Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  ‘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.

  ‘All right, Shelby. I’ll break the news to his old lady. You arrange for the meat wagon to take him to the morgue, and wait here until it arrives. I don’t want any late-night revellers peeing all over the body.’

  He trotted up the steps to the street, Shelby, who wasn’t going to be left alone with the body, following hard on his heels. At ground level the wind was still prowling the streets. Frost took a deep breath. ‘Doesn’t fresh air have a funny smell?’ He looked up and down the empty street. Or was it empty? He thought he saw something move down by the back entrance to one of the Market Square shops. As if some one had ducked into a doorway to avoid being seen. He caught a quick glimpse of the expression on Shelby’s face. The constable had seen the movement, too, but he was making a determined effort to keep his face passive. Strange, thought Frost. Very strange. He wondered what Shelby was up to . . . but if he was going to get to the party before the beer ran out . . .

  With a wave to the constable, he climbed back into his car. As he settled down in the driving seat, his sodden trouser legs flapped clammily around his ankles, and he felt the cold squelch of his wet socks as he pressed his feet on the pedals. On the back seat, unused and bone dry, his Wellington boots sat on top of a yellowing back number of the Daily Mirror.

  He reversed, only hitting the kerb once. As he drove past the red-brick building with the creaking enamel sign, he realized he couldn’t see the broken metal grille. It was halfway down the stairs and completely out of sight from the road. Yet Shelby said he had spotted it from his car. It vaguely worried him, but there was probably a logical explanation which could wait, whereas the party couldn’t. The dull boom of the disco belting out full blast from the station canteen was waiting to meet him as he turned into Market Square.

  She was nervous. The moon, a diamond-hard white disc in the starless sky, made the path as bright as day but buried the bushes in deep shadow. She had an uneasy, nagging feeling of danger. Of someone lurking. She felt in her pocket, and her hand closed reassuringly over the nail file. Not much of a weapon, but just let anyone try anything and she’d use it like a knife.

  But she didn’t have a chance to use it. He was too quick for her. A slight rustling noise from behind her, and, even as she was turning, the cloth blacked out the moon, the stars. She opened her mouth to scream, but choking hands squeezed and squeezed.

  Inside her head she was screaming, loudly, deafeningly. But only she could hear.

  Tuesday night shift (2)

  Police Sergeant Bill Wells, sad-faced and balding, raised his head to the ceiling where all the noise was coming from and bared his teeth in anger. Upstairs, that was where he should be. Up there, enjoying himself, instead of being stuck down here as station sergeant, trying to cope with the running of the district with hopelessly inadequate numbers of staff.

  He was one of the few members of the Denton Division forced to be on duty on this special night, the night of the big party. And what was unfair was that he should have been up there. Today should have been his day off. But at the very last minute, for his own peculiar reasons, the Divisional Commander had revised the duty roster, so now Wells was on duty, as was Jack Frost. This didn’t worry Jack Frost, as he intended to sneak upstairs whatever the rosters said. You could get away with it in plainclothes but not if, like Sergeant Wells, you were wearing a uniform. There was no justice.

  The skeleton duty force could only cope if the night was almost incident-free. Indeed, all duty men had been instructed not to look for trouble, to walk away from it if it crept up, and to turn a blind eye to all minor offences. But already things had started to heat up with the discovery of a dead body down a public convenience, and it was a well-known fact that shifts that started badly almost always ended badly.

  And the damn phone, ringing almost nonstop, wasn’t helping; the calls were usually from members of the public complaining about the noise. It was so unfair. The people upstairs were having all the fun and he was having to cope with all the complaints.

  The phone rang again. He snatched it up and blocked his free ear with his finger to try and drown out that monkey music from above.

  ‘Would you mind repeating that, madam? I’m afraid I can’t hear you.’

  The woman caller was gabbling away excitedly, but even with the phone pressed so tightly against his ear it hurt, he couldn’t make out what she was agitated about.

  ‘Would you mind holding on for a moment, madam?’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and relieved the steam pressure of his myriad grievances by yelling at young Police Constable Collier, who was painstakingly hacking out a report on the antique Underwood typewriter. ‘Do something useful for a change, Collier. Get upstairs and tell those drunken layabouts to keep the row down. Some of us are trying to work.’

  But before Collier could move, the lobby doors parted to admit the tall, straight-backed figure of Police Superintendent Mullett, Commander of Denton Division. The Superintendent, with his glossy black hair, clipped military moustache and horn-rimmed glasses, looked more like a successful businessman than a policeman. He was wearing his casual party wear: a tailored grey suit, a silver-flecked shirt, and a blue-and-silver tie. Wells and Collier immediately stiffened to attention but were waved at ease. The thump of the disco from above made Mullett wince, and he could feel his head starting
to ache, but he put a brave face on it. After all, he was one of the lads tonight, like it or not.

  ‘They seem to be enjoying themselves up there, Sergeant Wells,’ he shouted over the din. ‘Not too loud for you, is it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ lied Wells as he pushed the phone to Collier so the constable could take over the call. ‘Nice to hear people enjoying themselves . . . for a change.’

  Mullett nodded his approval, his gaze wandering around the dingy lobby with its stark wooden benches and the Colorado Beetle Identification poster flapping on the dark grey walls. ‘I never realized just how dreary this lobby looked, Sergeant. It’s bad for public relations. Do you think you could see about cheering it up . . . get in some house plants, or flowers, or something?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good idea, sir,’ mumbled Wells, raising his eyes to the ceiling in mute appeal. Bloody flowers indeed! He was a policeman, not a bloody landscape gardener.

  ‘Is Inspector Frost about?’ asked Mullett anxiously. He was hoping the answer would be no. He preferred that Frost, with his unpressed clothes, his unpolished shoes, his rudeness, and his coarse jokes, should be well out of the way when the Chief Constable arrived.

  ‘Out on an inquiry, sir. Body down a public convenience off the Market Square.’

  A public convenience! Mullett flinched as if he had been hit. It sounded just the type of distasteful inquiry that Frost would get himself involved in, but at least it had the advantage of keeping him out of sight when the VIP arrived.

  He leaned across the desk to the sergeant, taking him into his confidence with great news: ‘The Chief Constable said he might look in, Sergeant, to say goodbye personally to George Harrison. You might ask one of your spare constables to keep an eye on the road outside . . .’

  ‘I haven’t got anyone spare, sir,’ cut in Wells hastily. ‘I’ve only got one constable with me to help run the entire station.’ He indicated young Collier, who didn’t seem to be making much progress with the caller on the phone.

  ‘He’ll do fine,’ beamed Mullett, who had no intention of getting involved in these minor staffing problems. ‘The instant the Chief Constable’s car turns that corner, I want to be told. I’ll be upstairs with the lads.’ He paused. ‘Sorry I had to put you on duty tonight, Wells, but there are so few men I could really trust to do a good job when we’re short-handed.’

  Wells gave a noncommittal grunt.

  Mullett pushed open the door to the canteen and steeled himself. He was not a very good mixer as far as socialising with the lower ranks was concerned and would never have attended were it not for the promised visit of the Chief Constable. He squared his shoulders, then, like a front-line soldier going over the top, he bravely charged up the stairs.

  Wells glowered after him, speeding him on his way with a blast of mental abuse. ‘That’s right . . . go and enjoy yourself. Never mind us poor buggers sweating our guts out down here.’ He became aware of Collier’s worried face looking helplessly at him, the phone still in his hand.

  ‘What is it now, Collier? Surely you can handle a simple phone call on your own?’

  ‘She won’t talk to me, Sarge, and she’s getting stroppy. She says she wants a high-ranking officer.’

  A loud burst of sound and the crash of breaking glass from overhead. Wells hoped it was Mullett falling over the beer crates.

  ‘She can’t have a high-ranking officer, Collier. All the high-ranking officers are upstairs getting pissed.’ He snatched the phone from the constable’s hand. ‘Go out and keep an eye open for the Chief Constable’s Rolls . . . and get some bloody flowers.’

  ‘Flowers?’ queried Collier, but seeing the look on his sergeant’s face, prudently decided not to wait for an answer.

  Wells stuffed a finger in his ear and put on his polite voice. ‘Yes, madam, can I help you?’

  ‘What are you going to do about that bloody noise?’ screeched the woman caller. ‘I’ve got three children in bed and they can’t get to sleep!’

  ‘We’ll look into it, madam,’ promised Wells.

  The sliding panel that connected the lobby to the control room slid back and PC Ridley, the controller, poked his head through.

  ‘I’ve got Dave Shelby on the radio, Sarge. He’s trying to get a body to the morgue. The ambulance men refuse to touch it. They reckon it’s too mucky for the ambulance.’

  ‘Mr Frost is handling that one,’ said Wells.

  ‘I can’t contact Mr Frost, Sarge. He doesn’t answer his radio.’

  ‘Typical,’ snorted the sergeant. ‘Trust him to hide when there’s trouble.’ He consulted a typed list of funeral directors. ‘Tell Shelby to try Mawkins in the High Street. They’re cheap, they’re not too fussy, and they keep begging us for work.’

  ‘Right, Sarge.’ The panel slid shut.

  Wells was logging the last call in the phone register when he became aware of an irritating tap, tap, tap. He raised his eyes. Someone had the temerity to be rapping a pencil on the desk to attract his attention. He jerked up his head and there was the new man, that sulky swine, the bearded Detective Constable Webster, with the usual scowl on his face, tap, tap, tapping away. Furiously, Wells snatched the pencil from the man’s hand and hurled it to the floor. Pushing his face to within an inch of the constable’s, he said, ‘Don’t you ever do that again, Webster. If you want to attract my attention you address me by name, then wait until I am ready to respond. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, I understand.’ Webster almost spat the words out.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I want to know where the hell this Frost character has got to. I’m supposed to be working with him. Two hours ago he dumps six months’ filing on me and says he won’t be a tick. I’m still sitting in that pigsty of an office, waiting.’

  A malicious smile slithered across the sergeant’s face. ‘You want something to do then, Constable?’

  Webster gritted his teeth, trying to stop his irritation from showing. The way these yokels took a childish delight in emphasising the word ‘constable’. But he wouldn’t let them see they were getting through to him.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. I want something to do.’

  ‘Right,’ said Wells, smiling. ‘You can make the tea.’

  ‘Make it?’

  ‘We won’t get any tea from the canteen, Webster. It’s out of bounds to the workers. So you’ll have to make it manually, which I trust is not beneath the dignity of an ex-inspector? There’s a kettle and other stuff in the washroom. Brew up enough for six.’ He lowered his head and returned to his entry in the log book.

  Webster didn’t move.

  Wells raised his head. ‘Is there a problem, Constable, something in your orders that you don’t understand?’

  Webster’s face was rigid with fury. ‘You want me to make the tea?’ He said it as if he had received an improper suggestion.

  Wells chucked his pen down and bounced back Webster’s glare with a scorcher of his own. ‘Yes, Constable. Any objections?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Webster, jerking a thumb at young Collier, who was hovering by the lobby door, anxiously peering out into the road. ‘What about him? Why can’t he do it?’

  ‘Because he is doing a very important job for Mr Mullett. And anyway, why should he be the tea boy instead of you? You’re both the same rank . . . you’re both constables or have you forgotten?’

  ‘No,’ snarled Webster, ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ As if the buggers would let him forget! He spun on his heel and barged out of the lobby, slamming the door behind him.

  That’s put the bastard in his place, thought Wells, feeling better now he had syphoned off some of his pent-up frustration.

  Collier raced over excitedly. ‘The Chief Constable’s car, Sarge.’

  ‘Well, don’t wet your knickers about it, Constable. Go upstairs and tell Mr Mullett, quick.’ Wells adjusted his uniform and made his back ramrod straight. He rapped on the panel and warned Control that the Chief Constable was on the way through.

 
; The phone on his desk gave a little cough. Wells glowered at it, daring it to ring. It defied him. So did the other phone. Damn and blast! He’d planned a quick exchange of dialogue with the Chief Constable in which the Chief would look around the empty lobby and say, ‘All on your own, Sergeant?’ and he would reply smartly, with much diffidence, ‘Yes, sir, but I can cope. I can run this place single-handed if need be . . .’ And the Chief Constable would smile approvingly and make a mental note that there was some very promising promotion material here. Instead, the Chief Constable, in immaculate evening suit, breezed through, nodded curtly at Wells and said, ‘Those phones need answering, Sergeant.’

  The first phone call was from a man living in the senior citizens’ flats off Arberry Road. Some idiot in a sports car was roaring round and round the block, cutting across the lawns and waking the oldies up. Wells scribbled details and promised action. No sooner had he replaced the phone than it rang again. He picked up the second phone. Another senior citizen complaining about the same thing. ‘Yes, we’ve got it in hand,’ he promised, reaching for the first phone - yet another old fool wanting the police to do something about this hooligan in the racing car.

  As he was taking details, Wells was annoyed to see the Chief Constable pause to have a few morale-boosting words with young Collier, who ought to be answering bloody phones instead of fawning on the top brass. Behind Collier, the Divisional Commander, all atwitter, greeted the honoured guest and escorted him upstairs where the raucous noise had mysteriously abated.