Sunday
The old lady’s name was Mrs. Haynes—Mary Haynes, but no-one had called her Mary for years, not since her husband died. She was seventy-eight years old and she stood on the doorstep trembling with fear.
She had just come back from the churchyard. She went there every Sunday, weather permitting, to tidy up her husband’s grave and put fresh flowers in the cut glass vase that had once stood on the dark oak sideboard they had bought the first year they were married and which was now in the unused back room. Today, when she reached the churchyard the vicar was waiting for her, his face grim. ‘I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock, Mrs. Haynes.’
When she saw what they had done to the grave she thought she was going to pass out. The headstone she had saved for so carefully was desecrated with purple painted graffiti. A crudely drawn skull and crossbones and words she couldn’t bring herself to repeat defaced her husband’s name. The vase had been hurled against the headstone and smashed to pieces.
The vicar was most sympathetic. He and his curate had been comforting distraught mourners all day. Vandals had left a trail of broken headstones, graffiti and strewn wreaths in a mindless moronic orgy of destruction. The police had been informed, he assured her, and had promised that the cemetery would be kept under constant observation in the hope of catching the perpetrators in the act.
She couldn’t remember the journey home, her mind in a whirl at what had happened. Such a relief to creak open the front gate. But at the tiny porch another shock. As she fumbled in her purse for the key she noticed that the porch doormat had been moved. She was ever so careful how she replaced it when she hid the spare door key and there was no doubt it had been moved.
Hands shaking, she lifted the corner of the mat. The key wasn’t there. Someone had taken it. Perhaps even used it to get inside. She stepped back and looked up at the house. Was it her imagination, or had the bedroom curtains shivered as if someone had just twitched them shut?
Her gloved hand clutched her chest to hold the hurt of her fluttering heart. She needed help. Anyone’s help. A light was on next door where that awful young man with the motor bike lived. She staggered across and pressed the door bell. She could hear it ringing inside the house. No-one came. She pressed it again.
Upstairs in the bedroom, the man with the knife smiled to himself and patiently waited.
Monday morning shift
Rain slashed across the windows blurring the view of the dreary houses on the opposite side of the street. Liz Gilmore, kneeling on the settee, stared out moodily. It hadn’t stopped raining since they moved into this poky little house two days ago. Married three years and all they’d ever lived in was a succession of rented police accommodation. "I hate this lousy town," she announced.
She had never wanted to come to Denton. When the promotion came through she was hoping he’d be posted to somewhere exciting, somewhere with a bit of life—theatres, clubs, decent shops . . . not this boring little backwater.
Her husband, Detective Sergeant Frank Gilmore, twenty-four, stockily built with dark, close-cropped hair, checked his watch for the eighth time. He wished Liz would stop her moaning. He had so much on his mind. 8.45. In a quarter of an hour he would be meeting his new Divisional Commander to take up his first assignment as a newly promoted detective sergeant. He wanted to keep his mind clear. First impressions were important. Denton was a one-eyed town, but it was the first step on the ladder leading to dizzy heights. "It won’t be for long, Liz."
She flicked back her blonde hair and picked up the local newspaper, the Denton Echo. The front page was dominated by a photograph of upturned, smashed and graffiti-desecrated headstones. Graveyard Vandals Strike Again, screamed the headline. Vicar Suspects Black Magic Coven. "Black magic coven," she muttered. "If I knew where it was, I’d join it. Probably the only bit of excitement in this dead-and-alive hole."
He faked a smile. Liz seemed to delight in shocking people with her outrageous remarks. "Any other news?"
" 'Denton crippled by flu epidemic'," she read, then tossed the paper to one side. "Graveyards, flu, poky rooms and non-stop rain. This town is just one bag of laughs!"
Again he consulted his watch. Timing was important. He didn’t want to turn up too early. That smacked of in security. A newly promoted detective sergeant shouldn’t appear insecure. He wanted to breeze in at a minute to nine and be shown directly to the Divisional Commander’s office. "I’ll have to leave soon."
"Let’s have a look at you." She stood up and studied him, removing an imaginary speck of fluff from his new charcoal grey Marks and Spencer’s suit. An approving nod. "You’ll pass." And then she was the old Liz, pressing close to him, her arms holding him tight. "I’m sorry I’m such a bitch sometimes."
"You’re not!" he assured her, his arms round her.
She winced. "Your pen is sticking in me." She unbuttoned his jacket and he could feel her hot, burning body and the arousing smell of her perfume. Good old Liz. Her timing lousy as always.
"You smell nice," she purred, nuzzling her nose against his chin.
He frowned uneasily. At her insistence he had put on that expensive Chanel aftershave she had bought him for Christmas, but he knew it was the wrong thing. He pulled away. "I really must go. I’ll be late."
"And you will be back at six? None of this working all the hours God sends stuff?"
He smiled. He was now on surer ground. The Denton Divisional Commander’s office had sent him an itemized timetable, detailing almost minute by minute his itinerary for the coming week. Denton was clearly a well organized, efficiently run station. Today, after his meeting with the Divisional Commander, he was to be taken around the station and introduced to the personnel and the various departments. Then his new boss, Detective Inspector Allen, was taking hint on a tour of the district to familiarize him with the area. After lunch in the canteen (1.15-2.15) he was off to visit the local Forensic Laboratory. At 5.30 precisely, a car would collect him up and return him to his home (e.t.a. 5.55 p.m.). "I’ll be back by six," he assured her.
One last lingering kiss and he put on his mac and dashed through the rain to his car. Liz flopped back on the settee and flicked through the paper again. She barely gave a glance to the item at the bottom of the front page: Hope Dies For Missing News Girl.
Denton Police Station didn’t look the model of efficiency Gilmore had been led to expect. The lobby was unattended, the floor wet from a hasty mopping and reeking of disinfectant. Somewhere a phone was ringing and no-one answered it. Leaning against the snorting with impatience, a middle-aged man waited. He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling as Gilmore entered, inviting him to share his disgust at the treatment meted out to rate-paying members of the public. "My car’s been pinched. They won’t accept details over the phone—that’s too bloody easy. You have to take time off from flaming work, hire a cab because you’ve got no car and come down in person and fill in a damn form."
A balding, uniformed sergeant with a mournful face came in. This was Bill Wells, pushing forty, tired and fed up. Today should have been his rest day. "Right, Mr. Wilkins. Details have been circulated."
"So what happens now?"
The sergeant shrugged. "It was probably taken by joy-riders. If a member of the public reports it abandoned somewhere, we’ll let you know so you can collect it."
"And that’s the limit of the help I get from the police? If someone happens to spot it, you’ll pass on the message. Brilliant. Aren’t the police going to look for it?"
"Of course we are," the sergeant told him, "but we do have more important things on our plate." He nodded towards the poster on the wall behind him. The poster displayed a black and white photograph of a child in school uniform standing by a bike. Th
e heading read: Missing—have you seen this girl?
The man snorted his contempt as he stamped out. "If I’ve got to wait for you to find that poor little cow, I’ll wait for ever."
Wells stared stony-faced at the man’s retreating back, then opened a door to yell, "Can’t someone answer that damn phone," before turning his attention to Gilmore. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Detective Sergeant Gilmore to see Mr. Mullett."
Behind Gilmore the lobby door opened again and two men and a woman came in, shaking umbrellas. One of the men unbuttoned his raincoat to reveal a clerical collar. "Appointment with Mr. Mullett," he announced.
"Yes, vicar. He’s expecting you," Wells told him.
"My appointment’s at nine," hissed Gilmore, waving his itinerary as proof.
"Then you’ll have to wait." The sergeant brushed past him to escort the trio through the swing doors to the Divisional Commander’s office.
Fuming, Gilmore checked his watch. A minute to nine. The one thing he knew about his new Divisional Commander was that Mullett was a stickler for punctuality and, because that fool of a sergeant had let the newcomers through first, he was going to be late reporting for duty on his very first day.
He slumped down on the hard wooden bench and prodded a puddle of disinfectant-smelling water with his shoe. The hands of the wall clock clunked round with monotonous regularity, marking out the number of minutes he was going to be late. He shifted his gaze to the missing girl poster. Paula Bartlett, aged 15, dark hair, pale complexion, height 5’3”. Last seen September 14th, in the Forest Lane area. September 14th! Some two months ago!
She wasn’t a particularly pretty-looking kid, but perhaps the photograph didn’t do her justice.
The swing doors clicked together as the sergeant returned. Gilmore sprang to his feet. "My appointment with Mr. Mullett . . ."
"You’ll have to wait." Wells had no time for jumped-up newly promoted constables.
Gilmore felt he had to report to someone. He consulted his itinerary. "Tell Inspector Allen I’m here."
"He’s off sick. Everyone’s off flaming sick." The internal phone buzzed. "No, Mr. Mullett, Mr. Frost isn’t in yet. Yes, I did tell him nine o’clock. Yes, sir." He hung up.
Rain blew in from the lobby doors as a scruffy figure in a dripping mac pushed through. He peeled a sodden maroon scarf from his neck and wrung it out. "It’s peeing down out there," he announced, then his nose twitched. "Disinfectant and perfume. This place stinks like a tart’s slop-bucket."
"The disinfectant is from the cleaners," the sergeant informed him. "We had drunks throwing up all over the place last night. And the poncey scent is from the new boy’s aftershave." He jerked his head at Gilmore, who scowled back. "Mr. Mullett’s been asking for you."
"He’s always asking for me. I think he fancies me. He likes, a bit of rough." He unbuttoned his mac to expose a crumpled blue suit with two buttons missing. The red tie beneath the frayed shirt collar had a tight, greasy knot and looked as if it had been put on by being pulled over his neck like a noose. He turned to Gilmore and held out a nicotine-stained hand. "I’m Detective Inspector Jack Frost."
Gilmore shook the proffered hand, his mind racing. A detective inspector! This rag-bag was a detective inspector? A joke, surely? But no-one seemed to be laughing. "You’ll be working with me," continued Frost.
Now that just had to be a joke. He waved his itinerary. "I’ve been assigned to Mr. Allen."
"All been changed—Allen’s got the pox," said Frost.
"He’s down with flu," corrected the station sergeant. "Half the damn station’s down with it, most of the others are on sick leave following Friday’s punch-up and the rest of us silly sods are dragged in on their rest day and working double shifts." The internal phone buzzed.
"If it’s Mullett . . ." said Frost, backing towards the exit doors.
It wasn’t Mullett. It was Control for the inspector. "The Comptons—the couple receiving the hate mail. They’ve had a fire—someone’s tried to burn their summer house down."
"On my way," said Frost, banging down the phone. He jerked his head at Gilmore. "Come on, son. If you like rigid nipples you’re in for a treat—the lady of the house is a cracker."
"But I’m supposed to report to the Divisional Commander," Gilmore protested.
"You can do that when we get back."
The internal phone rang. This time it was Mullett.
Frost grabbed Gilmore’s arm and hurried him out into the rain.
Frost’s old Ford Cortina was tucked out of sight, round the corner from the station car-park where, hopefully, Mullett wouldn’t spot it. While Gilmore waited in the pouring rain which was finding its way through his new raincoat, Frost cleared the junk from the passenger seat, including two mud-encrusted wellington boots which he tossed into the back of the car. "In you get, son."
Gilmore scrubbed pointedly at the seat with his handkerchief before risking its contact with his brand new suit. His head nearly hit the windscreen as Frost suddenly slammed the car into gear and they were away.
"Where are we going?" he asked, hastily clicking the buckle of his seat belt as the car squealed into Market Square, shooting up spray as it ploughed through an unexpectedly deep puddle.
"A little village called Lexing—about four miles outside Denton." A blur of shops zipped past then the engine was labouring and coughing as it clawed up a steep hill and there was a smell of burning oil. Frost sniffed and frowned. "Do you know anything about engines, son?"
"No," said Gilmore, firmly. There was no way he was going to mess up his new suit poking under the bonnet of Frost’s filthy car. They were now passing a heavily wooded area, with sagging, rain-heavy bushes.
Frost jerked a thumb. "Denton Woods. Right over the far side is where that schoolgirl went missing. She was doing a newspaper round, but never finished it. Her bike and her undelivered papers turned up in a ditch, but no trace of the kid."
"Had there been trouble at home? Could she have run away?"
"Don’t know, son. It was Mr. Allen’s case until he conveniently got the bloody flu. Now I’m lumbered. We’ll have to start reading through the file when we get back." He scratched a match down the dashboard and lit up, then remembered he hadn’t told Gilmore about the case they were driving to. "Married couple, in their mid-twenties, live in a converted windmill. Some joker’s been frightening the life out of them."
"How?" Gilmore asked.
"Lots of charming ways. Sending fake obituary notices—tombstone catalogues and things like that. They even had an undertaker call on them last week to collect the husband’s body. His poor cow of a wife went into hysterics."
The car was now jolting and squelching down a muddied lane and the smell of burning oil was getting stronger. Frost wound down the window to let in some air, then pointed. "There it is!" Looming up before them, imperfectly seen through the Cortina’s mud-grimed wind screen, was a genuine old wooden windmill, its sails removed, and painted a smart designer black and white.
Gilmore leant forward and craned his neck to take it all in. He was impressed. "That must have cost a few bob?"
Frost nodded. "Rumour has it that the Comptons paid close on a quarter of a million for the place. With the slump in the housing market it’s worth a lot less now."
The car scrunched up the gravel driveway which led to a white-framed, black front door outside which a police car was already parked. Alongside the drive ran a lawn, once immaculate, but now a muddy, churned-up, tire-grooved mess a-slosh with dirty water. Their job done, firemen were clambering into a fire engine ready to drive off. In the middle of the lawn the Fire Investigations Officer, rain bouncing off his yellow sou’wester, was gloomily poking through a jumble of sodden ashes and burnt, paint-blistered wood, all that was left of the summer house. Frost paddled over to him, cursing as water found the holes in his shoes and ruefully remembering his wellington boots snug and dry in the back of the car. Gilmore stayed put on the path. He wasn’t ruining h
is shoes for a lousy burnt-out summer house.
Frost flicked his eye over the smouldering remains. "I could have made a better job of putting it out by peeing on it."
The fire officer straightened up and grinned. "We didn’t stand a chance, Jack. The wood was soaked with petrol. We got here twelve minutes after the call, but it had almost burnt itself out by then."
"Petrol?" Frost picked up a chunk of wet burnt wood and sniffed it. It smelled just like wet burnt wood. He tossed it back on the pile and watched the fire engine drive away.
"No doubt about it. I’m still checking, but it was probably set off by some crude form of fuse—a candle or something. I’ll be able to tell you more when I find it."
"You know me," said Frost. "If it’s crude, I’m interested." He squelched back to the drive.
Gilmore hammered at the front door while Frost scuffed moodily at the gravel path and tried out the rusty bell on an old-fashioned, woman’s bicycle which leant against the wall. The door creaked open on heavy, black, wrought iron hinges and a scrawny, leathery-skinned woman in her late sixties, carrying a mop and bucket, scowled out at them. She wore a man’s cap, pulled right down over her hair, and a drab brown shapeless dress, tied at the waist with string.
Frost nodded towards the bucket. "No thanks, Ada—I went before I came out." He introduced her to Gilmore. "This is Ada Perkins, the Swedish au pair."
The woman grunted. "You’re not half as funny as you think you are, Jack Frost." She jerked a bony thumb towards a door at the end of the passage. "There’s a policeman in the kitchen drinking tea."
"Then let’s start in the kitchen," said Frost.
It was a spacious, no-expense-spared kitchen, fitted out in solid oak with marble worktops, burnished copper cookware on the walls and miniature hand-operated water pumps instead of taps over the sink. A black Aga disguised to look like an old coal-fired cooking range breathed the warm crunchy smell of baking bread. Black-moustached PC Jordan, twenty-six, his tunic unbuttoned, was seated at a scrubbed pine designer table drinking tea from a thick designer mug. He jumped up to attention as the detectives entered, but Frost waved him to sit and dragged up a chair alongside him. Gilmore did the same.
Frost 3 - Night Frost Page 1
