressing-gowned figures woken by the noise who had come out to gawp. Most of the lights in the street were on and a uniformed officer was trying to keep the onlookers back.

  A traffic policeman flagged Frost’s car down. “Sorry sir, you can’t—” he began, before recognising the inspector and waving him through to park behind an ambulance, its rear doors wide open.

  The chief fire officer spotted Frost and hurried over. “Definitely arson, Inspector. Petrol doused everywhere.” He looked across to his men. One team was rolling up their hoses, the other was spraying water as small pockets of flame re-ignited. “We’ve got the fire under control, but there’s not much left of the house.”

  “You found bodies?” Frost asked.

  The fireman nodded. “A man and a woman . . . burnt to buggery The ambulance crew are taking them to the morgue now.”

  Two ambulance men were humping a body bag on to a stretcher. “Hold it a minute,” called Frost, hurrying over. They put down the stretcher and waited.

  Frost knelt and unzipped the black body bag, turning his head at the smell of burnt flesh that seeped out. The face was twisted, distorted, blackened, the hair burnt off, but there was no doubt about the identification. It was Bridget Malone. He pulled the zip down further. The body was clad in the charred remains of a dress. Frost stared down, shook his head, then straightened up. “Let’s have a look at the other one.”

  One side of Patsy Kelly’s face had missed the flames, but the other was burnt away, showing blackened jaw and cheekbone. He was dressed in a charred jacket and trousers. “Has a police surgeon seen the bodies?”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said the ambulance man. “He didn’t stop long. Said to tell you that they’re dead and could have been burnt in the fire and if you wanted to know more . . .”

  “. . . ask that bastard Drysdale,” said Frost, finishing the sentence for him.

  “You’re a mind-reader, Inspector,” grinned the ambulance man. Frost stepped back and told them to carry on, then returned to the chief fire officer.

  “What time did the fire start?”

  “About an hour ago. We got a phone call from a neighbour about fifteen minutes later. It was well alight by the time we arrived and we were here within minutes.”

  Frost checked his watch. “So it would have started around two o’clock. They’re fully dressed—bloody late to be fully dressed and not in bed. And if they were fully dressed, how come they didn’t raise the alarm themselves and get out of the place?” A slamming of doors made him turn his head to watch the ambulance back out and drive off to Denton General.

  His mobile chirped. Taffy Morgan.

  “Allen and the woman have just returned, Inspector. We’ve arrested them, like you said. They’re yelling blue murder. They want to pick up somethings from the house.”

  “Don’t let them in the house,” warned Frost. “Cuff them, bung them in your car and wait for me. Don’t take them to the station yet.”

  They were halfway there when Morgan phoned again. “The woman’s demanding to use the bathroom in the house, Inspector. Says she’s busting for a pee.”

  “She can pee all over your car seat if she likes,” replied Frost, “but don’t let her into the house.” He knew what she was after. The cow wanted to destroy those photos and flush them down the loo. Well, hard luck, darling, it’s not going to happen.

  “What is this all about, Inspector?” asked Allen. “I bring my ladyfriend back to her house and that Welshman arrests us and handcuffs us and tries to make out we killed those kids.”

  “And I really must go to the toilet, Inspector,” said Janet Leigh. “It is urgent and this is intolerable.”

  Frost gave a deceptively sweet smile. “We’re going to nip you down to the station in a minute, love, where you can pee to your heart’s content. In the meantime we’ll be getting search warrants for both your houses, and if we don’t find photographs and videos tying you both to the murder of Debbie Clark, I’ll apologise before you’ve had a chance to pull the chain.” He stopped abruptly and sniffed, then pressed his nose to Allen’s jacket. “Fee, fi, fo, flaming fum!” He beckoned Hanlon over. “Take a sniff at the gent’s jacket, Arthur, and see if you can smell what I can smell.”

  Hanlon took a tentative sniff. He frowned. “Petrol?”

  Frost turned back to Allen. “We’ve just come from a house fire with two dead bodies. The place stunk of petrol.”

 
Allen gave a scoffing laugh. “You’re surely not suggesting we had anything to do with it?”

  “Then tell me why your clothes reek of petrol.”

  “I filled the car up when we were out. I spilt some on my coat.”

  “I knew there must be a reasonable explanation,” beamed Frost. “Show me the petrol receipt, so I can apologise for my evil thoughts.”

  “I don’t keep receipts. I threw it away.”

  “Ah well, it will be on your credit-card statement.”

  “I paid cash.”

  “Never mind. All of these garages have got CCTV cameras in case punters drive off without paying, or buy petrol to burn houses down. What was the name of the garage?”

  “I forget.”

  ‘Don’t worry about it, son,” said Frost. “We’ve got teams of cops who can go round every petrol station and check through their CCTV footage, and as soon as they find one of you dousing your coat in petrol, I’ll be grovelling my apologies.” He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot.” He called to Morgan, “Take the gentleman’s car keys and have a look in the boot. Don’t touch anything, just tell me what’s in there.”

  Allen and Janet Leigh stared at each other grimly, but said nothing. Morgan unlocked the boot. “Two empty petrol cans, Guv, and they stink of petrol.”

  “Petrol cans usually do,” said Frost, beaming at the pair. “You’re making it too easy for us. Lock up the boot, Taff, and get Forensic to examine the car in situ and see if they can tie it in with the fire at Kelly’s place.” He turned back to Allen. “Where’s the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “You know bloody well what girl. Jan O’Brien.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Allen.

  Frost turned to the woman. “Please, Miss Leigh,” he said. “You’re already in this up to your neck. Where is Jan O’Brien?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. Like my friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Frost wound his scarf round his neck and opened the car door. “To save us smashing your front doors in when we get the search warrants, you might like to give us your keys.” He held out his hand.

  They gave him their keys.

  Frost breezed into the lobby at four a.m., no longer tired. Morgan followed him in, clutching the envelope containing the photos Frost had found in Janet Leigh’s house, together with a polythene sack containing clothing for forensic examination.

  “We’ve got the bastards,” Frost told Bill Wells. “Photos and a camcorder from the tart’s house, and Bristol police have found more photos and tapes at Allen’s pad. There’s still no clue as to where they’ve hidden the girl, but I’ll beat it out of them.”

  From the cells at the end of the corridor a drunk was roaring a filthy song. Wells frowned. “Listen to the ignorant bastard. He doesn’t even know the right words.” He yelled down the corridor, “If you don’t shut that bleeding row, I’ll pee over your breakfast.”

  The singing stopped immediately.

  “Appeal to their better natures,” nodded Frost. “It always works. Let’s have Allen in the Interview Room.”

  Frost watched his cigarette smoke wriggle its way to the ceiling, past the red lights which indicated that the cassette recorder and the video camera were functioning. He felt good. He had enough evidence, without any admission of guilt, to send Allen and Leigh down for life. He tapped one of the camcorder cassettes. “We found these video tapes hidden under a pile of clothing in the wardrobe in your girlfriend’s bedroom. We played them through. They show a naked Debbie Clark being raped and strangled.”

  Allen wouldn’t look at them. He spoke to the floor. “No idea how they got there.”

  Frost took the camcorder from the box. “Is this your camcorder?”

  Allen gave it a brief glance, shrugged, then resumed his study of the Interview Room floor.

  “Just in case you need a memory jog,” said Frost, “we’ve checked out the warranty and it’s in your name.”

  “Yes,” muttered Allen, “it’s my camcorder.”

  “There’s a slight fault on one of the runners—it scratches the tape . . . did you know?”

  “No.”

  “There’s scratches on those tapes, which our Forensic boys say proves they were taken with that camcorder.”

  “No comment,” muttered Allen.

  Frost sighed. “Not the old ‘no comment’ lark? I find that dead boring, even though it always convinces the jury of a person’s guilt. When me and my mates are in the station late at night and can’t decide who to beat up, we always pick the ‘no comment’ ones.” He pushed the camcorder to one side. “Right. We’ve got you nailed for that, let’s turn to the other girl.”

  “What other girl?” Allen asked.

  “It’s late and I’m tired,” said Frost. “Don’t sod me about. You know bloody well what other girl. Jan O’Brien.”

  Allen’s eyes widened and he gave a scoffing laugh. “You must be hard up for suspects—I know nothing about any other girl.” His brow creased in thought, then his expression changed. “Look . . .” He paused. “Turn off the tapes.”

  “No flaming fear,” said Frost.

  “I’ve got something to say off the record that will be of interest to you. You’ll get the conviction you want for Jan O’Brien, even though I’m not involved.”

  Frost signalled to Morgan. “Turn them off.” Morgan pressed the Stop button and the little red recording light blinked and went out.

  “And the video,” said Allen.

  Morgan switched that off.

  “This had better be good,” said Frost. Allen leant back in his chair. “Right, as you’re going to find out, I’m on those tapes without the mask, so it’s sodded up my chance of claiming I know nothing about it. What do you reckon I’ll get?”

  “Well, it won’t be community service or a flaming fine,” said Frost. “Life, without a doubt.”

  “And Janet?”

  “That bitch,” snorted Frost, “was worse than you. Debbie trusted her. Life as well, probably in solitary confinement otherwise the other inmates would tear her to pieces.”

  Allen shuddered. “I want to do a deal.”

  “We don’t do deals,” said Frost, “and in your case we don’t flaming have to. We’ve enough on the pair of you to get convictions, even from a jury of do-gooders.”

  “Listen to what I’m offering first. I’ll put my hand up to the two kids. That will avoid a long-drawn-out trial with people screaming abuse at us. I’ll give you the name of the bloke who was going to distribute the tapes to his customers. I’ll even put my hand up to Jan O’Brien, although I know nothing about her.”

  “What do you mean, you know nothing about her? When Janet Leigh phoned the Denton Echo—”

  “Never mind what she said. It wasn’t true. Bridget Malone was blackmailing us. She threatened to tell the police where she found the kid’s phone if we didn’t come up with ten thousand quid. Neither of us had that sort of money. The bloke who was going to buy the tape wanted solid proof it was Debbie Clark before parting with the cash. We wanted the fuzz to admit it was Debbie, but you wouldn’t, so we tried pretending we had Jan O’Brien as well, but that didn’t work either.”

  “Which is why you killed Bridget and Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Flaming heck,” snorted Frost. “Pierrepoint would turn in his grave if he knew what we were giving life sentences out for. Then what about Emily Roberts—the body we found on the railway embankment? You’ll be telling me you didn’t kill her either?” This was a long shot. Frost’s money was still on Graham Fielding.

  Allen shook his head. “Nothing to do with us, but I’ll put my hand up for her as well if you go easy on Janet. Get her on a lesser charge—posting the tape, making the phone calls. Don’t involve her with the killing.”

  “Very bleeding chivalrous,” said Frost. “That kid pleaded—Please, Miss Leigh—and she just carried on filming as you choked the life out
of the poor child. She’s going down with you, buster.”

  Wells slammed the cell door shut on Allen and chalked up the time on the board by the door. “Well, Jack?”

  “He and the tart are denying it on record and admitting it off record, but the evidence is water tight. They’ll go down. But they both claim they know nothing about Jan O’Brien.”

  “What about the other girl—the body on the embankment?”

  Frost shook his head. “They both deny having anything to do with her and I believe them. Fielding killed that girl, I just know it.”

  “The old feeling in your urine, Jack?” grinned Wells.

  “It’s never let me down yet,” replied Frost, “—except sometimes.”

  “Lots of flaming times,” said Wells.

  Frost waved this to one side and told Wells about the off-the-record conversation. “He admitted killing the kids and he’d have put his hand up for Emily Roberts if he’d killed her as well. He had nothing to lose.” He yawned. After the high of the arrests, he now felt drained. He had pinned everything on Allen and Leigh having abducted Jan O’Brien, but now he would have to start from scratch.

  His phone rang. He signalled to Wells to answer it. He was too tired.

  “It’s Mullett for you,” said Wells, handing the phone over.

  “Mullett?” gasped Frost, shooting a glance at the wall clock. “Four o’clock in the bleeding morning. What woke him up?” He took the phone.

  “I’ve had the Denton Echo on the phone. Have you made an arrest in the Debbie Clark case?”

  “Yes, Super,” said Frost. “I’ve just come from questioning them. I’m charging them for the two murders and taking them to court tomorrow.”

  “What sort of case have you got?”

  “Watertight, Super. Fingerprints, DNA, photographs, videos, the lot.”

  “Good. What about their statements?”

  “ ‘No comment’ to the lot, but the forensics are more than strong enough.”

  “Excellent. Leave all the details on my desk. I’m calling a press conference tomorrow. We might as well trumpet our success. Oh—no need for you to attend, Frost. You’ve had a busy night.”