Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Gilmore returned, shaking his head. No joy yet on Bradbury. Frost took one last look round. Everyone seemed to be coping quite well without him. "We’re doing no good here, son," he muttered. "Let’s go to the hospital."

  "The hospital?" echoed Gilmore. "Why?" Now that he had committed himself to attending the autopsy in six hours’ time, all he wanted to do was go home and get some sleep.

  "To question Wardley," explained Frost. "You said Mark Compton’s bit of spare might provide the motive for his death and Wardley knows who she is. I’ll do it on my own if you like."

  No way! thought Gilmore, slamming the car into gear. No bloody way.

  At that hour of the morning Denton Hospital was a place of uneasy, muffled noises, whispers, coughs and groans. The very young probationer nurse in sole charge of the wheezing, snuffling ward wasn’t at all happy about Frost waking up one of the patients, but Frost breezily assured her that he had permission.

  Wardley, deep in a trouble-free sleep, was rudely awakened by a rough shaking of his shoulder. His eyes flickered open as he tried to focus on the two strangers looking grimly down at him. One of them he recognized immediately and his heart-beat faltered before thudding away. It was that detective inspector, back again, in the middle of the night. And the look on his face. God, they knew. They had found out. He closed his eyes tightly and feigned sleep, but the renewed shaking of his shoulder nearly jerked him out of bed. "Yes?" he asked in a quavery, weak, old man’s voice.

  "Get dressed," said Frost. "I’m arresting you."

  "Arresting me?" He pulled himself up. "It’s that woman next door telling lies about me, isn’t it? Don’t you believe her . . . she’s evil. She hates me."

  "Not as much as I bloody hate you," said Frost. "And the only lies Ada told us was when she was covering up for you, you sod. She even hid your typewriter—the one you used for your suicide note—and for your poison pen letters."

  "Poison pen?" He tried to sound indignant. "The intention was to make people stop their filthy practices."

  "You made Susan Bicknell stop hers," said Frost. "The poor cow killed herself."

  The skin on the old man’s knuckles stretched almost to blue transparency as he clutched at the sheet. "I didn’t mean that to happen. She over-reacted. I’m sorry."

  "Oh, you’re sorry?" hissed Frost. "That makes it all right. We’ll dig the poor bitch up so you can apologize." He dragged a chair across the floor with such a loud, teeth-setting squeak that half the ward stirred uneasily. "Right," he said wearily. "I’m tired, my sergeant is tired, and we haven’t got time to sod about. I’m going to ask you questions, and I want answers."

  "I’m saying nothing," whimpered Wardley. "I’m a sick man."

  The chair squeaked again as Frost stood up. "Arrest the bastard, Sergeant."

  "Wait," said Wardley. "What do you want to know?"

  Another squeak from the chair. Frost made himself comfortable, then shook the last export cigarette from the packet and lit up. "Let’s start with the pornographic video. Who’s been making them?"

  "A purveyor of filth. If I knew his name I’d tell you. I bought the video, Inspector. It wasn’t for enjoyment. I have to do these things to ferret out evil. When I screened it, I recognized the girl. Her mother goes to our church. I’ve no idea who makes and distributes them."

  "Where did you buy it?" Gilmore asked.

  "A newsagent’s in Catherine Street. I don’t know the name."

  "We do," said Frost. "We’ve already arrested him." That part of Wardley’s story checked out anyway. "We’ll leave that for the moment. You sent one of your well-meaning letters to Mark Compton?"

  The old man pulled himself upright, his eyes wild, his expression intense. "That lecher. All smug and high and mighty, but sneaking off behind his wife’s back for disgusting perversions with a prostitute."

  "A prostitute?" said Gilmore, glumly. This ruined his theory. If Compton’s bit of spare was a prostitute, a vengeful boyfriend or husband would have his work cut out.

  "Never mind, son," said Frost. "We’ll check her out any way." He asked Wardley where she lived.

  "Where all these high-priced harlots live. In Queen’s Court—those new flats at the back of the big supermarket . . . end flat, third floor."

  "If they were up on the third floor, how could you see through the bedroom window?"

  Wardley smiled. "The multi-storey car-park overlooks her flat. All you need is a strong pair of field-glasses."

  "And a dirty vicious bastard to use them," said Frost.

  PC Dave Simms tucked the area car into the lay-by off the Bath Road and reached for the thermos flask. His observer, PC Jordan, yawned and stretched his arms. "I’ll be damn glad when this shift is over," he sniffed. "I’m sure I’ve got this flu bug coming on."

  "Don’t breathe over me then," replied Simms, slopping steaming hot coffee into a plastic cup and passing it over.

  Jordan sipped at the cup, then his eyes narrowed. "Hello. What’s this?"

  Headlights approaching. Coming from the opposite direction to the fire, but they had been given instructions to stop everyone. Anyone out and about at this time of the morning was a potential suspect.

  It was a small black van which slowed down and stopped as they sounded the siren and cut in front of it. The driver, a short, sharp-featured man with long greasy hair, in his late forties, eyed them warily. "What’s the trouble, officer?"

  Simms asked to see the man’s driving licence, his nose twitching, trying to detect the smell of smoke, or petrol, but smelling only fresh paint.

  "I haven’t got my licence with me. What’s this all about?"

  "Just routine, sir. Do you mind telling us what you are doing out at this time of night?"

  Jordan was checking the van. The smell of new paint was strong. The vehicle had been freshly painted. A pretty ropey job, done with a paint brush, not a spray gun. He tried the rear doors. They opened.

  "Leave them alone!" yelled the man, reaching forward to switch on the engine, but Simms’ hand clamped round his wrist.

  The beam of Jordan’s torch found a stack of cardboard boxes. He pulled one forward and looked inside. Jewellery. Lots of jewellery. Mainly old-fashioned, but good quality—brooches, lockets, bangles, rings.

  "Well, well, well," smirked Jordan. "And what is your perfectly reasonable explanation for these, sir?"

  The hospital was slowly waking up as they clattered down the stone stairs past the first shift of cleaners with mops and buckets. They could hear the car radio as they crossed the pavement.

  "Frost," he yawned into the handset.

  "We’ve got him, Jack," reported Sergeant Wells triumphantly.

  "You’ve got Bradbury?" asked Frost, unable to believe his luck. "Is he dripping with petrol, smothered in blood and carrying a blunt instrument?"

  "Not Bradbury," replied Wells, testily. Frost was always joking at the wrong moment. "No joy with him yet. But we’ve got Wally Manson. Jordan and Simms picked him up. His van’s a bloody treasure trove—full of stolen gear from the senior citizen break-ins. Mr. Mullett is cock-a-hoop."

  'What’s that about Mr. Mullet’s cock?" asked Frost innocently. "This is a very bad line." He replaced the handset. "The station, son."

  But Gilmore was already on the way.

  Frost sank down in his seat again. He dug down in his pocket, but the Benson and Hedges packet was empty.

  Thursday morning shift

  A quarter to six in the morning and Mullett, freshly shaven, highly polished, and immaculately dressed in his best tailored uniform, emerged from his office, mentally rehearsing the speech he would make to the press and the television cameras after they had charged Manson with the 'Granny Ripper' killings. He waylaid the dishevelled Frost and Gilmore, both looking tired and edgy, on their way to the Interview Room. "No doubts about the right man this time, Inspector. Hanlon has definitely identified an item of jewellery from Manson’s van as belonging to one of the murder victims and there’s a positi
ve forensic report on those jeans."

  "Great!" muttered Frost, trying to share his commander’s enthusiasm. He always got worried when things appeared to be going too well.

  They looked in on the exhibits store where Arthur Hanlon, his nose red and sore from repeated blowing, was hovering over a collection of cardboard boxes, the spoils from Wally Manson’s van. "Mr. Mullett tells me it’s all cut and dried," said Frost. "Wally’s confessed and hanged himself to spare the state the cost of a trial."

  "Not quite, Jack," giggled Hanlon, blowing his nose with a sodden handkerchief. "He’s denying everything at the moment—you know what a slimy little sod he is."

  "Yes," nodded Frost. "I sometimes think he’s Mr. Mullett’s illegitimate son. Anyway, what have we got?"

  Hanlon pushed one of the boxes over and raised the flaps. "This was a surprise, Jack." The box was packed tight with pornographic videos. "Forty-nine in all," reported Hanlon. "The same titles as we got from the newsagent’s." Frost grunted and pulled the next box towards him. This one held assorted house-breaking tools—screwdrivers, jemmies, hammers, glass cutters. The last box, the smallest of the lot, contained various small plastic supermarket bags. Selecting one at random, Frost looked inside, then handed it over to Gilmore. Jewellery. Gold rings, chains, lockets, crucifixes. Another bag held necklaces and ear-rings. Yet another, old-fashioned cameo brooches, and heavy dress jewellery.

  "We’ve only positively identified this, so far," Hanlon told them, fishing out a pearl-studded crucifix on a silver chain. "But it’s the one that matters. This belonged to Mrs. Alice Ryder."

  Frost held the crucifix in his open hand. It looked like silver, but it wasn’t and the pearls were false. It was worth a few pounds at the most and the old lady who fought to stop it being stolen had had her skull smashed in and had died in Demon Hospital. "Mullett was yapping about positive forensic evidence?"

  "The stains are definitely blood, the same group as the old lady, and there were small fragments of china which matched up to that vase he smashed getting through the window."

  "What have you told Manson?"

  "I haven’t told him anything. I’ve only questioned him about being in possession of stolen property."

  "You haven’t mentioned the killings?"

  "Good. Let’s keep the sod guessing. Bring him to Interview Room Number 1." Frost patted his pockets and realized he was out of cigarettes. He sent Gilmore back to the office to fetch a packet from his desk drawer.

  Gritty, tired and irritated at being treated as a messenger boy, Gilmore yanked the drawer open. Underneath the camouflage of two ancient files were a couple of packs, each containing 200 Benson and Hedges export only cigarettes. He paused. A way to get back into his Divisional Commander’s good books. This was exactly the sort of thing Mullett had asked him to look out for. Evidence of Frost’s dubious practices. A quiet word in Mullett’s ear. "I don’t know if I ought to be saying this, sir, against a fellow officer, but . . ." He could already see the Cheshire cat grin spreading over the Divisional Commander’s face. He stuffed a spare packet in his pocket as evidence. Then be noticed something protruding beneath one of the packs in the drawer. A battered, blue material-covered case. Something else Frost had helped himself to? He clicked it open. Snug on red plush a silver cross on a dark blue ribbon, the inscription in the centre reading For Gallantry. Frost’s famous medal. The George Gross. The civilian equivalent to the VC. Gilmore stared at it, then quickly clicked the case shut and replaced it at the bottom of the drawer together with the spare pack from his pocket. Frost would never know it, but yet again his medal had got him out of possible trouble.

  "Gentleman to see you, Inspector," announced Hanlon, pushing Wally Manson into the Interview Room.

  Manson blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright light after the shaded bulb of his cell. Through a haze of blue smoke he could see the unwelcome sight of Detective Inspector Jack Frost sprawled untidily in a chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On the table in front of him were a couple of the boxes taken from his van.

  "Nice of you to drop in, Wally," said Frost, waving a hand at the other chair by the table. "Sit down." Behind the inspector, leaning against the wall under the tiny window, was a younger man he didn’t recognize, in a smart suit. The younger man looked tired and frazzled and nasty.

  Gilmore contemplated Manson with disgust. The man was a slob with his weasel-like face, lank greasy hair and eyes that kept shifting from side to side; a cornered rat looking for an escape route.

  "I don’t know what this is all about, Mr. Frost," Manson said, shrinking down into the offered chair. "Like I told the other gentleman, I found those boxes dumped in a lay-by. I was on the way to the police station to hand them in when those two coppers picked me up."

  "I’m sorry to hear that, Wally," said Frost, shaking ash all over the floor, "I was hoping you were guilty, because we’re going to frame you anyway."

  Wally grinned at the inspector’s joke, but Frost didn’t seem to be joking. He dipped into one of the cardboard boxes and pulled out a pearl crucifix which he swung by the chain under Wally’s nose.

  "She identified you, Wally."

  Manson jerked his head away. "Like I told the other officer, Mr. Frost, I found these boxes in a lay-by . . ."

  "They’ll find you in a bleedin’ lay-by if you don’t stop sodding me about, Wally. You’ve been identified, we know you did it and we’re going to get a confession and a conviction by fair means or foul. So tell us about it."

  "If only I knew what you’re talking about, Mr. Frost," said Manson, giving his unconvincing impression of puzzled innocence, then nearly jumping out of his chair as the young thug behind him suddenly bellowed in his ear, "We’re talking about the woman whose skull you fractured, you scum-bag."

  "There’s no need to raise your voice, Sergeant," reproved Frost mildly. "He’s going to give us everything we want with out bullying, aren’t you, Wally?"

  "I’ll help you if I can," said Manson, rubbing his ear.

  Frost beamed a friendly smile that made the prisoner’s blood run cold. "Good. Then help me with Mrs. Alice Ryder, the old lady from Clarendon Street who you put in hospital." At this stage he wasn’t going to let Manson know that she was dead.

  Manson looked hurt. "Not me, Mr. Frost. That’s not my style."

  Frost snorted a cloud of Benson and Hedges smoke. "Style! You haven’t got any bleeding style. If you’re going to sod me about, I can sod you about. Notebook, Sergeant." Gilmore took out his notebook and flipped it open.

  "Stand up," snapped Frost to Manson.

  Manson hestiated so Gilmore yanked him to his feet.

  "Walter Richard Manson," droned Frost, "alias the Granny Ripper . . ."

  "Granny Ripper?" croaked Manson, his astonishment sounding genuine this time.

  "Shut up!" barked Gilmore.

  "Alias the Granny Ripper," continued Frost, "I am arresting you on three counts of murder . . ." To Gilmore he said, "Fill in the details—I forget the names and dates." Gilmore nodded, his pencil scribbling furiously. "You are not obliged to say anything—etc. etc., but anything you do say, blah, blah, blah. Take it as read, Wally—you know the words better than I do."

  "I am totally innocent of these preposterous charges," said Manson smugly, twisting his head to make sure Gilmore was writing it all down.

  Frost put his hand on Gilmore’s notebook to stop him writing. "Hold on, Sergeant. I’m sure we can do better than that." He scratched his scar thoughtfully. "Put . . . 'The prisoner replied I didn’t mean to kill them. I’m terribly sorry for what I did. I deserve to be punished.' "

  The man’s jaw dropped. "I never said that."

  Frost lit up another export only. "What you actually said doesn’t matter, Wally. It’s what he puts down in his book that gets read out in court."

  Manson shrunk back in his chair. "I shall deny saying it. I shall say it’s all lies."

  "Of course you will, Wally. And it will be the word of a chea
p slimy little crook with a record against a detective inspector with a medal. Courts seem to think that people with George Crosses are incapable of telling lies."

  "That’s not fair," said Manson, almost in tears.

  "Life’s not fair when some bastard breaks into your house and smashes your skull in," snapped Frost.

  Wally’s tongue flicked snake-like across dried lips. "You wouldn’t perjure yourself, Mr. Frost?" he pleaded, but the expression on the inspector’s face said, "Yes, I bloody well would."

  Frost leant his head back and treated the ceiling to a squirt of smoke. "Not perjury, Wally—it’s called oiling the wheels of justice. Take him away, Sergeant, and charge him. We’ll have him in court first thing tomorrow."

  Hanlon stepped forward and took the man’s arm, but Wally shook him off. "What do I get if I co-operate?"

  "My undying gratitude, Wally—and perhaps a whisper to the judge about how helpful you were."

  Manson hesitated. "This old lady in Clarendon Street. You say she identified me?"

  "She described you perfectly, Wally. She said her attacker was an ugly little bastard with bad breath and dandruff. We showed her some photographs and she picked you out right away."

  Manson gnawed at his lower lip. "I didn’t mean to hurt her, Mr. Frost. She came at me like a bloody tiger."

  "An eighty-one-year-old tiger," said Frost. "What did she attack you with—her pension book?"

  "A knife, Mr. Frost . . . a flaming great knife." He tugged the shirt from his trousers and lifted it to expose his stomach. "Look what she did to me!" A thick pad of dirty red-mottled cotton wool, blood still weeping from the edges, was strapped to his stomach by strips of sticking plaster. "She’d have killed me. I had to hit her to defend myself." He fumbled at the dressing. "Do you want to see what it’s like underneath?"

  Frost waved the offer away. "No, thanks, Wally. It’s a bit too near your dick and I haven’t had my breakfast yet. I’ll get the doctor to have a look at it." He slid from his chair and went to the door, making a small jerk of his head to signal Hanlon to follow.