A Touch of Frost
( DI Jack Frost - 2 )
R. D. Wingfield
R. D. Wingfield
A Touch of Frost
Tuesday Night Shift (1)
A cold, clear autumn night with a sharp wind shaking trees. The man in the shadows was trembling. The pa of his rubber-gloved hands were moist, and warm sv trickled down his face under the mask. Soon he would able to see her. To touch her. She wouldn’t see him, in the black of the moon shadow. She wouldn’t know was there until it was too late.
At first he thought it was a police trap. A girl, a young girl, in school uniform, walking all alone in Denton Wo at eleven o’clock at night. But how could the police know he’d be here? The other attacks had taken place miles away. And how could the police know it was the re young girls who turned him on. The police knew nothing. He was too smart for them. Far too smart. They] questioned him. They had cleared him. They had thanked him for his co-operation.
Even so, he hadn’t taken any chances. Only fools took chances. As always, he had carefully reconnoitred area. Nothing. Nobody. For miles around there was one but him, and the girl. The girl! In that school uniform. Wearing those dark thick stockings. She could be much more than fifteen… a schoolgirl, young and innocent, unaware of her developing body… just like girl in the book, the book he had hidden away in bedroom.
What was that?
He stood stock still, ears straining, his heartbeats booming in the screaming silence. He had heard something.
Something moving. He tensed, ready to tear off the mask and run. It was only the mask that could give him away. Without it the police had nothing. No leads, no clues, nothing. Even if they brought him face to face with his victims, they couldn’t identify him. The first they knew of his presence was the sudden suffocating blackness as the cloth went over their heads, and then the pressure of his fingers on their throats, squeezing, choking. One of the girls… the second, or was it the third?… had managed to tear the cloth from her face. But all she saw of him, before his fists pounded her into unconsciousness, was the mask. The black hood that completely covered his hair, his face, his neck. The newspapers had dubbed him the “Hooded Terror’. Tomorrow’s headlines would read “Hooded Terror Strikes Again. Schoolgirl Latest Victim’. He liked reading about himself in the papers. It made him feel important.
He slid deeper back into the shadows, his body tensed, his ears tuned. The sound again. A rustling, a snapping of twigs. His hand crept up to the mask as he listened, trying to make out what it was. Then a snuffling and grunting as something blundered through the undergrowth. Something small. An animal of some kind. A badger, perhaps, but definitely not human. He relaxed and eased forward. He could smell his own sweat, his excitement. Soon he would hear her.
Such a shame he would have to hurt this one. She was so young, so innocent. How wonderful if she submitted without protest, her eyes wide open and wondering. At first terrified, but gradually, as she experienced the new delights, the unbelievable sensations he was offering, she moaned, as if in pain, gasping with pleasure, drawing him on… the way the girl in his book reacted the very first time it happened to her. She was a schoolgirl, too.
His ear caught another sound. The dry whisper of fallen leaves on the narrow path scuffed by quick, nervous footsteps.
It was her. The girl. Again he held his breath. Stood stock still and tensed…
Ready to spring.
Police Constable David Shelby, twenty-five, married with two young children, shivered and stamped his feet as the wind, cutting down the deserted back street, found an empty lager can and rattled it across the cobbled road. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes past eleven. He wondered who the station would send, hoping it wouldn’t be Detective Inspector Allen; but whoever it was, he wished he would come soon. He had far better things to do tonight than stand guard over a dead body.
Above his head an enamel sign, hanging from a wrought-iron frame like a gibbeted body, creaked as it swung to and fro in the wind. The wording on the sign read Gentlemen, with an arrow pointing downwards. Behind Shelby a broken metal grille sagged, no longer fit to perform its function of denying entry to the worn, brass-edged stone steps which descended to the dank darkness of the underground public convenience, built by the Works Department of Denton Borough Council in 1897 to commemorate the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria.
The sound of a car approaching. Headlights flared as a mud-splattered, dark blue Ford Cortina rumbled over the cobbles, coming to an uncertain halt behind Shelby’s patrol car. The door opened and a scruffy-looking individual wearing a dirty mac draped with an equally dirty maroon scarf, clambered out. In his late forties, he had a weather-beaten face flecked with freckles, his balding head fringed with light-brown fluffy hair. Shelby smiled, relieved that the station had sent the easygoing Detective Inspector Frost and not that sarcastic swine Allen, who treated the uniformed branch with contempt and who was bound to ask some probing questions. It would be a lot easier with Jack Frost.
The wind found the lager can again and dribbled it across to the inspector, who gave a mighty kick and sent it flying through the air, past Shelby’s ear, to rattle and bounce down the toilet steps.
“Goall’ yelled Frost, ambling over.
Shelby grinned and swung his torch beam toward the depths. “Shall we go down, sir?” He was anxious to get this over, but Frost was in no hurry.
“What’s the rush, son? If he’s dead, he’ll wait for us. Besides, I’ve got my best suit on and I don’t want to mess it up sooner than I have to.” He opened his mac to reveal a ne wish-looking, blue pinstriped suit with a fairly respectable crease to the trousers. It was the retirement party tonight. Police Inspector George Harrison was leaving the force after twenty-eight years in Demon, and the division was throwing a big farewell thrash for him in the station canteen. Although officially on duty, Frost had set his heart on attending and was going to take the first presented opportunity to sneak up there. Which was why his old blue-striped wedding suit had been pa rolled from its moth-balled prison. He could have done without Shelby’s newfound efficiency in finding this lousy dead body.
Frost fished a battered packet from his mac pocket and worried out a cigarette. “You’d better fill me in with some facts. How did you find him, and why the hell didn’t you pretend you hadn’t seen anything and leave him for the morning shift?”
“Well, sir, I was driving past on watch when I noticed the metal grille across the stairs had been forced back…”
“Hold on,” said Frost. “You know what a slow old sod I am. What were you doing driving down this bloody back street at this time of night?”
“It’s part of my beat, sir,” protested the constable, looking hurt. “It has to be covered.”
“Highly commendable,” sniffed Frost, spitting out a shred of tobacco, ‘but next time there’s a party, stick to the main roads. And speed it up, son. The beer’s going to run out before you reach the punchline.”
“Well, sir, I stopped the car, got out, and checked the grille.” He directed his torch toward the sagging grille and they both moved forward to examine it. “As you can see, the padlock has been forced.” Frost gave the padlock the briefest of glances and stared pointedly at his wristwatch. Taking the hint, Shelby speeded up his narrative. “As you know, sir, these toilets are locked up at eight o’clock.”
“I didn’t know,” grunted Frost. “I always pee in shop doorways.”
“Anyway, sir,” continued Shelby doggedly, “I thought I’d better investigate.”
Frost snorted. “Investigate what? Illicit peeing after hours?”
“There’s plenty of copper and lead piping down there, Inspector,” Shelby pointed out. “They could ha
ve been after that.”
“Sorry, son,” Frost apologized, ‘you’re quite right. Carry on. I’ll try and keep my big mouth shut.”
“Not much more to tell, sir. Iwent down and found this tramp sprawled on the floor. As far as I could tell, he was dead. Dr. Cadman only lives round the corner, so I nipped round and brought him back.”
The inspector dragged on his cigarette. “Pity you didn’t just call an ambulance and let the hospital take over.”
“He might not have been dead, sir. The doctor would have been quicker.”
Frost nodded gloomily and said, “You’re right again, son. Pity you have to be so bloody right on the night of the big booze-up. What did the quack say?”
“Doctor Cadman found damage and bleeding at the base of the skull. He reckoned death was caused by a blow to the head.”
Frost stared moodily into the darkness. He knew Dr. Cadman. Knew him well. Cadman had been his wife’s doctor. It was Cadman who had diagnosed stomach pains as mere indigestion and kept prescribing the white peppermint mixture until the unbearable pains drove her to hospital. “An old tramp, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve seen him knocking around the district, but I don’t know his name.”
“I suppose we can’t put the evil moment off.” Frost pinched out his cigarette and stuffed the butt back into the packet. “Let’s get inside before people think you’re trying to pick me up.”
One hand gripping the brass handrail, he followed Shelby’s torch cautiously down stone steps worn concave in the middle from the traffic of thousands of hurrying feet. The echoing, monotonous plopping sound of dripping water grew louder.
“Do you know which police surgeon they’re sending us?”
“Dr. Slomon, sir. Mind that step… it’s a bit dodgy.”
“Slomon!” exclaimed Frost. “That snotty-nosed little bastard? He’ll want everything done by the book. I reckon I can kiss the party goodbye.” He moved his foot down to the next step only to give a startled yell as something cold and wet leaped up and licked its way inside his shoe. “Flaming hell, Shelby, it’s awash down here. You might have bloody warned me.”
“It wasn’t as bad as this before,” said Shelby. The reflections from his torch beam danced in the rippling water which lapped at the bottom step. “One of the cisterns is overflowing and the body’s blocking the drain.”
“This gets better and better,” the inspector observed bitterly. “So where is he?”
Shelby swung his torch and illuminated a sodden shape huddled in one corner. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to get our feet wet, sir.”
They splashed over, the water finding holes in Frost’s shoes he never knew existed and reminding him of the pair of Wellington boots lying idle on the back seat of his car. The heap in the corner looked like a mess of wet rags, but the light of the torch revealed it to be a man. A dead man. He lay on his back in the flooded guttering of the urinal stalls, his long, matted hair bobbing in the rising water, wide-open, sightless eyes staring unflinchingly into the burning glare of the torch. The mouth was agape and dribbling, the beard and ragged overcoat filthy with vomit that stank of stale, cheap wine. The body of a derelict, a tramp who had crawled into some dark corner to die.
Frost stared at the tired, worn-out face, a face long unwashed, grimed and greasy with dirt. “Good God, it’s Ben Cornish!”
“You know him, sir?” Shelby asked.
“I know him,” Frost replied grimly. “And so would you bloody know him, Constable, if you spent more time on your job and less on looking for crumpet.”
In the dark, Shelby flushed. He believed his woman ising was a well-kept secret, but nothing seemed to escape the seemingly unobservant Frost.
“He may look a bloody old man, Shelby, but he’s not much older than you.” The inspector bent down, his hand slipping under the water to the back of the head, his fingers exploring and finding the sticky section where the skull moved under pressure. “He’s been living rough ever since his family chucked him out a couple of years back. He started out as a wino cheap booze laced with me ths or surgical spirit then he progressed to heroin.”
“Heroin!” exclaimed Shelby, his torch beam slowly creeping over the emaciated figure at his feet. “That’s an expensive habit.”
“Well, by the look of him,” observed Frost, “I doubt if he wasted money on nonessentials like soap and food. He used to be a lovely kid. A cheeky little sod. Look at him now!” He prodded the body with his foot, then turned away. A match flared as he relit the butt. “I suppose you haven’t been through his pockets?”
“Not yet,” the constable admitted. “He’s a bit messy.”
“Well, he’s not going to get any bloody cleaner floating in pee, is he?
Is there any way to stop this damn water rising? It’s up to my ankles.
I feel like a passenger on the Titanic.”
Shelby paddled over to the far end of the fetid room leaving Frost in the dark. “I think it’s this one over here sir.”
“Don’t give me a running commentary, son. Just fix it.”
Shelby’s torch beam bobbed, then pointed upward to spotlight a cast-iron cistern tank which was meant to flush the urinal stalls at regular, hygienic intervals. It was brim-full, and water was cascading over the sides and down the wall. Shelby reached up and plunged his hand inside the tank. He jiggled the ball cock up and down a couple of times, and suddenly the cistern gulped, emptied itself, then filled up and cut off. Satisfied, She splashed back to Frost.
“That’s done it, sir. If we can shift the body it should unblock the drain and let the water flow away.”
“Better not move him, son. You know what a fussy little creep this police surgeon is. And see if you can’t find a light switch. Slomon’s bound to moan about the dark.” He sneaked a look at his watch. How much longer before he could get to the party? Where was bloody Slomon?
His question was answered by a clatter of footsteps from the top of the stairs and a peevish voice that inquired, “Anyone down there?”
Shelby’s torch guided the newcomer down. Dr. Slomon, a short, fat, self-important individual wearing an expensive-looking camel-haired overcoat, peered distastefully into the murk as Frost waded over. “Inspector Frost! I might have guessed. Somehow one associates you with places like this.” His overcoat was unbuttoned, and beneath it Frost could see a bow tie, and a smart black evening dress suit.
“You needn’t have got tar ted up just to come down here Doc. Any old suit would have done.”
Slomon smiled sourly. “If you must know, I was on my way to Inspector Harrison’s retirement party when I got this call. I hope it’s not going to take long.”
“So do I,” said Frost. “Hold on a tick, we’re trying to find the light switches.”
At first there didn’t seem to be any way of turning on the lights, but eventually the beam of the torch followed the wiring down until it disappeared inside a small wooden cupboard on which was stencilled Switches — Keep Locked. In obedience to this request, the cupboard door had been secured with an enormous brass only just popped up to the surface. I grabbed his arms to pull him out… and his bloody arms came off. I was left holding the damn things while he sank to the bottom again.” Both Shelby and Slomon winced at this choice tidbit of reminiscence.
“Will this do, Doc?” asked Frost, dumping the body at the foot of the stairs and shaking his sleeves where water had run up his arm.
Nodding curtly, Slomon bent forward, looked at the face with disgust, then moved the head forward so he could examine the base of the skull with probing fingers. It was a brief examination. “As I thought,” he said, treating the inspector to a self-satisfied smirk, ‘the head injury was not the cause of death and was not the result of a blow. The damage probably resulted from his head colliding with the stone flooring when he fell.” He looked around, then pointed to something glinting on the floor, by the wall. “Something you missed, Inspector. Fortunately I keep my eyes open whenever I do an
examination.”
Frost swore softly as Shelby retrieved a broken wine bottle from the gully. There was no way they could have seen it earlier, as the dirty water had completely covered it.
Stretching out a hand, Slomon received the bottle from the constable and cautiously raised it to his nose. A delicate sniff, followed by a smug nod of satisfaction at his own cleverness. “Wine laced with industrial alcohol, a potent combination.” He handed the bottle to Frost for confirmation. Frost took his word for it and passed it to the constable. “He drank himself senseless, then fell,” continued Slomon dogmatically. “Then he choked on his own vomit. I’ll arrange for the hospital to carry out a post-mortem first thing tomorrow, but they will only confirm my diagnosis.” He consulted his watch. “The party calls. I’ll leave the tidying up to you.” With a curt nod he was up the steps and out into the clean night air.
“I wish they were doing a post-mortem on you, you bastard,” Frost muttered. He again looked around his unsavoury surroundings. Why was something nagging away? Why was that little bell at the back of his head ringing insistently, warning him something was wrong? He looked around again, slowly this time. But it was no good whatever it was, it wasn’t going to show itself. And why was he worrying? Death was from natural causes, and he had the party to go to.
“Do we know his next of kin, sir?” asked Shelby, his notebook open.
“His mother and brother live in Denton,” Frost told him. “The station will have their address.”
“Someone’s going to have to break the news to them, sir.” Shelby paused and looked hopefully at the inspector. “I’m not very good at it.”
Frost sighed. Why did he always fall for the nasty jobs? How do you tell a mother her eldest son had choked to death on his own vomit down a public convenience? He took one last look at the dripping heap of death sprawled at his feet and shook his head reproachfully. “Ben Cornish, you stupid bastard!” The open eyes of the corpse looked right through him.
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