Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  "Are you Mr. Kirby? asked Frost.

  "No, I'm damn well not. I'm her boyfriend. That kid's ruined our bloody evening."

  The boyfriend! Shit, thought Frost. He was hoping it was the father so he would only have to break the bad news once. "Let's go inside."

  They were taken into the lounge where the mother dropped into an armchair and grabbed at a table lighter. She had difficulty lighting her cigarette. Frost leant over and lit it for her. Burton stood by the door, watching, feeling superfluous.

  "It's bad news, isn't it?" said the mother. "I know it's bad news."

  "You're always bloody negative," said the boyfriend. "Always looking on the black side. Be bloody positive for a change."

  That's right, thought Frost. Raise the poor cow's hopes so I can smash them down again. He took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled. He couldn't put it off any longer. "Mrs. Kirby . . ." he began.

  The woman had taken a framed picture from the side table and was holding it to her chest, rocking slowly from side to side. Frost paused. "Is that Bobby?"

  She nodded.

  He held out his hand. "Could I see it?"

  She handed it to him. A school photograph. A freckle-faced boy with light brown hair grinning shyly at the camera. "Taken last week," she said.

  Frost studied it, then handed it to Burton.

  Burton raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  It wasn't the dead boy.

  Chapter 2

  "We haven't found your son yet, Mrs. Kirby," said Frost, 'but we might have found his guy."

  "Oh - bloody marvelous," said the boyfriend. "Bring the guy home, put it to bed and that's the end of it."

  "Why don't you shut your mouth?" said Mrs. Kirby. "It was your bloody idea we should go to the pub."

  "You didn't try to talk me out of it, did you? I hadn't finished suggesting it before you had your hat and your bloody coat on and were half-way up the street."

  Frost stretched out his arms like a referee parting two boxers. "Can you save the squabbling till later? We're very concerned about your son, Mrs. Kirby, and we want to find him as quickly as possible. Now, his guy - white and green plastic zip-up jacket?"

  She nodded. "Bobby's old one - he'd grown out of it."

  "And the mask - Guy Fawkes with a green face?"

  "Yes."

  "We found it in a shop doorway in Patriot Street. Would Bobby have gone there with his guy?"

  "I wouldn't have thought so. No-one goes through there at night. He was after money. He usually hangs about around pubs and bus stops."

  "Tell me exactly what happened tonight."

  "We've already told it once," said the boyfriend.

  "And now you are going to tell it again," snapped Frost, 'and if I want you to tell it twenty bloody times, you'll tell it twenty bloody times. What's your name, by the way?"

  "Green - Terry Green."

  Frost waited while Burton noted this down, then turned to the mother. "What happened tonight, Mrs. Kirby?"

  "Bobby had his tea at five and then he wanted to go out with his guy. I said no. It was too dark and there's been this weirdo out at night stabbing kids."

  Frost nodded vaguely. This must be the case Liz Maud was rabbiting on about. "And how did Bobby take it?"

  "He swore at me."

  "Don't know where the little bastard gets it from," said the man. "Anyway, I gave him a clout, so he swears at me - said I wasn't his bloody father and I said I was bloody glad I wasn't otherwise I'd have strangled him at birth '

  "OK," said Frost, cutting him short, 'spare us the happy families stuff." Back to the woman. "What happened then?"

  "Bobby sat and sulked in front of the telly. Just after seven, Terry suggested we went out for a quick drink. I told Bobby that as soon as his programme finished he was to go straight to bed. Me and Terry went out and were back just after ten. I went upstairs to check Bobby was all right - and he wasn't there."

  "Little sod - just did it to spite us," said Green.

  "Did the officers who came earlier do a search of the house? Sometimes kids hide, just for the fun of it."

  "They turned the place upside down. He isn't here. We've been out pounding the streets, looking for him. We've been round to all his friends' houses and they haven't seen him!"

  His friends. Could one of them be the dead boy? "None of his friends were missing, I suppose?"

  She looked puzzled. "No - we spoke to them all."

  "I see. And you've absolutely no idea where Bobby might be?"

  "I know where he is," said Green. "He's round his bloody father's moaning about us."

  "If he was there, Harry would have phoned," said the woman.

  "Hold on," said Frost. "The father - he lives locally?"

  "He lives in Dane Street with his slag Chinese girl."

  "Suzie bloody Wong," added Green.

  "Are you telling me the father lives in Denton and you haven't checked to see if your son is with him?"

  "If Bobby was with him, he'd phone me."

  "And you haven't told him Bobby's missing?"

  "If he knew we'd left Bobby in the house on his own while we went to the pub, he'd come round and cause trouble. He's already threatened to smash Terry's face in."

  What better reason to go round and see him, thought Frost.

  Outside, in the car, he radioed through to Liz Maud to tell her that the dead boy wasn't Bobby Kirby and that the search for him should continue. "If we don't find him tonight, get Bill Wells to organize a search team for the morning. We'll have to pull men in off their rest days - tell him to clear it with Mullett."

  "Right," she said.

  "Circulate all forces with a description of the dead kid. Ask if anyone has reported him missing."

  "Right."

  "Anything you can't manage, let me know."

  "There's nothing I can't manage," she snapped. "Over and out."

  "What do you reckon to Ms Maud?" asked Burton, as he tried to get the engine of Frost's car to cough into life.

  "Maud can come into my garden any time she likes," said Frost. "Hooray!" This because the engine suddenly belched and fired and they were away. "Put your foot down, son. I can't wait to see what this Chinese slag girlfriend looks like. Oriental nookie turns me on."

  "Oriental women are old and wizened at thirteen," said Burton.

  "Then let's hope she's only eleven," said Frost.

  The house looked promising. Gone midnight, but lights were on downstairs. Burton thumbed the door bell and after a short while a woman's voice called, "Yes?"

  "Police," said Burton. The door opened on a chain and he pushed his warrant card through the gap. "I wonder if we can have a word?"

  The door opened. She was a stunner. A Chinese girl in her late teens, a doll's face and shiny black hair flowing loosely down her back. She had just showered and she glowed, squeaky clean and wholesome, in a white to welling bathrobe. She smelled of Johnson's baby powder. Her name was Koo Chen, a nurse at Denton Hospital, and she was getting ready for night duty. "How can I help you?"

  Bloody easily, thought Frost, but he let Burton do the talking. "Is Bobby here?" Burton asked as she led them through to a tiny kitchen, everything spotless and gleaming.

  "Bobby?" A flicker of concern darkened her face. "Bobby is with his mother."

  "Could we speak to his father - Mr. Harry Kirby?"

  "He asleep. But I fetch."

  Harry Kirby was thickset with tight fair curly hair. Some six feet tall, he towered over the tiny nurse who looked up to him with obvious pride. Straight from bed, he had pulled on a pair of jeans and a grey sweater. "What's this about Bobby?"

  "Is he here, Mr. Kirby?" said Burton.

  "Here? Why should he be here?" He glared at Frost. "What's happened?"

  "He's gone missing, Mr. Kirby," said Frost.

  Kirby listened, mouth agape with incredulity, anger reddening his face as Frost told him what had happened.

  "That cow left my seven-year-old son alone in the
house while she and that dickhead went to the pub?" He looked down at the nurse. "Shoes!" he commanded.

  Her eyes widened in alarm. "Where you go?"

  "Round to see that cow and her ponce of a boyfriend and smash their faces in."

  She thrust out her chin. "No - you stay here."

  "He's not your son - he's mine. Get those shoes!"

  "Hold it," said Frost wearily, his head aching from all the squabbling. "No-one's going anywhere. We're going to search the house."

  Kirby stared open-mouthed at Frost. "You think he's here? You think I'm hiding my own son in my girlfriend's house? Where is he - behind the attic wall like Anne flaming Frank?"

  "He's missing," explained Frost patiently. "We don't know where he is. He might have sneaked in without you knowing. So, for everyone's peace of mind, we're going to do a search." The father went to follow them, but Frost jabbed a finger directing him back to the kitchen. "Stay here, please."

  Burton checked the ground floor while Frost went up the stairs. First he checked the bathroom. Nowhere a child could hide, or be hidden. Just a wash-basin and a shower. A tin of Johnson's baby powder stood on the window ledge and the nurse's tiny damp footprints showed on the carpet tiles. Next to it was the spare bedroom, not much more than a box room with a single bed and a small, white-painted chest of drawers. Opposite this was the nurse's bedroom, clean, neat and small like the nurse herself. It was just big enough to hold a double bed, jammed tight against the wall to save space, and a dressing-table. In the corner a built-in cupboard. Frost pulled the door open. Men's and women's clothes swinging hangers, a stack of ironing on the shelf and two empty suitcases. He knelt and looked under the bed. Something yellow and wispy was on the floor. A very short, skimpy nightdress with a heady perfume that was not Johnson's baby powder. The thought of slipping into that double bed with the soft, compliant little nurse made Frost almost forget what he was there for and he jerked round guiltily as Burton came into the room.

  "Nothing downstairs," reported Burton.

  "Nor up here," said Frost, 'apart from this!" He held up the nightdress. "The naughty nurse's nightie . . . Cor, I bet her little bottom pokes out from under that like a couple of honeydew melons."

  Burton grinned. The joy of working with Frost was that he never let the circumstances of the case he was working on get him down.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Kirby was pulling on a thick duffle coat, anxiously watched by the nurse.

  "I come with you," she announced. She had a slight lisp which Frost was finding disconcertingly stimulating.

  "No," snapped Kirby. "You get on to the hospital. You could well have two more patients in Emergency, by the time I've finished with them."

  "Go to bed and save your bloody energy," said Frost. "If we don't find Bobby tonight, we'll be organizing a search party first thing in the morning and we're going to need all the help we can get, which means you and dickhead."

  As they stepped out into the street they could hear the car radio pleading for them to answer. "Can you get over to the mortuary, inspector. The pathologist wants to see you urgently."

  The mortuary, a sombre-looking Victorian single-storey building, was situated in the grounds of Denton Hospital. Burton parked alongside the Rolls-Royce, which gleamed and sneered at Frost's mud-stained Ford. "Looks like a bloody hearse," sniffed Frost. There were other cars, a dark blue Audi which Frost recognized as belonging to Evans, the Scene of Crime officer, and the Vauxhall belonging to Harding from Forensic.

  Most of the autopsy room was in darkness, but strong lights glared down at one of the tables where a gowned Drysdale, a green waterproof apron round his waist, beckoned the inspector over. Behind Drysdale, notebook in hand, was his ever faithful secretary. Drysdale preferred to dictate his notes rather than use cassette recorders which had let him down on more than one occasion. Evans, also' wearing a green mortuary overall, hovered in the background with his camera. Alongside Evans, similarly gowned, was Harding from Forensic.

  The tiny corpse of the boy seemed lost on the large autopsy table.

  "I want you to see this," said Drysdale. He bent over and carefully lifted the boy's right hand, the hand that had been covered by the white plastic bag.

  Frost stared and his mouth sagged open. Behind him, Burton gasped. Where the boy's little finger should have been was now a bloodied stump. The finger had been hacked off just above the knuckle. Very gently, he took the cold, waxen hand from Drysdale to study it closer.

  "A clean cut," said Drysdale, almost with a note of admiration at the craftsmanship. "I imagine a sharp blade was rested on the finger, then hit with something heavy. A single blow was sufficient. The wound was then doused with disinfectant, wrapped in cotton wool and strapped with sticking plaster. The bag was put on, I imagine, in case any blood leaked out."

  "Was it done before, or after, death?"

  "Definitely before."

  "Poor little bastard! "said Frost.

  "I doubt if he knew anything about it. I imagine that was why he was chloroformed."

  "Would it have required some degree of surgical skill to sever the finger?" said Burton, peering over Frost's shoulder.

  "No," said Drysdale. "Just a high degree of callousness."

  "So a nurse could have done it?" suggested Frost.

  Drysdale frowned. "Anyone could have done it . . . a nurse, a plumber, a television repair man."

  "Would there have been much blood, doc?"

  Drysdale pursed his lips and shook his head. "Very little. You would get more blood cutting yourself shaving." He nodded to his secretary who flipped over her notebook. "Let's get on." He glanced up at the clock. "Examination of the body of Robert Kirby commenced at 1.57," he dictated.

  "Oh!" interrupted Frost. "Sorry, doc - should have told you. This isn't Bobby. We don't know who he is."

  Drysdale glowered, his lips tight. "Thank you for sharing that information, inspector. I find these little details rather important." As he turned back to the table, Frost thumbed his nose at him.

  Very slowly, Drysdale inspected the body, lifting the hands to examine the fingernails, searching for cuts, abrasions, any marks of injury. He raised the head and his fingers explored the scalp.

  "If you could hurry it up, doc," urged Frost. "We don't know who the poor little sod is yet, and we want to get photographs off to the media."

  Ignoring him, Drysdale dictated his findings to his secretary. "Little finger of right hand severed, but no other signs of external injuries." He bent over the face. "Vomit exuding from nose." He took samples and passed them over to Harding. "Mouth and eyes covered with brown plastic masking tape approximately 50mm wide." He moved to one side. "You may remove the tape now."

  Harding carefully eased it off with tweezers, first from the eyes, then the mouth. A sour smell of vomit and chloroform. The boy's mouth, distorted by the tape, had been frozen into a grotesque teeth-baring grin. The flash gun crackled and the film-winding motor whirred as Evans took pictures.

  Drysdale studied the area around the lips and nostrils, pointing out where small fibres of cotton wool still adhered. He tweeze red them off and passed them over to Harding. "The anaesthetic was poured on a pad of cotton wool and clamped over the mouth, causing a slight burning of the flesh . . . here . . . and here." He forced open the uiouth and shone a small pen torch inside. "Particles of undigested food and vomit . . . looks like ground meat, onion . . ." Then he tweeze red out a piece of sodden cloth and held it aloft before dropping it into the large glass container Harding was holding out for him. "The gag," he announced. Then, with agonizing slowness, he extracted more samples from the mouth and nose.

  "Any sign of sexual interference, doc?" asked Frost impatiently.

  "I'll jtell you when I'm ready," murmured Drysdale, 'and not before." He then proceeded to work even more slowly.

  Frost sighed. The man was a bastard. He wandered off to a side room and helped himself to a mug of coffee from a thermos he found on the table. He had no w
ish to see the body opened and the organs removed and weighed. All he wanted was the findings. He sipped the coffee and smoked and tried to think of anything he should have done, but hadn't. He poured another mug of coffee, then wandered back to the autopsy room. The pathologist had finished and was washing his hands at the sink, while the mortuary attendant was busily suturing the gaping wounds. "Brief findings, doc?" He stressed the 'brief. Drysdale was inclined to be long-winded.

  Drysdale tugged at the automatic towel dispenser. "No sign of sexual assault. If that was the intention, then it wasn't carried out."

  "Good," nodded Frost, although this meant there was no way of knowing if they were looking for a sex attacker or not.

  "His last meal was a proprietary hamburger - sesame seed bread roll, ground beef, onion rings - eaten very shortly before death."

  "How shortly?" Frost asked.

  "Half an hour at the most."

  Frost thought this over as he tried to rub some life intc his cheek. It was freezing cold in the autopsy room and his scar was starting to ache. The kid had a hamburger half an hour before he died. They'd have to check all the likely places - McDonald's, Burger King - in the hope someone might remember serving him amongst their hundreds of other customers . . . You're bound to remember him, he bought a hamburger! A forlorn, bloody hope, he knew.

  "There's a very faint mark around the hair-line," said Drysdale, leading him back to the body. "You can hardly see it." He slipped a finger under the hair to lift it and showed Frost what he meant . . . a barely perceptible white mark, just under an eighth of an inch wide, running across the forehead.

  "What do you make of it, doc?"

  "Something elasticated pulled over the hair. My secretary suggested a shower cap." He nodded to the woman, who blushed and went back to writing out labels for the specimen jars.

  "A shower cap?"

  "Doesn't make much sense, but something like that. You'll get my fuller report in the morning."