Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  ‘I’ve always brought her up to be a decent girl,’ said Belle proudly.

  ‘What did he look like?’ asked Frost. ‘Would you know him again?’

  ‘Old – about forty. Dressed to the nines – shirt and tie and all that stuff. Darkish hair. I might recognize him again, but I’m not sure.’

  Frost dismissed them both with a flick of his hand. He couldn’t waste time on this – porno videos were very low on his list of priorities. A quick search of the lounge revealed nothing. ‘Right, son. Up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire.’

  He sat on Belle’s soft-mattressed double bed with its plump purple eiderdown and watched Gilmore opening and shutting drawers. A packet of Hamlet cigars lay on the dressing table. Frost shook it hopefully. It rattled. There was one left. He lit it, stretched out on the bed and contentedly puffed smoke across to the detective sergeant.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Gilmore huffily, annoyed that Frost wasn’t helping. He leant over to tug open the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Packets of contraceptives . . . small aerosol cans. He seized one of the cans and showed it to the inspector. ‘Look at this!’

  Frost sat up and blinked at the label. ‘Nipple Hardening Spray! I don’t believe it.’ He examined the can from all angles. ‘This could make a man’s thumb obsolete.’

  ‘And this!’ Gilmore flourished another can.

  ‘Bloody hell, son, don’t point it at me. It’s the last thing I need at the moment. What else has she got?’ Happy now to join in, he was soon rummaging through the various sex aids and stimulants.

  The bedroom yielded nothing else of interest. The bedroom next door was Deidree’s with its pop posters and record player. ‘Leave it, son,’ said Frost. ‘Wally wouldn’t have stuck any bent gear in here.’

  ‘It still wouldn’t hurt to look,’ said Gilmore stubbornly, dragging out the wardrobe so he could see behind it.

  ‘Whatever turns you on, son,’ said Frost. He ambled over to the window and opened it so he could jettison the cigar. Below was the back yard, a miserable patch of concrete landscaped with oily rain-puddles, a couple of rusty, bottomless buckets, and two treadless car tyres. Car tyres! The blue van! He’d forgotten all about the bloody blue van. That was the next thing to search. He watched the cigar butt nose-dive to its death.

  An excited shout from Gilmore had him spinning round.

  Gilmore had found a crumpled bundle of blue cloth. He opened it out. A pair of men’s jeans, grubby and thickly spattered with dried blood.

  ‘Belle!’ roared Frost, his bellow echoing down the stairs.

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’ She was talking to someone, her voice low and urgent.

  ‘I want you now!’ he yelled.

  ‘Coming.’

  The front door clicked shut and as it did a bell shrilled a warning deep in his subconscious. From outside, an engine coughed, then roared into life. A van engine.

  ‘Shit!’ cried Frost, galloping down the stairs two at a time, Gilmore hard on his heels. At the bottom of the stairs was Belle, lumbering up very slowly, deliberately blocking their way. Frost almost pushed her over as they charged for the front door. Outside an empty street. A patch of oil where the van had been standing.

  ‘Double shit!’ howled Frost.

  ‘There!’ pointed Gilmore. Something blue disappearing round the corner trailed by a billow of exhaust.

  The Cortina shuddered as they hurled themselves in and roared off in pursuit. Round the corner, but no sign of the van. Up to the main road. ‘Which way?’ asked Gilmore.

  ‘Left,’ said Frost. He had seen something blue jumping the lights. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Gilmore waited for the lights to change. The blue van ahead was getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

  What a foul-up, thought Gilmore. The van was there when they arrived, but they’d ignored it. ‘That bloody fat cow,’ he muttered. ‘We ought to run her in for obstruction.’

  ‘He’s her husband, son,’ said Frost, mildly. ‘Your wife would have done the same to help you.’

  Would she? thought Gilmore bitterly. She certainly didn’t help me last night when bloody Mullett phoned. Before he could follow the thought further, the traffic lights flickered. He jammed his foot down, passing car after car after car. The blue van was getting bigger.

  ‘Control to Mr Frost. Come in, please.’

  Gilmore braked abruptly as an estate car shot out of a side turning right in their path.

  ‘Control to Mr Frost. Come in, please.’ repeated the radio.

  ‘Shut your bleeding row,’ said Frost to the radio as Gilmore swerved round the estate car. Frost twisted in his seat and jerked two fingers at the driver.

  More traffic lights ahead. The blue van had stopped.

  ‘Control to Mr . . .’

  Frost snatched up the handset. ‘Hold on, Control. We are . . . Shit!’

  ‘Say again?’ said Control.

  ‘I said, “Tut tut”,’ muttered Frost bitterly and feeling like banging his head against the windscreen. The blue van they had been chasing had the name of a dress shop written on the side and was being driven by a woman. Gilmore glared poison darts at the inspector as if it was all his fault. Frost was philosophical. ‘He’ll turn up. He’s got nowhere to go.’ He was much more used to cock-ups than the sergeant. He raised the handset to his ear. ‘Put out a call to all units. I want Wally Manson brought in. Last seen driving a blue Ford transit van about ten years old . . . I don’t know the registration number, but you should be able to get it from the computer.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Control. ‘Hold on, please. Sergeant Johnson wants to speak to you urgently.’

  A rustling sound, then Johnson took over. ‘Jack. Forensic have matched up the paint on the newspaper. It definitely came from Greenway’s letter-box. Mr Mullett wants you back here right away.’

  ‘My one aim in life is to gratify Mr Mullett’s every whim,’ replied Frost. ‘We’re on our way.’

  Mullett was almost dancing with excitement. He waved the Forensic report at Frost. ‘We’ve got him, Inspector. We’ve got him . . . and we can all take credit. A chance observation on your part, scientific skill and expertise from Forensic plus solid devoted team work under my supervision.’ He lowered himself down into his chair and swung from side to side in smug satisfaction. Frost thought this was a good time to hand over the forged car expenses.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mullett, giving them barely a glance as he signed them with a flourish of his Parker and tossed them into his out-tray. ‘Things are really moving our way at last. How’s the inventory going?’

  ‘Almost finished it, Super,’ said Frost, trying to remember where he had hidden the damn thing.

  ‘Good,’ beamed Mullett. ‘I want this man Greenway picked up and brought in right now. How many men will you need?’

  ‘The fewer the better, Super. He lives out in the wilds. If he spots half the Denton police force converging on his cottage, he might do a runner.’

  ‘Very well, but don’t let there be any foul-ups.’ He was itching for Frost to go so he could pick up the phone and casually let drop to the Chief Constable that, despite the appalling manpower shortage, Denton Division had once again come up trumps. Then his euphoria crash-dived as he remembered what he had originally wanted to see Frost about. He snatched up the Denton Echo and jabbed at the headlines. ‘Have you seen this? “Granny Ripper! Town of Terror!” What are we doing about it? The press are screaming for our blood and County are breathing down our necks.’

  ‘I might be able to give you a quick result,’ Frost said, filling him in on Wally Manson. ‘We’ve sent the jeans over to Forensic.’

  Mullett could hardly contain himself. Wait until the Chief Constable heard about this. ‘I want Manson picked up and brought in,’ said Mullett, scooping up the telephone and dialling.

  ‘I’ll make a note of it,’ said Frost solemnly.

  ‘Chief Constable, please,’ said Mullett. He put his hand over the mouthpiece
. ‘That will be all, Inspector.’ As the door closed behind Frost, he straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. ‘Oh, hello, sir.’ He put on his weary voice. ‘Sorry if I don’t sound all that brilliant . . . lack of sleep, you know . . .’ He gave a modest laugh. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on things, sir . . . Some double good news on the Paula Bartlett case and the senior citizen killings that I thought you should have right away . . .’

  Wednesday afternoon shift

  Harry Greenway dropped a tea-bag into a mug and drowned it with boiling water from the kettle. He felt uneasy. He didn’t know why. On top of the fridge the portable radio was tuned into the local station where The Beatles were singing ‘Eleanor Rigby’. Greenway pulled a face and switched it off. A miserable, lonely song about death. He wasn’t in the mood for it. He was raising the mug to his mouth when his ears picked up the soft gentle click of a car door being carefully closed. Instantly, his hand shot out to the light switch. From the darkened kitchen he twitched back the curtains.

  Two men were walking up the path, one middle-aged and scruffy, the other in his late twenties with the look of a thug. Greenway cupped his hand to the window pane to see better. The older man, a maroon scarf hanging unevenly round his neck had a scar of some kind on his cheek. He didn’t recognize either of them, but they spelled trouble.

  A half-hearted knock at the front door which sounded almost too deliberately reassuring. The dog at his feet, a nine-month-old Dobermann, sprang up and started to growl, then to bark. He grabbed its collar and shut it in the lounge where it barked even louder. Another knock, a little stronger this time. Greenway reached for the heavy walking stick he kept on the hall table as he cautiously opened up. The scruffy man was smiling apologetically.

  ‘Mr Greenway? Sorry to bother you so late, sir. We called earlier, but you were out.’ He held something up. Greenway’s heart faltered and skipped a beat. It was a police warrant card.

  ‘Police?’ he stammered. God, how had they found out?

  ‘Routine enquiry,’ purred the man who he noted from the warrant card was Detective Inspector Frost. ‘All right if we come in?’ And without waiting to be asked, they were in the hall.

  Routine enquiry? They don’t send detective inspectors on routine enquiries, not even rag-bags like this one. He felt his hands trembling. He forced a smile of unconcern. ‘I was just going to cook my dinner.’

  ‘This won’t take long, sir,’ said Frost.

  Hearing strange voices, the dog was barking and frantically scratching at the lounge door.

  Greenway smiled. ‘I’d better put Spike outside. He can get quite nasty with strangers.’ They stood well back as he opened the lounge door and grabbed the Dobermann’s collar as it leapt out. ‘Find yourselves seats,’ he called, dragging the snarling dog past them and into the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Frost, giving the dog a wide berth and following Gilmore into the lounge, a grotty room with a well-worn and sagging three-piece suite and old newspapers heaped on every chair. The settee had been dragged in front of the television set, at the side of which a waste bin overflowed with empty lager cans. Frost strode around, prodding, poking.

  ‘Look at this!’ Gilmore was holding up a girlie magazine with a picture of a busty blonde dressed in school uniform on the front cover.

  But Frost was beginning to feel uneasy. ‘He’s taking a bloody long time putting that dog out . . . Shit!’ He spat out the expletive at the growl of an engine starting up outside. Twice in the same flaming day! ‘The bastard’s done a runner!’

  They dashed to the back door where a snarling Dobermann barred their way. Back along the passage and out the front door, just in time to see the rear lights of a delivery van disappearing into the dark.

  Back in the car, bumping and jolting in hot pursuit, Frost fumed and castigated himself for letting the sod walk out so easily. Why hadn’t he taken more men and posted someone at the back? If Greenway got away, he’d never hear the last of it from Mullett. ‘Faster, son,’ he urged Gilmore as the red rear-lights ahead shrunk to pinpricks.

  ‘This car’s not in the best of condition,’ Gilmore retorted as the Cortina shook and shuddered in protest at the unaccustomed increased speed. A warning light on the oil gauge kept flashing and there was a hot metal burning smell. ‘Hadn’t you better radio Control for some back-up?’

  Frost hesitated. Of course they needed back-up, but he was hoping they could get by without the station knowing what a twat he had made of himself. A teeth-setting grinding noise from the engine made up his mind. He radioed for help.

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ howled Mullett, snatching the microphone from Sergeant Wells, ‘that you just let him drive off?’ He had been hovering in Control, awaiting confirmation of a successful arrest.

  ‘Just get me back-up – over and out,’ muttered Frost, banging down the handset, aware that he had only delayed a Grade A bollocking from his superintendent. ‘Where’s the bugger gone?’ The red lights had vanished. ‘Look out,’ he screamed as a dark shape loomed up in front of the windscreen.

  Gilmore jammed on the brakes. The tyres screeched and the car slewed to a halt, throwing Frost heavily against Gilmore who almost lost control of the wheel. They had pulled up within inches of Greenway’s delivery van.

  ‘What’s the silly bugger playing at?’ asked Frost, all fingers and thumbs as he tried to release his seat belt. He was answered by Greenway blurring into vision at the side of the Cortina, swinging what they later realized was a long-handled sledge-hammer. A clanging thud which shook the car and nearly deafened them, then a splintering and shattering as the windscreen crazed into an opaque honeycombed sheet. When Frost finally managed to release the seat belt and leap from the car he was just in time to see the rear lights of the van dwindling into the distance.

  ‘Shit!’ yelled Frost yet again, after they had knocked out enough of the shivered windscreen to see where they were going. They limped off after Greenway, eyes streaming, faces stinging from the ice-hard punch of cold gritty air. Control had advised them that area car Hotel Tango was on its way to afford them assistance.

  But they had lost too much time. The road was dead straight ahead and the van was nowhere to be seen. Turning his head to one side for protection against the slip-stream, Frost groped for the handset. ‘We’ve lost him, I think. Last seen heading towards the motorway.’

  ‘Hotel Tango receiving,’ replied Simms. ‘We are in position by motorway exit. Will block.’

  ‘Bully for you, Hotel Tango,’ said Frost, turning up his coat collar and sinking low in his seat to try and escape the worst of the slip-stream. He attempted to light a cigarette but the match died in its battle against the wind.

  A gargle of squelch from the radio, then Hotel Tango, very excited. ‘He’s spotted us. He’s skidded round. He’s heading back in your direction. Am in pursuit.’

  ‘There he is!’ yelled Gilmore. Fast-approaching headlights flared and blinded and a horn screamed for them to get out of the way.

  ‘Block him,’ shouted Frost.

  Not too happy about this, Gilmore spun the wheel, turning the car side on to the oncoming vehicle.

  The headlights got nearer and nearer, the van’s horn screaming and pleading. From behind came more headlights and the piercing wail of Hotel Tango’s siren in pursuit.

  ‘He’s not going to stop!’ screamed Gilmore, blinded by the dazzle of the headlights as he hit his seat belt release.

  ‘Jump,’ yelled Frost, thankful he hadn’t refastened his seat belt after the last incident. He pushed open the door and dived out on to the road, rolling over and just regaining his feet as the van impacted, smashing into the car and sending it spinning. Tyres squealed and smoked. The van’s engine raced impotently, then it started to back away. But the approaching police car was too close and Hotel Tango skidded to a halt, siren still blaring, blocking the road right behind the van.

  Car doors opened and slammed. Two uniformed men emerged from the area car and a
pproached cautiously from the rear. Gilmore, rubbing grazed elbows, advanced from the front. The cab door jerked open and Greenway leapt out, tightly gripping the sledgehammer which he brandished threateningly.

  Crouching slightly, ready to leap, Gilmore edged nearer. Greenway spun round, whirling the sledge-hammer above his head, his eyes wild and threatening.

  ‘Drop that, you silly sod!’ roared Frost. Momentarily distracted, Greenway jerked his head towards the inspector giving the two uniformed men the opportunity to risk a dash forward, but they were not quick enough. Greenway twisted round, swinging the hammer in a two-handed grip. As they backed away, Gilmore made his move, leaping on Greenway from behind, locking his arm tightly round the man’s neck in a strangulating grip making him drop the hammer as he tried to prise Gilmore’s arm away. A back elbow jab from Greenway almost paralysed Gilmore who cried in pain and slackened his hold which was enough for Greenway to dive to regain the hammer. He almost had it when he shrieked in agony as the heel of Frost’s shoe stamped down on his hand with the inspector’s full weight bearing down. ‘You bastard!!’

  ‘Naughty, naughty!’ admonished Frost, only easing off his foot so Gilmore could pull Greenway’s wrists behind him and snap on the handcuffs.

  Gilmore stood up and brushed dirt from his grey suit then yanked his prisoner to his feet. ‘You’ve broken my bloody hand,’ whimpered Greenway. ‘I want a doctor.’

  ‘You’ll want an undertaker if you don’t shut up,’ said Frost. ‘It’s police brutality week. Now get in that bloody car.’ They all squeezed into the area car and drove back to the station. It was a silent drive. Greenway said nothing, just stared straight ahead. He didn’t even ask what the charge was.

  ‘Number 2 Interview Room,’ called Wells as they marched their prisoner through the lobby.

  ‘I want a doctor. The bastards have broken my hand,’ called Greenway, giving a good impersonation of a man in agony.