Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  "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. Tires 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 approached 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.

  "Get him a doctor," ordered Mullett, who was hovering excitedly in the background, grinning like a man with two dicks. "We’re going to play this one by the book." He called the inspector over. "The Chief Constable’s thrilled to bits about this, Frost."

  "Then let’s hope we don’t disappoint the old git," replied Frost. "Our suspect’s playing the injured innocent at the moment."

  "I’ve got a full Forensic team going over Greenway’s cottage, inch by inch," said Mullett. "As soon as they come up with something, I’ll let you know." He squeezed Frost’s shoulder. "I have every confidence in you, Inspector."

  Then you must be bloody mad, muttered Frost under his breath as Mullett returned to the old log cabin. Whenever people expressed confidence, the doubts welled up.

  "Shall I get a doctor?" asked Wells.

  "Later," said Frost. "When I’ve finished with him. The odd jolt of pain might improve his concentration."

  Wednesday night shift (1)

  Greenway twisted his head round to look at the clock high on the wall behind him in Interview Room number 2. Half past nine. He resumed his sprawl in the chair and rubbed his injured hand. Opposite him, leaning against the mushroom emulsioned wall, the young thug of a detective sergeant scowled down at him. Unblinking, Greenway scowled back

  "How much longer?" asked Greenway.

  Gilmore said nothing.

  "As long as that?" said Greenway in mock surprise. He turned to the little blonde WPC standing guard by the door. "How long have I got to waste my time here, darling?"

  WPC Ridley stared through him and didn’t answer.

  "Natter, natter, natter," said Greenway. The door swung open and Frost breezed in, a bulging green case file under his arm. He chucked the file on the table, together with his matches and his cigarettes.

  'Where’s the doctor?" asked Greenway.

  "He’s putting someone’s cat down at the moment," said Frost, dropping into the vacant chair. "He’ll be along as soon as he can." He poked a cigarette in his mouth and dragged a match along the table top. He lit up, then pushed the packet towards the prisoner.

  "What’s this?" asked Greenway with a sneer. "The good guy and the bad guy routine?"

  "No," said Frost, grinning sweetly. "We’re both the bad guys. We both hate your guts." He lit Greenway’s cigarette. "Make us hate you some more. Tell us all about it, blow by blow, thrust by thrust."

  Greenway spread his palms in mock bewilderment. "Tell you about what? I haven’t the faintest idea what this is all about."

  Frost puffed out a smoke ring and watched it drift up and curl around the green-shaded light bulb. "If you don’t know what it’s about, why did you do a runner?"

  "I panicked. I’m not used to the police barging into my house at night." He stood up. "If you’re going to charge me, charge me. If not, I’m walking out of here."

  Gilmore pushed him back in the chair. "The charge, as you bloody well know, is murder."

  A scornful laugh from Greenway. "Murder?" His eyes flicked from Gilmore to Frost. "Who am I supposed to have murdered?"

  A damn good act, thought Frost, grudgingly. If I didn’t have the forensic evidence I might start having doubts. He flipped open the folder and took out the photograph of Paula Bartlett, then steered it with his finger across to Greenway.

  "Only fifteen. Must have been easy meat for a great hulking bastard like you."

  Greenway stared at the colour photograph with an expression of utter disbelief. "The school kid? This is getting bloody farcical. I gave a statement to that other bloke . . . the miserable-faced git, Inspector Allen. She never even reached my place. I never got a paper that day."

  Gilmore moved his face forward close to Greenway’s. "Yes, you bloody did. She delivered the paper. On your own admission you were home that morning. You dragged her in . . . a fifteen-year-old kid, a virgin . . ."

  "A fifteen-year-old virgin? There’s no such thing!" smirked Green
way.

  The detective sergeant’s control snapped. He grabbed the man by the lapels, lifted him and slammed him against the wall. "Don’t come the funnies with me, you sod. I saw her body. I saw what you did to her."

  WPC Ridley coughed pointedly, reminding Gilmore that she was there to make notes of everything that happened between the detectives and the prisoner. Gilmore pushed Greenway away and wiped his hands down his jacket as if they were contaminated.

  Greenway smouldered. "I’m not answering any more questions."

  "Yes, you are," said Frost, "otherwise I might accidentally tread on your bad hand again." He leant back, balancing the chair on its rear legs, and shot a column of smoke at the yellow ceiling. "Let’s talk about mitigating circumstances. Perhaps you didn’t mean to kill her. What did she do—lead you on? Waggle it under your nose, then snatch it away?"

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," yawned Greenway, feigning boredom. "Whoever poked and killed that kid, it wasn’t me. I like them older with big knockers—like that little policewoman there—not flat-chested schoolgirls."

  Frost’s chair crashed down, the sudden noise almost making Greenway leap from his seat. "Flat-chested, was she? When you stripped her off you saw she was flat-chested." He jabbed a finger at Gilmore who was busy with his notebook. "Underline that, Sergeant."

  "You don’t have to strip anyone off to see if they’re flat chested or not," sneered Greenway. "That kid used to deliver here in the summer wearing only a T-shirt. You could see she had nothing."

  "You’re quite right," Frost agreed. "She didn’t have much to show when I saw her stretched out on the slab in the morgue. It didn’t stop you raping her, though, did it?"

  "Rape?" He snorted a hollow laugh. "You must be bloody hard up for suspects."

  Frost pulled a sheet of typescript from the folder. "This is the statement you gave to my colleague, Inspector Allen, the miserable-faced git. You say you’re a self-employed van driver?"

  "That’s right."

  "You were asked to account for your movements for September 14th, the day Paula went missing." He let his eyes run over the typed page. "You said you didn’t go out at all that day. Is that correct?"

  "Bang on! There was no work for me." Greenway flicked his ash on the floor and looked as if he was enjoying the questioning. His expression said, "Ask what you like, pigs, you’ll get nothing out of me!"

  Frost scratched at his scar. "The girl usually delivered your paper—the Sun—around eight o’clock?"

  "Yes. But that day, she didn’t turn up."

  "And you didn’t get a paper?"

  "Brilliant," said Greenway, sarcastically.

  Frost produced the copy of the Sun in its transparent cover. "This is the paper you say wasn’t delivered. And this . . ." He fluttered the forensic report, "is scientific evidence which proves you are a lying bastard."

  Greenway snatched the report, his head moving from side to side as he skimmed through it. He gave a scoffing laugh and handed it back. "A load of balls."

  Gilmore moved forward. "Solid scientific evidence. The court will love it."

  Greenway smiled disarmingly. "All right. Let’s pretend it’s genuine. So the newspaper was pushed through my letter-box and pulled out again. That doesn’t prove the girl was in my house and it doesn’t prove I bloody touched her."

  "We’ll soon have all the proof we want," said Frost. "A Forensic team is going over your place inch by inch right now. One hair from her head . . . a thread of cotton from her clothes, and we’ve got you, you bastard."

  "Tell you what then," smirked Greenway. "If you find any thing, I’ll give you a full, sworn confession. Now I can’t say fairer than that."

  Frost switched on his sweetest smile. "We’ll find it," he said, trying to sound convincing. But he was worried. Greenway was too damned cock-sure. He looked up with irritation as the door opened and Wells beckoned. The sergeant didn’t look the bearer of good news. "Just heard from the Forensic team, Jack. They’ve been all over the cottage and found nothing."

  Frost slumped against the wall. "There’s got to be something."

  "It’s been over two months since she was there," said Wells. "Forensic are bringing in more men to go over the entire place again, but they’re not optimistic. Are you getting anything from Greenway?"

  "Only the bleeding run-around."

  Mullett’s office door opened. He saw Frost and hurried towards him. "What joy?" he asked eagerly.

  "No joy, all bloody misery," replied Frost. "Unless Forensic can come up with something quick, the best I can charge Greenway with is dangerous driving."

  Mullett’s smile flickered and spluttered out. "I hope this is not going to be another of your foul-ups, Frost. I’ve really stuck my neck out with the Chief Constable on this one." He spun on his heel and marched back to his office.

  "Let’s hope the bastard chops it off for you," muttered Frost to the empty passage.

  Back to the Interview Room where Greenway was making great play of nursing his injured hand. "I’m in agony. I want medical treatment and I want to go home. You’ve got nothing to hold me on."

  "Lock the bastard up and get him a doctor," said Frost. He felt tired and miserable and even more incompetent than usual.

  His office was a hostile dung-heap of bulging files, snarling memos, and complicated-looking returns. Rain splattered against the window and drummed on the roof. He stared out to the rain-swept car-park, and was puzzled be cause he couldn’t see his Cortina, then remembered it had been towed away for repairs after Greenway smashed into it. Gilmore poked his head round the door. He had his hat and coat on in the hope he could nip back home for an hour or so. He’d been on duty solidly since six and a busy night was still looming ahead. "Greenway wants to know what’s happening about his dog."

  "A dog-handler’s on his way to pick it up and take it to kennels," Frost told him. "You off home then?"

  "Yes . . . only for an hour . . . if it’s all right with you." Gilmore’s tone implied that it had better be all right.

  "Drop me off on the way, would you, son. I haven’t got wheels."

  Gilmore readily agreed. It was only when he turned the car into the Market Square to take the short cut to the inspector’s house that Frost broke the news that he wanted to be dropped off at Greenway’s cottage. It was miles off Gilmore’s route, but all right, he’d dump Frost off and then get the hell out of there. Frost could find his own way back.

  Lights were spilling from every room of the cottage. From the backyard the dog kept up its monotonous yapping. The Forensic team were busy. Hardly any surface was free of fingerprint powder, small vacuum cleaners whirled gulping up dust, hairs and fibres for analysis, men crawled over the car pet with tweezers. Tony Harding, in charge of the team, looked up wearily as Frost entered. Gilmore hovered impatiently behind, scowling at the inspector who had said he would be a couple of minutes at the most and wanted a lift back.

  "Still no joy," said Harding, "but we haven’t finished yet." Frost received the news gloomily. "Keep looking. Any clue—no matter how small. A pair of schoolgirl’s knickers, a confession, a half-eaten chicken and mushroom pie." He scuffed the carpet with his foot "At the moment, all we’ve got is the paint samples on the newspaper."

  "Ah," said Harding, sounding shamefaced. "I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that." He took the inspector by the arm and led him to one side. "The paint sample evidence might not be as conclusive as we first thought. It might not have come from this letter-box."

  A cold shiver of apprehension trickled down Frost’s back. "What do you mean? You did a spectrograph analysis. You told me it was conclusive."

  "Yes . . . well . . . it was . . . up to a point . . ."

  Frost’s shoulders slumped. "Get to the bad bloody news. I don’t want the death of a thousand cuts."

  "We did a spectrograph analysis of the paint sample from the newspaper. There were traces of three layers of paint, the bottom layer brown, the middle a grey un
dercoat, the top layer black. The spectrograph analysis of the sample taken from Greenway’s letter-box showed three identical paint layers, same colours, same chemical composition."

  "Yes," nodded Frost. "That’s the point in the story where I started believing Forensic weren’t the big, useless twats I’d always thought them to be."

  Harding’s faint smile accepted the rebuke. "The test was fine as far as it went, but we should have tested other letter-boxes on the girl’s delivery route. This I’ve now done."

  "And?" asked Frost, ready to wince, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  "Quite a few letter-boxes came up with identical spectrograph readings."

  "But how the hell . . .?"

  "Most of the properties on the girl’s route are owned by the Denton Development Corporation. Every four years their maintenance department repaint exteriors . . . standard colours, standard specification. What I hadn’t appreciated was that Greenway’s cottage is also owned by the Development Corporation. They bought the land some twenty-five years ago for a new housing estate, but haven’t yet found the money."

  "So it’s received the same coats of identical paint every four years as all the other houses?"

  Harding nodded. "I’m afraid so. And that means that the girl could have pushed the newspaper through any of those letter-boxes by mistake, then tugged it out again. It doesn’t have to be this cottage."

  "Thank you very much," muttered Frost bitterly, knowing that Mullett would blame him for this. "So unless you can find evidence that the girl has actually been inside here, we’ve got sod all to hold Greenway on?"

  "Unfortunately, yes," agreed Harding.

  Frost wandered across to the window and looked out on to the puddled, muddy back yard where a black shape prowled up and down like a caged wolf. At the end of the garden a sorry-looking shed crouched under pouring rain. "You done the shed yet?"