Night Frost djf-3

by R D Wingfield

  Frost’s jaw dropped. Police inspector George Harrison had only retired a few weeks ago after twenty-four years ser vice. ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘First you come round with the list for their retirement present,’ said Wells, dolefully, ‘next thing you know you’re going round with the list for their wreath. You might as well collect both at once and be done with it.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Frost again. The force was his life and retirement was the one thing he dreaded. The thought made him depressed. He jerked his head to Gilmore and headed for the stairs. ‘Come on, son, let’s get something to eat.’

  ‘If you’re going to the canteen, don’t bother,’ said Wells, happy to be the bearer of more bad news. ‘It’s shut.’

  ‘Shut?’ echoed Frost in dismay.

  ‘The night staff are still down with flu. If you want any thing, you’ve got to bring it in from outside.’

  ‘And eat it in this ice-box?’ moaned Frost, giving the dead radiator a kick. ‘Sod that for a lark!’ Then a slow grin crawled across his face. Somewhere in the building there was a room with comfortable chairs, a carpet and a 3-kilowatt heater. He pulled the car expense sheet from his jacket pocket and licked the tip of a stubby pencil. ‘I’m taking orders for the all-night Chinky. Who wants curried chicken and chips?’

  ‘I don’t like this, Jack,’ said Wells. ‘If Mullett finds out.. ’

  ‘He’s not going to find out.’ retorted Frost, peeping inside a foil container. ‘Who ordered the sweet and sour?’

  They were in the old log cabin, Mullett’s wood veneer-lined office, Gilmore, Burton, Wells, and the four members of the murder enquiry team, the heater going full pelt, the room hot and steamy and reeking of Chinese food. The top of the satin mahogany desk was littered with foil containers and soft drink cans. Frost, in Mullett’s chair, smoking one of Mullett’s special cigarettes, was sorting out the food orders. ‘Who wanted pancake rolls?’

  Gilmore stood near the door, hovering nervously, his eye on the corridor, expecting any moment to see an irate Divisional Commander bursting through the swing doors.

  ‘Come on, Gilmore,’ called Frost. ‘The chop suey’s yours.’

  Gilmore smiled uneasily and sat himself where he could still see down the corridor. He shuddered to think what discovery would do for his promotion chances.

  ‘All we want is a disco and a few birds,’ said Frost, spilling sweet and sour sauce on the carpet, ‘and this job would be just about tolerable.’ He swung round to Burton who was demolishing a double portion of sweet and sour lobster balls. ‘Mrs Ryder died in hospital. Any news from Forensic on that knife the killer dropped?’

  Burton swallowed hard. ‘Nothing that helps much, Inspector. Their report’s on your desk.’

  ‘You know I don’t read reports,’ said Frost, dipping a chip in his curry sauce. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘An ordinary cheap kitchen knife of a standard pattern. No fingerprints, but traces of blood type 0.’

  Frost sniffed disdainfully. ‘That’s a coincidence — the victim was type 0.’ He peered suspiciously into his foil dish. ‘This looks like stomach contents.’ He sniffed. ‘Smells like it, too.’

  ‘Oh God, Jack,’ shuddered Wells, pushing his food away from him.

  Frost addressed the murder enquiry team. ‘Any joy from the neighbours?’

  ‘Most of them are in bed,’ Burton told him. ‘We’re going to have to go back first thing in the morning to catch the rest before they set off for work. Those we’ve spoken to hardly knew the old girl. She stayed in most of the time. No-one seemed aware of the string.’

  ‘And no-one saw anyone suspicious hanging about,’ added Jordan.

  ‘Suspicious?’ said Frost, pulling a piece of gristle from his mouth and flinging it in the vague vicinity of Mullett’s wastepaper bin. ‘This bastard isn’t going to mooch about looking suspicious. He won’t have a stocking mask on and a bleeding great knife poking out of his pocket. He’s going to be inconspicuous. I want to know about everyone who’s been seen going up and down the street — and that applies to the other two victims as well. I don’t care if it’s the road sweeper, the postman, doorstep piddlers or even a bleedin’ dog — I want to know. People, vans, cars, the lot. We can then start comparing — see if anyone’s been seen in all three streets.’

  ‘The computer…’ began Gilmore.

  ‘The computer’s a waste of time,’ cut in Frost. ‘I’m only going along with it to keep Hornrim Harry quiet. The only way to solve these cases is by good, solid detective work. By beating the hell out of some poor sod until he signs a fake confession.’

  Gilmore faked a smile. ‘It will be quicker with the computer, I promise you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Frost. ‘I’ll leave it to you.’

  ‘What about a search team for the murder weapon?’ asked Burton, wiping his mouth. ‘He could well have chucked it.’

  ‘Put a couple of men on it, but don’t waste too much time. My gut feeling is that the bastard has kept it — ready for next time.’

  The room went quiet. ‘Next time?’ said Wells.

  ‘Yes, Bill.’ He pushed the empty container away and fished out his cigarettes. ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling in my water that he’s going to kill again.’

  Mullett’s phone rang. A collective gasp and all eating stopped in mid-chew.

  ‘It’s all right,’ assured Wells, ‘I had the main phone switched through here.’

  Frost picked it up. ‘Mullett’s Dining Rooms,’ he said.

  Wells’ eyes bulged with alarm until he realized the inspector had his hand over the mouthpiece.

  The caller was a technician from Forensic reporting that he had extensively examined all the items removed from 46 Mannington Crescent, Denton and found nothing that would link them with the murder of Mrs Mary Haynes. As Frost listened he raised his eyes to the ceiling in despair. ‘Sod clearing the innocent — what about nailing the guilty for a change? I asked you to drop that and check on those two newspapers as a matter of priority. No, I don’t know who I spoke to. All right, all right.’ He banged the phone back on its rest. ‘He never got the message. Flaming Forensic. They’re about as bloody efficient as we are. They can’t start on the newspaper until tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, it is two o’clock in the morning,’ Wells reminded him.

  ‘Then I’m bloody going home,’ said Frost, not bothering to cover up a yawn. ‘I’ve had enough for today. The rest of you, go home too. Grab some sleep and be back here by six. You can pinch some men from the next shift and start knocking on doors before people go off to work.’

  ‘But Mr Mullett’s rota…’ began Wells.

  ‘Sod Mr Mullett’s rota. See you in the morning.’

  He looked in his office on the way out. His in-tray was overflowing. He tugged the top paper from his tray. It was PC Collier’s report on the dead body outside the refuse tip. He had almost forgotten about it. Natural causes — heart attack. Well, that was a relief. Clipped to the report was the SOC’s photograph of the dead man in situ, sharp, clear and full of graphic detail. He showed it to Gilmore.

  ‘I shall dream about that damn face tonight,’ moaned Gilmore as they walked out to the car.

  ‘I hope I don’t,’ said Frost. ‘I want to dream of Mrs Compton.’

  He did dream of Jill Compton. But she was eyeless and screaming and crawling with bloody-snouted rats. He woke up just before five in a cold sweat and couldn’t. get back to sleep again.

  Wednesday morning shift

  Police Superintendent Mullett stamped up the corridor to his office. He was angry. His sleep had been continually disturbed by calls from the media, and then from County, the Chief Press Officer, demanding his comments on a possible serial murderer in Denton, the brutal killer of three old ladies. When he had phoned the station to try to get some information from Frost; he was informed that, despite the rota, the inspector and his team had left for the night and calls to Frost’s home indicated that the phone had deliberate
ly been left off the hook. He finally managed to get the information required from Detective Sergeant Gilmore, but only after Gilmore’s wife had been extremely rude over the phone, asking why her husband was expected to be at everyone’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day.

  Scooping up a fearsome stack of mail from his absent secretary’s desk, he unlocked his office door, then paused, nose twitching, testing the air. What was that smell? A stale, rancid oniony aroma which reminded him of curry. He dumped the post in his in-tray and flung open the window. The curtains flapped wildly as the wind roared and drove in the rain. Below, in Eagle Lane, the noise of traffic was deafening. He hastily closed the window and returned to his desk where he reached for the internal phone to ask the station sergeant to come in with his morning report.

  While he waited he flicked through the post, shuddering at a photograph of a mutilated body found outside Denton rubbish tip, then frowning at the totally inadequate, scrawled report from Frost — Mrs Alice Ryder, victim of burglary assault, died in Denton Hospital — full report to follow. Mrs Betty Winters, aged 76, 15 Roman Rd Denton. Murder by stabbing — full report to follow. Mullett’s frown deepened. As he knew from bitter experience, Frost’s ‘further reports’ never materialized. The man’s paperwork was hopeless. Which reminded him, where were those car expenses? He rummaged through his tray but, as expected, they were not there.

  He looked up as Sergeant Johnson came in with the morning report and the mail from County. He greeted him with a smile. ‘Good to see you back, Sergeant. Are you fit?’

  ‘Well, actually, sir…’ began Johnson, who was starting to feel a trifle light-headed and was wondering if he hadn’t reported back to work too soon.

  ‘Excellent,’ cut in Mullett hastily. He didn’t want a catalogue of the man’s ailments. He’d had enough of moans from Sergeant Wells. ‘Manning level?’

  ‘Three men back from sick leave,’ Johnson reported, ‘but two more off — injured in that pub punch-up last night.’

  ‘First class,’ snapped Mullett, concerned only with the plus side of the arithmetic. ‘We’re winning, Sergeant.’ He smiled as he signed the report and blotted it neatly. ‘We’ll soon be back to normal.’

  ‘We’re going to be very thin on the ground today as far as normal duties are concerned,’ warned the sergeant. ‘Mr Frost has commandeered most of my men for house-to-house enquiries — another old lady stabbed to death last night.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mullett bitterly. ‘The press phoned me at three o’clock in the morning to tell me — and Mr Frost kindly scribbled a note for my in-tray.’ He held aloft the piece of paper. ‘County want us to tread very carefully with this one, Sergeant. A serial killer at large in Denton — could cause panic. It’s vital I see the inspector the minute he comes in.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Johnson, taking the signed report.

  The office door opened. Mullett hoped it was Frost, but it was his gum-chewing temporary secretary in a disturbing polo-necked sweater who wiggled in with the correspondence he had dictated yesterday. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, dumping the poorly typed, heavily corrected letters on his desk, ‘but we’ve run out of Snowpake. I had to buy some more. Oh — and this has just come.’ She dropped the Denton Echo in front of him.

  He snatched up the paper from her and stared goggle-eyed, mouth dropping with dismay at the screaming banner headlines. Town of Terror — Granny Ripper Claims Third Victim!!! Terror spread like wild-fire amongst the senior citizens of Denton today as news of yet another brutal murder… The phone rang. Still staring at the paper he groped for it. ‘Yes?’ he croaked. He jerked to attention. ‘Good morning, sir… Yes, I’ve just seen the paper.’ He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece and bellowed at Johnson, ‘Find Frost. I want him here, now!’

  To Johnson’s surprise, Frost was already in his office, a wad of blank petrol receipts in front of him which he was filling in with different coloured pens. Sitting in the other desk was the new detective sergeant, looking disgruntled and also scribbling out petrol receipts.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ greeted Frost. ‘Welcome back. We thought you were dying. We’ll have to send the bloody wreath back now.’ He indicated the withering floral tribute in his in-tray. ‘Talking of wreaths reminds me of a joke.’

  ‘Never mind jokes,’ said Johnson, ‘Mr Mullett wants to see you.’

  ‘Sod Mullett,’ said Frost. ‘There was this woman… He paused as DC Burton came in.

  ‘Got a minute, sir?’

  ‘Sure, son, but I’ve got a joke first. There was this woman.. ’ He paused again as Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon, nose red and sore, poked his head round the door.

  ‘Oh, if you’re busy, Jack…’

  ‘No come in, Arthur. I’ve got a joke for you.’

  Hanlon pulled a face. ‘If it’s the one about the man drinking the spittoon for a bet, you’ve told it to me.’

  ‘A different one,’ said Frost, beckoning him in. ‘It’s about the funeral of a woman who’s had fifteen kids.’ He frowned as the phone rang. Burton answered it.

  ‘Forensic for you, Inspector. They say it’s urgent.’

  ‘Everything’s bloody urgent!’ He took the phone and in a strangulated voice said, ‘Mr Frost will be with you in a moment.’ He pressed the mouthpiece to his jacket. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Fifteen kids,’ reminded Johnson, anxious to get the story over so Frost could report to Mullett.

  ‘Right. Funeral. Woman who’d had fifteen kids being buried. As the coffin’s being lowered down into the grave, the vicar turns to the husband and says, “Together at last!” The husband says, “What do you mean, together at last? I’m still alive.” “I wasn’t referring to you,” says the vicar. “I meant her legs.”

  Gilmore sat stone-faced as Frost’s raucous roar of mirth almost drowned the others. Old women butchered and the fool was cracking jokes! Frost raised the phone, poking his finger in his ear to shut out the laughter. ‘Hello. Frost here. Sorry, I can’t hear you. I think the Divisional Commander’s throwing a party.’ He flapped a hand for silence. ‘That’s better, I’ve shut the door. You were saying?’ He listened. ‘That’s bloody marvellous. Check it out and let me know.’ He hung up and beamed happily at Gilmore and Burton. ‘Those newspapers we sent to Forensic. Nothing on the Daily Telegraph, but when they shoved the Sun under the microscope, not only were the Page Three girl’s tits enormous, but they spotted tiny flakes of black paint and rust on the outside page.’

  ‘Black paint and rust?’ frowned Burton.

  ‘If our luck’s in, it’s from Greenway’s letter-box,’ explained Frost. ‘It could have rubbed off as the paper went in and out. Forensic are sneaking someone round to his house to check. If the paint matches, we’ve got the bastard.’ He rubbed his hands with delight and passed his cigarettes round.

  Johnson was getting fidgety. ‘Mr Mullett wants to see you, Jack.’

  ‘I’m not ready for him yet.’ He peeled off some blank petrol receipts. ‘Fill these in for me, Johnny. Disguise your writing. Six gallons, eight gallons and four gallons.’

  The sergeant’s pen flew over the receipts. ‘What crime am I committing?’

  ‘Forgery,’ said Frost, giving three blanks to Burton. ‘Disguise your handwriting, son. Two lots of eight gallons and one of six.’ He pushed two more blanks across to Arthur Hanlon. ‘Five gallons and seven gallons, Arthur — and blow your nose, it’s starting to drip.’

  ‘Just tell me what I’ve done,’ said Johnson, handing the completed receipts back.

  Frost collected the balance from Gilmore and Burton and riffled through them. ‘I lost all my receipts last month so I had to forge my car expenses. Some silly sod in County with nothing better to do spotted it. Mullett said I could get off the hook if I came up with the genuine ones.’ He waved the receipts. ‘These are them.’

  ‘But they’re still fakes,’ insisted Johnson.

  ‘But better fakes than the first lot. Besides, I didn’t have time to go round all th
e flaming petrol stations asking for copies.’ He turned to Hanlon. ‘What’s the latest on the house-to-house, Arthur?’

  Hanlon handed over his two receipts. ‘We’ve almost finished. The first of the results are going through the computer now.’

  ‘Anything significant?’ asked Gilmore.

  Hanlon shrugged. ‘One person thought they saw a blue van cruising down Roman Road late on the night of the murder, another saw a strange red car. I’ll check them out.’

  After Hanlon squeezed out of the office, Frost remembered that Burton was still patiently waiting. ‘Sorry, son, I forgot about you. What was it?’

  ‘I’ve been checking all the florists about that wreath, sir. I traced the shop and found out who ordered it.’

  Frost had to readjust his thoughts back to the Compton business. ‘Who?’ But before Burton could answer, Gilmore had leapt from his chair and was glowering angrily at the detective constable.

  ‘This is my case, Burton,’ he hissed. ‘You report to me, not to the inspector.’ He was in a lousy mood. Liz had been insufferably rude to the Divisional Commander when he’d phoned last night. Mullett was furious and it was pretty clear that his promotional chances were fast gurgling down the drain. How the hell could he report Frost’s misdemeanours when the inspector involved him in them all… eating in Mullett’s office, forging petrol vouchers. And now this cretin of a detective constable was going over his head.

  Burton, taken aback by Gilmore’s outburst, looked from the sergeant to the inspector.

  ‘My fault,’ said Frost. ‘The sergeant is quite right. It is his case.’

  ‘So who ordered the damn thing?’ asked Gilmore, returning to his chair,

  Burton flipped open his notebook. ‘Mr Wilfred Blagden, 116 Merchants Barton, Denton.’

  Gilmore smiled sarcastically. ‘I suppose if I wait long enough you’ll tell me who he is?’

  The constable hesitated before deciding that the pleasure of smashing Gilmore’s face in was marginally outweighed by the need to retain his job.