A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “You’re too kind, Super,” said Frost with all the insincerity he could muster.

  “And—er—this was DCI Skinner’s case, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” agreed Frost.

  “He had obviously done most of the hard work. It would be a tribute to his memory, don’t you think, if we attributed the successful outcome to him?”

  “Yes, he did do all the hard work,” agreed Frost. “He actually handed me the file and told me to get on with it, but if you want him to have the credit . . .”

  “Excellent. I understand there’s still the other girl’s death and that missing teenager outstanding?”

  “Yes. We’re nowhere with them yet.”

  “Well, your successor will probably spot something you’ve missed.”

  “Not without the benefit of Skinner’s unselfish help,” grunted Frost, banging the phone down.

  “The Denton Echo woke him up,” he told Bill Wells. “How the hell did they know we’d made the arrests?”

  “They listen in on police radio frequencies, Jack, you know that.”

  Frost nodded. “Anyway, the case has been posthumously solved by DCI Skinner and Hornrim Harry is holding a press conference tomorrow to which Cinderella is not invited.”

  “My heart bleeds for you, Jack,” sniffed Wells, looking up as PC Collier came in.

  “The woman wants to see you right away, Inspector. She wants to make another statement.”

  “Another statement? She said sod all in her first one,” said Frost, heaving himself out of his chair. “Ah, well, let’s see what Fanny wants. It’s not as if I wanted to go to bed early.”

  WPC Kate Holby brought Janet Leigh into the Interview Room. Frost stubbed out his cigarette and pointed to the chair. “Take a seat. I understand you want to make a statement?”

  She nodded and dabbed a handkerchief at dry eyes. “I’m going to tell you everything. He made me do it. I didn’t want to. He forced me. I was terrified of him. He made me watch. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Frost nodded for Kate to start the cassette recorder. “Right. Tell us about how you are the innocent victim. Make my heart bleed for you.”

  As Kate Holby led Janet Leigh back to her cell, Wells came into the Interview Room and sat in her vacated chair. Frost rolled a cigarette across the table for him.

  “Well?” the sergeant asked.

  “She’s coughed the lot,” said Frost. “She had nothing at all to do with it. It was all him. She took no part in the killings, she was just an innocent bystander. He dragged her along for the ride and he’s a lousy bastard making her watch the disgusting things he did to poor Debbie Clark. Allen was prepared to take all the rap as long as she was left out of it, and the lousy cow can’t wait to drop him in it.”

  “Do you believe her?” asked Wells.

  Frost shook his head. “Do me a favour. She enjoyed it. She bloody well loved every minute of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she took the lead in all this. It was she who told Debbie her friend was a photographer and might be able to get her a modelling contract . . .”

  “I suppose there’s always a chance, if Allen still wants to take all the blame, she’ll get away with it.”

  Again Frost shook his head. “I’ll make certain the jury see the tape with Debbie pleading for Miss Leigh to make Allen stop it, while the cow just pointed the video camera. They’ll find her as guilty as hell.” He yawned. “I’m too shagged out to drive home. Have you got an empty cell I can kip in? Preferably one not stinking of stale pee?”

  21

  It seemed as if he had just shut his eyes when some silly sod was calling his name.

  “Jack. Wake up!”

  He opened his eyes and blinked at the light. Bill Wells was bending over him, shaking him.

  He yawned and checked his wristwatch, stared at it in disbelief and checked again. “Five to six? Flaming heck, Bill, I’ve only been asleep five minutes. What do you want?”

  Wells waved a mobile phone. “Taffy Morgan’s on the blower, Jack.”

  “Then tell the Welsh prat to phone at a more convenient time—and switch off that bleeding light.” He turned over, but Wells shook him again.

  “Taffy’s doing the surveillance at Fielding’s house, Jack. Fielding’s on the move.”

  Frost sat up. “At five to six in the morning? He’s doing a bunk. The sod’s doing a bunk.” He snatched the phone from the sergeant. “What’s happening, Taff?”

  “It’s Fielding, Guv. He’s just left in his white van. I’m on his tail.”

  “Don’t lose him, for Pete’s sake.”

  “You can rely on me, Guv.”

  “I can rely on you to sod things up. Don’t let him see you.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m well behind him.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on Felwick Road. He’s heading north out of Denton. Shit! . . .”

  “What the hell is it?” yelled Frost.

  “He’s spotted me, Guv. He looked back. He recognised me.”

  “You prat. I told you not to get too close.”

  “Bloody hell, Guv, he’s roaring off like the clappers.”

  “Then get after him like the clappers, you silly sod. Put the bleeding phone down. Drive with both hands.”

  For a while Frost listened to the drone of engine noises down the mobile, then there was a scrabbling noise as Morgan picked up the phone again. “I’ve lost him, Guv.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve bloody lost him? You were supposed to be on his tail.”

  “Not my fault, Guv. He swerved ahead in front of two articulated lorries and jumped the lights at the crossroads. I didn’t see which way he turned. I must have gone the wrong way.”

  “You prat,” said Frost. “If he’s trying to get away the bastard’s got something to hide. Where the hell are you now?”

  “Three miles west of the Denton bypass.”

  Frost slammed the phone down and dashed into his office to study the wall map, closely followed by Sergeant Wells. He banged his palm on the bypass area and yelled to Wells, “Bill, I want every car, motorbike bobby, even foot patrols, to stop what they’re doing and get there to look for the sod. Now . . . do it bloody now!”

  “County won’t let you have the helicopter, Jack, not without Superintendent Mullett’s authority.”

  “Mullett’s not bloody here . . . I could phone them in my Mullett voice.”

  “You bloody dare, Jack!” gasped Wells. “All right, forget it. By the time they get the damn thing off the ground he’ll be miles away anyway.”

  He snatched up the phone on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “Jordan here, Inspector. I’m after him. He’s on the Lexton Road, heading north. He’s going to crash that bloody van the speed he’s going.”

  Frost spun in his chair and again checked the wall map.

  “I’ll try and set up a roadblock.”

  He dialled Lambert in Control, jabbing the wall map and giving instructions.

  “I hope all this is worthwhile, Jack. Every available bit of manpower is out there—we’re even ignoring 999 calls. Suppose we can only nick him for speeding?”

  “If that’s all there is, I’ll frame the bastard,” said Frost.

  Five minutes later, an excited Jordan called again. “We’ve got him, Inspector. He nearly smashed through the roadblock, but braked just in time.”

  “Drag him out of the van, cuff him and charge him with anything you like. We’re on our way.”

  As he snatched his scarf off the hook, WPC Holby came in with a mug of tea.

  “Dump it, love,” said Frost, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re coming with me . . . you can drive.”

  Traffic roared past the white van. Fielding, hand cuffed in the back of the police car, was fuming.

  “Would someone have the courtesy to tell me what the hell this is all about? Do you need an army of cops just for a speeding offence? Give me a ticket and let me go. Why am I handcuffed?”

 
“To stop you picking your nose,” said Frost, sliding into the car seat alongside him. “What was all the rush?”

  “I was in a hurry I had a delivery deadline to meet.”

  “A delivery? So what’s the name of the firm in such desperate need of your services you have to be out at this time of the morning?”

  For a while Fielding was silent. He chewed away at his lower lip. “You know . . . with all this harassment, I’ve completely forgotten.”

  “So what have you got in the back of the van that they need so urgently?”

  “Packages. I don’t know what’s in them.”

  Frost held out his hand. “Give me the key and I’ll tell you.”

  “I haven’t got the key. I want a lawyer.”

  “I haven’t got time to sod about,” snapped Frost. “Give me the key or I’ll smash your bloody face in.”

  Fielding leant back in his seat and stared back defiantly. “Just try it!”

  Frost opened the door and called Jordan over. “Search the bastard. Get the van keys.”

  Jordan patted pockets and dragged out a bunch of keys. Frost gave them to Kate Holby. “Little job for you, love. Find the right key and see what he’s got in the van that he doesn’t want us to see.”

  Suddenly Fielding jerked forward, spinning Jordan to one side, and tried to make a run for it. Kate shot out her foot and, as he fell face-down to the ground, kept her foot crushing down on Fielding’s neck until Frost dragged him back into the car. Blood was streaming from the man’s nose. The handcuffs meant he couldn’t do anything about it.

  “When we get the keys back,” beamed Frost, “I’ll drop them down the back of your neck—they’re marvellous for a nose bleed.”

  There was the sound of the key being turned and a click as the rear doors unlocked, then clanged open.

  “Oh my God!” cried Kate. “Oh my God! It’s the girl. It’s that missing teenager.”

  Frost was out of the car in a flash. Kate Holby was bending over a girl stretched out on the floor of the van, naked, bound hand and foot, and gagged. She looked up, white-faced, at Frost. “I think she’s dead, Inspector.”

  Frost pushed her out of the way and felt for a pulse in the girl’s icy neck. Was there something or was it bloody wish-fulfilment?

  “Get an ambulance,” he yelled. “Right now . . . Paramedics and a bloody ambulance.”

  “He’s had that poor kid tied up in the van ever since we arrested him,” Frost told Mullett. “No food, no drink, freezing cold, terrified . . . He’d have strangled the poor cow and dumped her body miles away if we hadn’t kept him under surveillance.”

  Mullett frowned. “Surveillance? What surveillance? I didn’t authorise any surveillance.”

  Frost pretended not to hear. “If it wasn’t for your thoughtfulness in stretching the budget to the limit and letting us carry on with the operation, we’d have had another dead teenager on our hands.”

  Mullett considered this very briefly and instantly accepted it. “Yes . . . I’m so glad I did the right thing.” He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “Another excellent result for the Denton team, which means, of course, your successor will be starting out with a clean sheet, although you must still have a few loose ends you want to clear up.”

  “Yes, you know me,” sniffed Frost. “Always like to leave things neat and tidy.”

  “How’s the questioning of the two murder suspects going?”

  “The man’s decided to ‘no comment’ everything unless we let the woman off the hook. The woman is blaming everything on the man—saying he made her do it. They killed Kelly and Malone because Malone was going to blackmail them and tell us she found Debbie’s phone in Leigh’s locker. They arranged to call with the blackmail money, but once inside, smashed Kelly’s and Malone’s heads in and set the place alight . . . thought we’d never guess it was arson.”

  “And we will get a conviction?” asked Mullett, slightly worried.

  “He can ‘no comment’ as much as he likes—the forensic evidence is solid and the woman’s given us a statement.”

  “And Fielding?”

  “The CPS want to do him on the old murder first, then the rape and kidnap of Jan O’Brien. There’s no doubt in my mind that he killed Emily Roberts and dumped her on the railway embankment, but it’s all circumstantial—no forensics, and the CPS aren’t keen on pushing it.”

  “Excellent. I’ve arranged another press conference with Jan O’Brien’s parents—they are over the moon at getting their daughter back. The hospital say she will be able to go home in a couple of days. No need for you to attend, of course—I expect you’re very busy arranging for the move to Lexton.”

  “Yes, I’m counting the minutes,” said Frost.

  “Yes . . . well, we will obviously want you to come back from Lexton for the trial . . . we will need your evidence. Oh—er—one other thing.” Mullett began doodling little circles on his scratch pad and avoided looking at Frost. “I haven’t told Lexton about your misdemeanour with the car expenses. I hope there will be no repetition in your new post.”

  “Not if there’s any chance of my being caught,” said Frost.

  Mullett’s smile flickered on and off like a failing light bulb. He never knew how to take Frost’s flippant remarks. “Quite.”

  Frost yawned. Tiredness was beginning to creep up on him and he was finding it a job to keep his eyes open. He was even too tired to try and read the memos in Mullett’s in-tray.

  “Oh, one other thing. The autopsy on Kelly and Malone is at ten o’clock. You’ll be there, of course.”

  Shit! thought Frost. Aloud he said, “Of course.”

  He was late. It was ten fifteen. He had gone up to the canteen for breakfast and must have fallen asleep over the plate of uneaten food. He had been shaken awake by Sergeant Wells. “I thought you were going to the autopsy?”

  “Knickers!” cursed Frost, snatching a cold slice of toast and ramming it in his mouth as he raced downstairs.

  He parked his car in its usual place. Like a milkman’s horse, it seemed to know the way unaided. He glanced quickly round the car park. No sign of Drysdale’s black Rolls Royce, so perhaps the great man himself was late for a change. He could only hope.

  Shrugging on a green gown, he hurried into the autopsy room to be greeted by the cloying smell of burnt flesh. A police photographer was moving forward to take a shot of a body on the autopsy table. Sod it, the postmortem was under way. Then, as the photographer moved back, he saw the wobbling buttocks of a plump figure. His heart leapt. It wasn’t Drysdale. It was Carol Ridley.

  He hurried over. “Sorry I’m late.”

  She flashed a smile. “At least you’ve turned up for a change.”

  “Sorry about that. I was called out on a case. I couldn’t get to a phone.”

  She nodded as she took up a scalpel and scraped a red line across the blackened flesh of Bridget Malone’s stomach. “For new readers,” she said, “the woman and the man died of asphyxiation from smoke inhalation, but before death they were hit heavily on the head with our old indispensable friend the blunt instrument. This fractured their skulls and would have rendered them unconscious before the fire started.”

  “Just what I thought,” said Frost.

  She flashed him another smile. “You are a clever dick.”

  “Kindly leave my dick out of this,” said Frost.

  She chuckled and began prodding about inside the stomach. “Want to know what her last meal was?”

  “It’s not on my list of priorities,” replied Frost, turning his head away.

  “I understand you’re moving to Lexton. I don’t know the place. What is it like?”

  “I’d rather take a look at her stomach contents than go there,” Frost told her. “You doing anything tonight?”

  “Eight o’clock,” she said, “and don’t bloody well let me down this time.”

  Frost gave her a happy thumbs up.

  She leant forward and lowered her voice. �
��And bring your dick with you, you might need it.”

  The autopsy over, he removed the green gown and dropped it in the bin, then went over to the desk to sign himself out.

  “If you’re going back to the station, Inspector,” said the mortuary attendant, “perhaps you could give this to Superintendent Mullett.” He took a bulging A4 manila envelope from his desk drawer. “He’s been asking for it. It’s the items that were in Detective Chief Inspector Skinner’s pockets when they brought him in.”

  “Right,” said Frost, tucking it under his arm.

  He chucked the envelope on the passenger seat of the car and switched on the ignition. Then he stopped. He picked up the envelope and rattled it. Metallic chinking. He ripped it open and tipped the contents on the seat. Some folded papers, receipts, a wallet with Skinner’s warrant card and . . . a bunch of keys. He snatched them up, not daring to hope. They were Skinner’s office keys—including the key to the filing cabinet in his office. The filing cabinet which contained all the dodgy car-expense claims, plus the form Skinner had made him sign requesting a transfer. All the evidence against him.

  He leant back in his seat, lit up a cigarette and smiled happily to himself.

  Frost dropped the complete file into the central heating furnace and watched it wither, curl and crumble to grey powder. Then he went upstairs to tell Mullett he had changed his mind about leaving Denton.

  THE END