Frost 6 - A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  ‘That could take flaming ages,’ said Frost. ‘“If you have lost your credit card, press 8; if you want to trace a customer with contaminated baby milk, press 9.” Get on to it right away.’

  ‘We’re checking late-night-Sunday till receipts now,’ the assistant manager told him. ‘If our luck’s in we’ll get to the customer before the tin is opened.’

  ‘And if your luck’s out, they could have paid with cash. Make it quick. If you haven’t turned anything up in a quarter of an hour, I’m going to local radio and the rest of the media.’ His stomach rumbled again. ‘Do you do breakfasts at the restaurant here?’ he asked the manager again.

  ‘We do an excellent full English - it’s on special this week.’

  ‘How do I pay for it?’ asked Frost.

  ‘Oh - we take credit cards.’

  Shit, thought Frost, who was hoping the stingy sod would let him have it on the house. ‘Right, I’ll nip over and get something to eat. Tell your assistant where I am.’

  As he crossed the shop floor he could see the staff were doing a thorough job with the search. Everything was being taken off the shelves, examined and put back again.

  In the restaurant, he was just dipping his fried bread in his egg when Taffy Morgan burst in and came running towards him.

  ‘Ah - there you are, Guv.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I know where I am.’ He took a swig of tea.

  ‘I tried to get you on your mobile, Guv.’

  ‘I keep it switched off,’ said Frost, ‘in case some Welsh git tries, to ring me. Sit down and watch me eat.’ He forked a piece of bacon and surveyed it gloomily. ‘This pig was solid fat.’ Morgan dragged out a chair and sat opposite him. ‘That rape case, Guv, I’ve run through the CCTV tapes from the multi-storey car park. Got a shot of a car roaring off at about the time the girl said. A Ford Focus. It’s got to be our rapist.’

  Frost pushed his unfinished breakfast away and lit up a cigarette. ‘Well done, Taff. About time our flaming luck changed. You got the registration and checked it out?’

  Morgan nodded. ‘Graham Fielding, 29 Castle Road, Denton.’

  ‘Any previous? Has his dick got him into trouble before?’

  ‘No, Guv. Shall I pick him up?’

  Frost dribbled smoke from his nose as he chewed this over, then shook his head. ‘No. Don’t let’s jump the gun. We’ve got nothing on him other than the fact that his car was in the vicinity at the time of the rape. Call on him, Taff, use your Welsh charm, and if that doesn’t put him off, ask if he will give us a DNA sample - Forensic will tell you what to get. Take a paper bag in case they want poo. If it matches, we’ve got the bastard; if not, we can forget him.’

  ‘Supposing he won’t give a DNA sample, Guv?’

  ‘Then reason with him - punch him in the stomach. If that doesn’t work, bring him in. If he’s innocent there’s no reason why he should refuse.’

  As Morgan left, Frost noticed Henry Martin hovering. He didn’t look at all happy. ‘What’s up?’ asked Frost. ‘Have you eaten one of these breakfasts?’

  The manager forced a smile and slid into the chair vacated by Morgan. ‘Mr Beazley doesn’t like people smoking in here.’

  ‘It does less harm than eating the food,’ said Frost, making no attempt to put the cigarette out. ‘So what’s the news?’

  ‘We’ve been over the shelves thoroughly three times. No sign of the missing jar. We’ve been through the till receipts - it hasn’t been checked out. I don’t know what we can do. We can’t open the store until we find it. I dread to think what Mr Beazley will say.’

  ‘If no one’s bought it and it’s not still in the store, then it’s gone out without being paid for. So either a member of your staff has helped him self or . . .’ His eyes widened and the hand holding his cigarette paused in mid air. A light dawned and he grinned. ‘. . . or it could have been nicked by a shoplifter.’

  ‘Speculation,’ moaned Martin. ‘We could never prove it.’

  ‘This might be your lucky day said Frost. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number. ‘Jordan? Inspector Frost here. That milk powder you picked up from Sadie’s house - did it have a blue cross on the bottom?

  Well check it out now.’ He drummed his fingers on the table as he waited. ‘Yes . . . What? Brilliant. No, don’t send it to Forensic yet. Hang on to it until I get there.’ He dropped the phone back in his pocket. ‘We’ve traced it,’ he told Martin. ‘You can open up again. But let me know the minute you get another letter demanding money - and make certain as few people as possible smear their fingerprints on it.’

  ‘I can go, can I?’ shrilled Sadie. ‘Oh, bleeding nice! Locked up, falsely imprisoned, insulted and then kicked out. What about compensation?’

  ‘Your compensation is that we’re not nicking you for shoplifting,’ said Frost. ‘Now push off before I change my mind.’

  ‘What about my kiddy?’

  ‘Sort that out with Social Services, Sadie, and next time you nick something, make sure it isn’t contaminated.’

  ‘You wouldn’t treat me like this if I was an asylum-seeker.’

  ‘Then go and seek bleeding asylum and come back and see, but for now, push off.’ He held the door wide open for her to leave. ‘Another dissatisfied customer,’ he told Bill Wells and mooched back to his office.

  Frost looked up from the crime-statistics report where a column of figures was dancing before his eyes. A tap at the office door heralded the arrival of Simms and Jordan.

  ‘Whatever it is, the answer’s no,’ he told them. ‘I’ve got my sums to do.’

  Jordan grinned. ‘We’ve just been out on a call, Inspector. Teenage girl missing from home.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ said Frost, ‘and I wouldn’t tell you if she was.’ He put his pen down and sighed. ‘All right. Tell me about it.’

  ‘She’s Debbie Clark. Told her parents she was going -to a sleepover with her schoolfriend Audrey Glisson - she’s done this many times before. Went off on her bike about half seven yesterday evening. When she didn’t come home this morning, the parents phoned Audrey’s house. Debbie hadn’t been there and hadn’t arranged to go there.’

  ‘So she’s been missing overnight? Probably having a sleepover under her boyfriend. I bet she’s now at his place having a fag,’ said Frost dismissively, picking up his pen again. ‘Fill in a missing-persons report.’

  ‘The parents claim she isn’t that sort of a girl,’ said Jordan.

  Frost snorted. ‘As I’ve told you a million times, lads, every time a teenage girl goes missing from home, the parents swear blind she’s a pure, sweet, home-loving girl training to be a nun, and nine times out of ten they turn out to be little scrubbers, on the game, pumping them selves full of coke, who’ve run away for the umpteenth time.’

  ‘She’s only just thirteen, Inspector. Today is her birthday . . . they were throwing her a party tonight.’

  ‘If I had the choice between jelly and ice cream or a bit of the other, jelly wouldn’t stand a chance,’ said Frost.

  ‘We’ve a feeling about this one, Inspector,’ said Simms. ‘I really think you should see the parents.’

  Frost dribbled smoke through his nose. He, too, often had feelings that weren’t borne out by the evidence, feelings that sometimes proved correct. ‘All right, lads. Book her in as a missing person and when I get the chance I’ll see them, but I’m tied up right now.’ He reached out for his internal phone as it rang.

  ‘Frost!’ It was Bill Wells. ‘Superintendent Mullett says he wants the crime-statistics report right now, Jack.’

  Frost looked down at the untidy mess of scribbled figures and crossings-out in front of him. He got up and snatched his scarf from the hook on the wall. ‘Tell him I’m out interviewing the parents of a missing thirteen-year-old girl.’

  The Clarks lived in a large four-bedroomed house situated on the outskirts of Denton, overlooking Denton Woods. As the area car scrunched down a long driveway flanked by m
iniature conifers, Frost admired the extensive lawn. Studded with flower beds, it encircled a large fish pond with a statue of a naked woman pouring water from a jug.

  ‘Very tasteful,’ he nodded. ‘I’m glad she’s not doing a pee like that boy in Brussels.’

  A gleaming black E-class Mercedes-Benz estate was parked outside a double garage. ‘They’re not short of a few bob, are they?’ muttered Frost, climbing out of the car.

  They had hardly reached the front door when it was flung open by the missing girl’s father, Harold Clark, an angry man in his mid-forties, with slicked-down dark hair and a neatly clipped moustache like Mullett’s, which turned Frost off him right away.

  ‘About bloody time,’ snapped Clark, jerking a thumb towards the hall. ‘In here.’

  They followed him into a large, thickly carpeted lounge. One wall was dominated by a huge fire, with gas flames licking at artificial logs, the other by an enormous plasma television screen. Clark’s wife, some ten years younger than him, sat huddled by the fire in one of the cream leather armchairs. Behind her, wall-to-wall patio doors gave a panoramic view of Denton Woods, which at this time of year, with black clouds hovering, seemed to have a sinister aura. Mrs Clark would have been pretty if her hair had been combed and she had put make-up on. She didn’t look well, staring blankly into space and twisting a damp handkerchief in her hands.

  ‘The police,’ announced her husband curtly. She looked up through tear-swollen eyes at the men. ‘Have you found her? She’s dead, isn’t she? I know she is.’ She dissolved into tears. Her husband put an arm round her. She abruptly twitched her shoulder to shake him off, then shrank back into the armchair.

  Clark gave a ‘you can see she’s upset’ shrug and moved away.

  ‘We haven’t found her yet,’ said Jordan. He indicated the inspector. ‘This is Detective Inspector Frost.’

  Clark scowled at the shabby figure of Frost, who tended to look even shabbier against luxurious backgrounds. He was clearly not impressed. ‘Have you got a search party out yet?’

  Frost shook his head. ‘Not yet, Mr Clark.’

  Clark’s face darkened. ‘What do you mean, “Not yet”? My daughter’s gone missing.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ explained Frost. ‘Young girls go missing all the time. They run away from home, they come back.’

  Clark was spluttering with rage. ‘Run away from home?’ he shrieked. ‘You stupid, bloody fool. I told these two officers earlier, there is no way my daughter would run away from home. It’s her thirteenth birthday today.’ He flapped a hand towards the mantelpiece where a stack of unopened birthday cards were piled. ‘She’s having a party. She was looking forward to it. There is no bloody way she would run away.’

  ‘Do you know how many teenagers run away from home every year, Mr Clark, and how many of them come running back in a couple of days with their tails between their legs?’

  Clark jabbed a finger at Frosts ‘My daughter is not a bloody statistic. I want search parties out now, do you hear? Now!’

  Frost unwound his scarf. It was sweltering in the lounge with the gas fire going at full blast. ‘Let me have a few facts first, sir, please. She went out yesterday evening on her bike, I understand. What time would that be?’

  ‘How many more bloody times? She had her evening meal and left about half past seven. Said she was going to see her friend Audrey and might stay the night. She’s done it before, so we didn’t worry.’

  ‘She often went there for sleepovers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Audrey used to come here for sleepovers,’ said the mother flatly, staring into space, ‘but not any more.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Frost. ‘Why not?’

  Clark shot a warning glance at his wife, then answered for her. ‘We’ve no idea. You know what kids are.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Frost, who didn’t see at all. He’d have a word with Audrey himself. ‘And you’ve checked with this girl?’

  ‘Of course we’ve bloody checked. Do you think we’re stupid? Debbie hadn’t been there. She hadn’t even arranged to go there.’

  ‘Has Debbie got a boyfriend?’

  ‘She’s only thirteen! Of course she hasn’t got a boyfriend. There was some lout sniffing around some months ago, but I soon got shot of him.’

  ‘He was a nice boy,’ said his wife tonelessly. ‘I liked him.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ snarled Clark. ‘A nice boy! So what was he doing in her bloody bedroom with his hand down her blouse? I slung him out of the house and said if I ever caught him with my daughter again . . .’ He let the threat hang.

  ‘Have you contacted the boy to see if Debbie is with him?’

  ‘I phoned his house, but got no reply. She’d better not be there - I’ll break the dirty bastard’s neck.’

  ‘His name and address, please.’ He waited as the mother scribbled it down. ‘Has Debbie got a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been ringing, but it’s switched off.’

  ‘Did she take any clothes - money - her bank book?’

  The Clarks looked questioningly at each other. ‘I’ll check,’ said the wife, rising unsteadily from her chair, again shrugging off her husband’s helping hand.

  There was a silent, uneasy wait as she went upstairs and Clark exuded his dislike of the shabbily dressed inspector. Frost was dying for a smoke but couldn’t see any ashtrays.

  Mrs Clark returned, shaking her head. ‘All her clothes seem to be there - and her bank book.’

  Frost stood up. ‘Could I take a look round her room?’

  She led him back up the stairs to a room decorated with pop posters. A single bed with a light-blue coverlet stood against one wall, a cream-coloured wardrobe against the other. Everything was neat and tidy. By the window a wire-mesh waste-paper bin nestled under a desk housing a flat-screen computer and an inkjet printer.

  ‘Is she on the internet?’ asked Frost.

  Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Always messaging her friends, even though she sees them every day at school.’

  Frost jabbed a finger at the keyboard, pulling it away quickly as the computer bleeped. He nodded knowingly as if the noise meant something to him, but he was completely computer illiterate. One of the technicians would need to have a look at the machine to see what secrets it held if it turned out that Debbie really was missing and not just having it away with the boy whose hand had been discovered exploring the contents of her blouse. He took a look at the waste-paper bin. This was more his sort of thing. He bent and pulled out some crumpled gift-wrap. A stuck-on label read ‘Happy birthday, darling from Mum.’ He frowned. ‘I thought her birthday was today?’

  Mrs Clark took the wrapping paper from him and stared at it in puzzlement. ‘She’s opened it. Before her birthday . . . she’s opened it!’

  Her husband came in the room. ‘What’s the matter?’ he barked.

  ‘It seems that Debbie opened one of her presents from your wife before her birthday and took it with her,’ Frost told him.

  Clark turned to his wife. ‘What present?’

  She paused before replying. ‘That bikini she wanted.’

  Her husband exploded. ‘You bought her that bloody bikini? A twelve-year-old school kid? Didn’t I specifically tell you - ’

  ‘All her friends had one,’ cut in his wife.

  ‘Most of her friends are sluts - jailbait. My daughter isn’t!’

  Perhaps you could discuss this some other time,’ said Frost wearily. ‘She was obviously going somewhere on her bike last night. Could it have been the swimming baths, to show the new costume off to her friends?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said her mother. ‘She often went swimming there.’

  ‘Right, we’ll check it out,’ said Frost, winding the scarf back round his neck, ready to leave. ‘Oh - do you have a recent photograph?’

  Mrs Clark stared at her husband, who paused before mumbling, ‘Nothing recent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Frost. ‘A school photograph, perhaps?’
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br />   ‘No,’ said Clark, not looking Frost in the eye. ‘There are no school photographs.’

  ‘Oh?’ repeated Frost, waiting for an explanation, but none came. ‘I see,’ he said eventually. But he didn’t see.

  ‘I take it you are going straight back to the station to organise a full-scale search for my daughter?’ demanded Clark.

  ‘As I said, it’s a bit too early for that at this stage,’ Frost told him.

  ‘Too early?’ echoed Clark angrily. ‘Too bloody early? She’s been missing since last night. How much longer are we expected to wait while you sit on your bloody arse, shuffling papers, while my daughter is out there, probably in the hands of some sexual pervert.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern - ’ began Frost.

  ‘Then bloody well do something about it.’

  ‘I’ve been involved in over a hundred missing teenager cases, Mr Clark. All the parents were worried sick, quite rightly, and in nearly every case the parents refused to accept the possibility that their child might have left home of their own accord. But in over 95 per cent of cases that is exactly what happened and their kids were only too glad to creep back home after a couple of days.’

  ‘You can quote your lousy statistics at me until you are blue in the face, but I want a full-scale search carried out now - this very minute . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry - ’ began Frost, but before he could continue, Clark moved towards him, his face contorted with rage.

  ‘You’re sorry? I’m the one who’s bloody sorry. I’ve been sent a useless, do-nothing idiot. Get out of my house. I’m having you taken off this case. I’ve got friends in very high places, as you will soon find out.’

  With a nod to the weeping mother, Frost jerked his head for Jordan and Simms to follow him. They left the house.

  Back in the car, Frost lit up a much-needed cigarette. ‘Friends in high places,’ he mused. ‘I bet they live on the top floor of a tower block.’