Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Wells was on his feet, his mouth opening and closing in the hope that his brain would provide him with something mitigating to say. Gilmore wished the ground would open and swallow him. At the first opportunity he would request an interview with Mullett to explain that he was not there from choice.

  Frost didn’t appear to be paying his Divisional Commander much attention, but leant forward to study the antics on the screen more closely.

  Mullett’s lips compressed as he bottled up his rage. This was the last straw. "Would you please wait outside," he asked the other two men. A mad scramble for the door as they raced to comply, leaving the inspector as hostage for the superintendent’s fury.

  Frost dragged his chair closer to the TV set. Angrily, Mullett pushed in front of him, blocking his view. "If I might have your attention," he began icily then nearly burst a blood vessel as Frost had the temerity, the brazen-faced in subordinate impudence, to reach out and push his Divisional Commander to one side.

  "How dare you," he spluttered when the words finally came.

  Flapping a hand for Mullett to be quiet, Frost roared out, "Gilmore . . . in here! Quick."

  The detective sergeant came back in the room, looking first at the purple-faced, rage-quivering Mullett, then at Frost who was on his knees operating the rewind button on the video recorder. Like a silent film in reverse, the naked girl and the dog moved jerkily backwards at high speed.

  "Watch," ordered Frost, releasing the rewind. The dog, panting with excitement, again approached and straddled the girl.

  "For the last time, Inspector . . ." roared Mullett.

  Curtly jerking his hand for silence, Frost jabbed the pause button. On the screen, in full close-up, the vacant face of the girl froze, quivering slightly as the video head passed over and over the same section of tape.

  "The pigtails and blonde hair are a wig, son," said Frost, his hands moving to block them out.

  Gilmore stared hard at the girl’s face, her lips slack, eyes glazed and unseeing, tiny flecks of sweat on the forehead.

  "Recognize her, son?"

  Gilmore nodded. Yes, he recognized her. The suicide. The Snoopy watch. The Mickey Mouse night-shirt. Fifteen-year-old Susan Bicknell. The marks of the beating were now explained.

  Frost straightened up. "Come on, son. I think we should ask her stepfather a few questions."

  "I demand to know what this is all about!" shrieked Mullett. But they were gone, the door slamming firmly shut behind them, leaving him alone in the room. Behind him the dog had worked itself up into a frenzy. He tried to switch it off, but none of the buttons, seemed to work. He pushed the door open and thundered down the corridor. Tomorrow. He would see Frost tomorrow. And then it would be his turn. The lobby wall suddenly zipped upwards and the ceiling stared down at him as his back hit the floor. His feet had found a slippery patch of vomit.

  "Whatever you do," hissed Frost to Wells, just before he darted out to the car-park, "don’t laugh."

  A cold black night, made blacker by purple rain clouds that covered the face of the moon. They didn’t have to drag anyone out of bed. A downstairs light was still on at the house and a shirt-sleeved Kenneth Duffy, tired and drawn, opened the door to them.

  "Remember me, Mr. Duffy?" asked Gilmore, showing his warrant card.

  Duffy stared through the card and nodded.

  "We’d like to come in, please," said Gilmore. "Just a couple of questions."

  Duffy twisted his head. "It’s for me, love," he called, ushering the two detectives into an unheated lounge. "I don’t want my wife troubled," he explained. "She’s broken up about this. We both are." He dropped into a chair and stared at the drawn red curtains. He shivered. "Sorry there’s no heat."

  Frost sat down on the settee, facing Duffy. "You’re up late?"

  "My wife can’t sleep. I stay up with her. I don’t like leaving her alone."

  Frost gave a sympathetic nod and looked up for his sergeant to start the questions.

  "We’re worried at the absence of a suicide note," Gilmore said.

  "Oh?" He tried to rub some warmth into a shirt-sleeved arm.

  "You’re quite sure there was no note?"

  "Positive."

  Silence, broken only by the measured ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Then another sound. Frost had taken something from his mac pocket and was tapping it on his knee. It snatched Duffy’s attention away from his study of the curtains.

  The object was black, made of plastic, and Frost, a half-smile on his face, was tapping it slowly and regularly, again and again, on his knee.

  At first Duffy couldn’t make out what it was. Then his eyes widened and he sucked in air. It was a video cassette.

  "Woof woof," said Frost, and grinned.

  "You bastard!" With a howl of rage Duffy hurled himself across the room at the inspector, his fists swinging wildly. Gilmore leapt forward to grab his wrists and fling him back into the chair.

  "Was it something I said?" asked Frost in pretended puzzlement.

  "You bastard," repeated Duffy, this time near to tears. He shrank down into the chair and covered his face with his hands and his body convulsed with the sobbing he was no longer able to hold back "Don’t tell my wife. It would kill her." His voice was muffled by his hands.

  Gilmore turned away. Raw emotion embarrassed him. Frost dribbled smoke and tried to look as if he knew more than he did

  Kenneth Duffy knuckled his eyes dry. "What do you want to know?"

  Frost waved the video. "Tell me about it."

  Duffy bowed his head. "I watched a few seconds—that was enough."

  "Where’s the suicide note?"

  The man shivered again and folded his arms around him self. "I destroyed it."

  "Why?" snapped Gilmore who was standing behind him. "Because it incriminated you?"

  He twisted his head round and looked up at the sergeant. "No. Because Susan asked me to. The note was addressed to me."

  Frost lit up a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old. "What did it say?"

  "It said, 'The letter will explain. I can’t face mum after what I’ve done. Please help me. Destroy this. She must never know.' "

  "Letter? What letter?"

  "It was with Susan’s note. An anonymous letter."

  Anonymous letter! Frost started, as did Gilmore. "Tell us about it."

  Duffy paused to control his agitated breathing. "It was addressed to my wife. Susan must have known it was coming so she waited for the postman. She opened it, read it and . . ." He shrugged as if referring to something trivial. " . . .and killed herself."

  "I want that letter," said Frost grimly.

  "I’m sorry. I haven’t got it. I burnt it with the suicide note."

  "Shit!" said Frost vehemently. "Describe it. The notepaper, the handwriting."

  "Is it important?" asked Duffy wearily.

  "Yes, it bloody is."

  "Blue notepaper. Typed. Posted in Denton."

  Frost nodded grimly to Gilmore. "What did it say?"

  "What do you bloody think it said?" replied Duffy again near to tears. "It said, 'Dear Mrs. Duffy. Did you know that your dear darling, pure daughter Susan has taken part in depraved, bestial practices with men, with other women . . . even with animals, and is so proud of what she did that she allowed herself to be filmed. If you doubt me, I’m sending you a video.' " He paused and listened to the clock tick.

  "And did he send a video?" prompted Frost.

  "Yes. It came the next morning . . . the day after Susan died. Imagine the effect on my wife if she’d received it. I waited for the postman, just like Susan must have done." He shuddered. "It was the one with the dog."

  All heads turned to the door as it clicked open. Mrs. Duffy came in, a shrunken, stooped figure, face tired and lined, eyes red. Duffy rose from his chair. "It’s the police, love. Just asking a few questions."

  "Routine," muttered Frost, avoiding her eyes. She’d have to know, but he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.


  She forced a smile. "I’ll make some tea."

  "We can’t stop, I’m afraid," said Frost. "Lots of things to do."

  "I won’t be long, love," said Duffy, helping his wife out of the room. "You go in the warm." When he came back he said, "How old does she look? Sixty?" Not far short, thought Frost. "She was forty last month and she never looked her age. Losing her only daughter was bad enough, but when this other business comes out, it’ll kill her. You’ll have another death on your hands."

  "You’ll have to tell her," said Frost.

  "You bloody tell her," said Duffy. He went to the side board and opened a drawer where he took out a small box. "You see these?" He rattled it. "The bloody doctor’s put her back on the same tablets Susan took."

  Frost looked away. There was nothing to say.

  Outside, in the car, Gilmore said, "That video. Did you notice Susan’s feet?"

  "Her feet were the last thing I thought of looking at," said Frost. "Why?"

  "The ground was rough so she was wearing shoes," said Gilmore. "Stark naked, but wearing shoes . . . just like Paula."

  Frost worried away at his scar, then shook his head. "Coincidence, son. No-one would want to make a porn video with Paula. The poor little bitch didn’t have the looks, or the figure." He salvaged a decent-sized butt from the ashtray and lit up. "The doc was right. He said that poison pen bastard would kill someone some day." He huddled down in his seat, suddenly feeling cold. "And I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about catching the sod."

  Gilmore started up the engine. "Where to?"

  "Drop me off at the station, then go home, son. You’ll be fit for sod all in the morning if you don’t get some kip."

  Wednesday night shift (2)

  Gilmore drew up outside the house and checked the windows. Despite the hour he half expected to see all the lights blazing and a still-smouldering Liz waiting for him. But the house seemed to be in darkness and he sighed with relief. He wasn’t ready for another slanging match. But as he quietly clicked the front door shut behind him he heard mumbled voices and a slit of light showed from under the lounge door.

  He tiptoed down the hall and turned the handle. An old black and white film was playing on the television and Liz was curled up in the armchair, a couple of empty tonic water bottles on the table and a bottle of vodka on the floor by her side. She turned and held up a brim-full glass in a mock toast. "Home is the hunter!" In one gulp she swigged it down, waving the empty glass triumphantly aloft.

  "It’s gone four o’clock," he said. "What are you doing up?"

  She pouted. "You said you’d be in early. You promised me you’d be in bloody early."

  He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie and took a clean glass from the display cabinet. "I said I’d try. It just wasn’t possible." He flopped wearily into the other armchair and reached for the vodka bottle. It was empty. He held it up accusingly. "This was a full bottle on Saturday!"

  "So I bloody drank it. What else is there to do in this stinking town, sitting in this lousy room, waiting for you and you never bloody come."

  He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. "It won’t be long." None too hopefully he pushed himself from the chair and foraged through the display cabinet, looking for something alcoholic amongst the half-empty bitter lemon and Coke bottles. Defeated, he poured himself a glass of Coke. It was warm and flat. On the television screen Humphrey Bogart was slapping Peter Lorre around. He relaxed, rested his head against the back of the armchair and tried to fight off sleep.

  "You know what I thought," slurred Liz in a husky whisper, putting her empty glass on the table. "I thought I’d wait up for my randy, rampant, lover-boy husband and I thought we’d have some randy, rampant sex. How does that grab you, superstud?"

  He was too tired. He wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t even think he was capable of making love. But he forced a grin. He didn’t want a row, a hurtful, scratching row, all in hoarse angry whispers to avoid disturbing the neighbours. "You’re on," he said, and held out his arms.

  She slunk over and nestled in his lap. He kissed her. She tasted of vodka. Her body was hot and burning and her perfume was heady and erotic. Her hand crawled over him, tugging the shirt free from his trousers, her fingers exploring, caressing and lightly scratching his lower stomach. Then he wasn’t faking any more. Then he was unbuttoning and easing off her dress. Then he was biting and licking and groaning.

  And then, jarring like a dentist’s drill, the door bell. A long, persistent ring. And someone banging on the door. And Frost’s voice yelling for him to open up. This is a nightmare, he thought. A bloody nightmare.

  "Sorry, son," said Frost, barging in as he opened the front door. "An emergency . . ." He stopped dead as he saw Liz smouldering in the armchair, her dress unbuttoned down to the waist, making no attempt to cover her naked breasts. Frost made no attempt to hide his gaping admiration.

  Gilmore made the unnecessary introduction. "My wife Liz."

  "Sorry about this, love," apologized Frost. "You must hate my guts."

  "Yes," she said simply.

  "I’m known as Coitus Interruptus in the trade," added Frost, hoping to warm up the atmosphere, but neither of them responded.

  "What do you want?" asked Gilmore curtly.

  "Another arson attack at the Comptons. I know it’s your case, but I’ll attend to it if you like."

  Gilmore hesitated.

  "Bloody go," snapped Liz. "Bugger off and go!" The door slammed as she stormed out of the room.

  "I’ll wait outside," said Frost. "Be quick."

  "I’m coming now," said Gilmore, grabbing his coat.

  The rain had stopped, but a cold wind chased them to the car. "Sorry if I sodded things up for you, son," said Frost, settling into the passenger seat. Gilmore gave a noncommital grunt and slammed the car into gear. He looked back at the house, half hoping Liz would be at the window so he could give her a wave. A forlorn hope.

  The road was clear so Gilmore was able to ignore traffic signals and speed limits and drove with his foot jammed down hard while Frost briefly outlined what he knew. "Compton phoned the station about half an hour ago. Someone was prowling about outside. A couple of minutes later the station alarm went off, so the prowler must have broken a window or forced a lock or something. Control sent an area car. It found the place in flames. The fire brigade’s on its way. That’s all I know so far." As they left the town and climbed the hill to skirt the woods an orange glow throbbed in the sky ahead. "Bloody hell, son," said Frost. "That’s one hell of a fire."

  Soon they could see the flashing electric-blue beacons of the fire trucks and hear the deep-throated roar of the burning wooden structure fanned to a frenzy by the wind. The scorching heat hit them as they climbed out of the car and stumbled over a spaghetti confusion of hoses.

  "Look out!" someone yelled.

  A long-drawn-out creaking screech of agony as the supporting timbers of the mill gave way, then a slow rumbling as the roof collapsed and whooshed up a tongue of flame which licked the night sky with thousands of red, dancing sequins. Firemen in yellow oilskins turned their backs as the dragon’s breath of scorched air and smoke blasted out at them.

  With the roof down and the building open to the sky, the firemen were able to direct their hoses into the seething heart of the fire gradually damping down the flames and sending up clouds of steam and oily smoke.

  "Inspector! Over here." PC Jordan was waving to them from the side of a fire truck. There was something on the grass by his feet. Something covered by a crumpled sheet of grey plastic, dripping wet from the back-spray of the hoses.

  "Shit," said Frost. The plastic was draped over a dead body.

  "The firemen found him in the lounge," Jordan told them. "He’s burnt to buggery."

  Frost bent and carefully lifted the sheet, then turned his head away, but not before he had breathed in the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Gilmore, watching, felt his stomach start to churn. The
dead face gawping up at him was blistered red raw and distorted by intense heat. "Where the hair should have been was grey powdery ash.

  "The firemen reckon he must have fallen into a pool of blazing petrol," explained Jordan, staring straight ahead, determined not to look down. "They dragged him out of the lounge."

  "Poor bastard," muttered Frost. He pulled the plastic sheeting down further to see better. Welded into the bubbling black flesh, pieces of charred material. "Looks like pyjamas."

  "Yes, sir. We presume he’s the householder."

  Frost forced himself to bend again and study the face closer. If it was Mark Compton it would require medical and dental records for a positive identification. Slowly, he straightened up. "So what happened?"

  "The place was well alight when we got here. Simms radioed for the fire brigade. No way of getting in at the front, so I tried the rear and found Mrs. Compton, in her night clothes, unconscious on the lawn just outside the back door."

  'Where is she now?"

  "She’s with someone in the village, I think."

  Frost nodded for him to continue.

  "When the fire brigade got here they sent a couple of men with breathing apparatus into the house. The body was in the lounge. They dragged him out but he was already dead."

  "I thought the sprinklers were supposed to stop this sort of fire," said Frost.

  "They’d been put out of action, Inspector. The water supply was turned of at the mains."

  Gilmore thought it was about time he reminded everyone that this was his case. "Radio through to Control," he snapped. "Tell all patrols that anyone out and about at this time of the morning, on foot or in a car, is a suspect and is to be detained for questioning."

  "And advise all hospitals, chemists and doctors that we want to know immediately about anyone requesting treatment for burns," added Frost.

  A car horn sounded and Dr Maltby’s Vauxhall crept into the side road. Maltby, wrapped up against the cold in a thick overcoat, climbed out and surveyed the smouldering wreck age of the once beautiful house. He spotted Frost and made his way across, stepping with exaggerated care over the hose-pipes.