Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost leaned forward and patted her warm, quivering young arm. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll get him.”

  A pointed cough of disapproval from Sister Plummer, the eunuch in charge of the harem, made Frost snatch his hand away hurriedly. Sister Plummer was the supervisor of the Nurses’ Home, a gaunt, miserable-looking woman in her late fifties, with a hatchet face, and beady, suspicious eyes. “She looks just like the nurse who shaved me for my appendix operation,” Frost later confided to Webster. “She used to think a man’s dick was just a handle to lift him up by.”

  Webster returned from searching the grounds. “No signs of anyone,” he announced, wishing it had been him who stayed with the half-dressed nurses and Frost who floundered about in the dark and the cold.

  The nurse’s shortie nightie was starting to slip down, and inch by inch, her beautiful, firm, young, creamy breasts were emerging like mountains through clouds. Frost was pondering ways to make his questions last until the crucial moment, when the eunuch said, “Nurse! Cover yourself!” and the treat was terminated.

  “From the direction he was running,” said the little nurse, “I think he went into the main hospital building.” Now she tells me, thought Webster.

  “Hadn’t you better start searching the hospital, Inspector?” rasped Sister Plummer. “It’s time the nurses were in bed. They’ve all got busy days tomorrow.” The nurses all looked too wide awake and excited for sleep, but Frost was forced to take the hint.

  “We’ll go through the place with a fine-tooth comb,” he assured them.

  “If he’s still there, we’ll find him.”

  Frost and Webster returned to the main building.

  “How do you intend to carry out this search?” Webster asked.

  Frost grinned. “You didn’t think I was serious, did you, son? That was just to keep that little nurse happy. This bloke isn’t going to hang about in the hospital. He’ll be miles away by now.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “True, son,” agreed the inspector, ‘but this place is a bloody rabbit warren. Even if he were here, we’d never find him, so we won’t bother looking.”

  “He could be the rapist,” insisted Webster, determined that things should be done properly. “He’s already had one nurse.”

  Frost laughed scoffingly. “The rapist, son? Do you think a man who strips off juicy young birds and has his wicked way with them is going to be satisfied with peeping through a window? This was just a Peeping Tom, getting a cheap thrill from a flash of snowy-white thigh, and don’t I envy the bastard. That little nurse was a goer if ever I saw one.”

  At four o’clock in the morning the hospital was a desolate and cheerless place. Frost told Webster that more patients died at this hour than at any other time of day. “If you hear a trolley, odds are it’s got a body on it . . .”

  They trekked the labyrinth of corridors, past wards illuminated only by the night sister’s desk lamp, past a group of anxious relatives talking to the little Asian doctor, who was shaking his head sadly “Another body on its way,” said Frost past abandoned oxygen cylinders and trollies piled high with red hospital blankets.

  It was as they approached the turnoff that would lead them to the exit that the nurse screamed.

  They ran, Frost panting, out of breath, well behind the constable.

  “There!” yelled Webster.

  Ahead, a nurse, white-faced, stumbled toward them in blind panic. She looked up, mouth open, ready to scream again when she saw the two strange men hurtling toward her. Webster was the first to reach her. He waved his warrant card. “It’s all right, Nurse, we’re police officers. What happened?”

  Too terrified to speak, she looked from Webster to Frost, her mouth working, then, still trembling she pointed back to the open door of a storeroom. At last she was able to speak. “A man in there. I went to get some clean sheets. He was horrible . . .”

  “Let’s take a look,” said Webster, moving cautiously into the dark of the storeroom and groping for the light switch. The fluorescent tubes seemed to resent being woken up at such an unearthly hour, but finally, with a half-hearted crackle, they flashed and flooded out cold, blue light.

  Inside the large room were racks of wooden shelving, all neatly stacked with folded blankets, bed linen, rubber sheets, and pillows. No sign of a lecherous intruder. Webster walked around inside. “Can’t see anyone,” he said to the nurse, who was hovering anxiously by the door.

  Braver now that she had company, she joined him, her head turning from side to side, looking, wanting to prove that she hadn’t imagined it. “There was someone here,” she insisted.

  Frost wandered in after them, his nose twitching. “There’s a hell of a stink in here . . .” He sniffed again, his eyes slowly scanning the racks, missing nothing. “I spy with my little eye . . . someone on the top rack . . . there!”

  Webster followed his finger but couldn’t see anything. He grasped the wooden supports and shook the racks as if he were shaking apples from a tree. “Come on, you bugger. Down you get or I’ll drag you down.”

  A heap of blankets on the top shelf heaved, then slithered to the floor. A dirty brown overcoat struggled out, then two red-rimmed eyes peered down at them. Webster turned his head away in disgust as the smell wafted down to hit him in the face.

  “I wasn’t doing no harm,” whined the man.

  “No harm?” cried Frost, “You’re stinking the place out.”

  “What are you after drugs?” demanded Webster as the old man, a tramp in his mid-sixties, climbed stiffly down.

  Short and stooped, he had tiny, red-rimmed, deepset eyes; his face was greasy and black and grey with stubble. His nose, large and route-mapped with tiny red veins, cried out for the urgent attention of a handkerchief. Matted hair flopped over the dirt-stiffened collar of the brown overcoat, which had been made many years ago for someone much bigger. His hands, the nails chipped and black, reached up to the top shelf for a bulging brown carrier bag which he clutched protectively to his chest.

  Frost identified him from the very first sniff. “Blimey, Wally, hasn’t the hospital got enough germs of its own without you bringing yours in as well?”

  “I’m an old man, Mr. Frost. Just looking for a place to rest my poor head for the night.” A dewdrop shimmered at the end of his nose. He gave a juicy sniff, which temporarily delayed its further descent.

  “So you rested your poor head against the window of the nurses’ bedroom?”

  “I didn’t know there was anyone in there . . . honest. I just happened to look in as she happened to look out our eyes sort of met.”

  “Sounds like something out of True Romance,” said Frost. “So if you weren’t after an eyeful of naked nurse, what were you after? And what have you got in that bag?”

  He reached out for it, but Wally shrank back, clutching the bag as tightly as he could. With difficulty, Frost managed to prise it from the tramp’s greasy grasp and looked inside. Scraps of clothes, bits of food and a three-quarters-full wine bottle. “I hope you haven’t stolen someone’s specimen,” said Frost, pulling out the cork and cautiously sniffing the contents. “It’s either me ths or the stuff they pickle human organs in. Is this what you’ve sneaked in to pinch?”

  “On my dead mother’s grave, Mr. Frost,” the tramp whined, “I haven’t come here to pinch anything.” A mighty sniff reprieved another dewdrop that was in danger of obeying Newton’s law of gravity. “I’m just a poor old man looking for shelter.”

  “Well, you’re not going to find it here,” said Frost, "so push off before I kick you out.”

  “I’m an old man, Inspector. Send me out in the cold and I’ll die.”

  “Promises, promises,” said Frost. “Why don’t you go and kip where you usually doss down?”

  “I couldn’t go to my usual place. There was a policeman standing outside.”

  “A policeman?” queried Frost. “Here . . . what usual place are you talking about?”

  “The
public convenience behind the Market Square. Me and Ben Cornish usually kip in one of the cubicles.”

  “You won’t kip with him anymore,” Frost said, and, as gently as he could, he broke the news.

  The tramp, genuinely upset, clutched the wooden rack for support. “We was good mates, me and him, Inspector. Ben wasn’t eating properly. He was on drugs used to inject himself with a needle. I told him it would kill him in the end, but he wouldn’t listen.” He reflected sadly for a while, then said, “Did he have any money on him? He said he was going to give me some for food. He promised me.”

  “Sorry, Wally. He had no money. In fact he had sod all,” said Frost. “Now beat it.”

  The tramp’s face fell. “You’ve got to arrest me, Mr. Frost. Put me in a cell for the night. I looked at that nurse . . . saw all of her body. I lusted after her. I thought carnal thoughts. I deserve to be locked up.”

  “You shouldn’t have run away, Wally. She said she fancied you. Now hop it, or I’ll tell my colleague to boot you out.”

  "Please, Inspector. Look at the weather out there. You’ll be signing my death warrant if you send me out in that!” He pointed dramatically to the windows, and, on cue, the wind lashed and hammered its fists at the glass.

  Against his better judgement Frost relented. “All right, Wally. Go to the station and tell Sergeant Wells I want you locked up for the night. Tell him I suspect that you’re an international diamond smuggler.”

  The dirt around the tramp’s mouth cracked as he burbled his gratitude. They watched him shuffle painfully down the corridor, his arms folded around the carrier bag which contained everything he had in the world. Then the dead face of Ben Cornish swum filmily in front of Frost, the eyes insisting, “You bloody fool . . . you’ve missed something.” As he later realized, Wally had shown him the answer, but he hadn’t seen it.

  Webster was saying something.

  “What was that again, son?”

  Webster’s quartz digital was shoved under his nose. “Four twelve. We’d better get back to the station.”

  Frost winced. The station meant the crime statistics and the overtime returns and all the other mountains of paper work that had to be attended to. He thought hard. Surely there was something else they could do instead of going back. Then he remembered Tommy Croll, the security guard from The Coconut Grove. Why not interview him? That should waste a good hour.

  “I’m looking for a bloke called Croll,” he told the nurse as she pulled sheets down from the rack. “He came in tonight with concussion.”

  “Then you’re in luck, Inspector,” she said. “He’s in my ward.” She frowned at her tiny wristwatch. “But it’s very late.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, Nurse,” said Frost. And what was more important than avoiding the crime statistics?

  They followed her into a small ward where a ridiculously young student nurse was crouched over a desk with a shaded lamp, anxiously watching over the twin rows of sleeping, snuffling, and moaning patients, and hoping none of them died on her before the other nurse’s return.

  “All quiet,” she reported with relief. No sooner had she said this than one of her patients called out and started bringing up blood.

  “Another one for the morgue,” Frost whispered to Webster.

  “Mr. Croll's in the end bed,” called the nurse as she and the student dashed off to attend to the crisis.

  Their shoes squeaked as they tiptoed over the highly polished floor to the far bed where a weasel-faced man, his forehead decorated with a strip of sticking plaster, was sleeping noisily. Frost undipped the charts from the end of the bed and studied them. “Hmm. Both ends seem to be in working order. Give him a shake, son.”

  Webster’s gentle shake was about ten on the Richter scale. Croll snorted, choked in mid snore then jerked his eyes open, flicking them from side to side as he tried to identify the shapes looming over him in the dark. He groped for the bedside lamp, blinking in surprise as he switched it on.

  “Hello, Tommy,” said Frost, his voice generously laced with insincere concern. “How are you?” He scraped a chair across to the bed and sat down.

  “Mr. Frost!” Croll fumbled under the pillow for his wristwatch. “It’s quarter past four in the morning!”

  “I know,” agreed Frost. “As soon as they told me you were in here, I dropped everything to come and see how you were. You’re a hero, Tommy, a bloody hero.”

  “Hero?” echoed Croll uneasily. He never knew how to take the inspector.

  “The way you fought like a tiger to try and stop Mr. Baskin’s money being nicked. How’s the poor head?”

  Croll touched the sticking plaster and winced. “Terrible, Mr. Frost. Stabbing pains - like red-hot knives.”

  Frost nodded sympathetically and stared down the ward. The two nurses had managed to calm the patient and were now straightening and smoothing the bedclothes. “Tell us what happened, Tommy.”

  “Not a lot to tell, Mr. Frost. It was all over so quickly.”

  “That’s what my girl friends used to say, Tommy.”

  Croll forced a grin. Frost always made him feel uneasy. And he wished the inspector would tell him who the bearded bloke hovering in the background was. He had such a miserable face, he looked like an undertaker. “It was like this: Bert went to fetch the car, like always, and I locked myself in. After about five minutes I get the signal. Naturally I think it’s Bert.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Frost.

  “I unbolts and flings open the door so he can come in when, wham, I’m welted a real right crack round the ear hole.”

  “Did you see who hit you?” the bearded bloke asked.

  “No, I didn’t but I sodding-well felt him,” replied Croll, his hand again tenderly touching the sticking plaster. “It knocked me out cold. The next thing I know, I’m in here with this roaring great headache. I can stand pain, Mr. Frost, but this is just as though my skull was split open.”

  “I saw a bloke with his skull split open once,” said Frost. “A bus had gone right over his head a double-decker, full of passengers - even eight standing on the lower deck. You could hear this scrunching and this squelching and then blood and brains squirted out all over the place. His eyes popped right out of their sockets. We found them in the gutter. I had a job eating my dinner that day.” He switched on a smile as he recalled the nostalgic moment, then abruptly switched it off. “What did you do with the money, Tom?”

  Croll, still shuddering from the description of the bus victim, was knocked off balance by Frost’s sudden change of direction. “Money? What money, Mr. Frost?”

  “The 5,132 quid you and Bert Harris pinched,” said the bearded one.

  “May I drop dead if I’m not telling the truth, Mr. Frost - " Croll began, his hand on his heart, but Frost cut in before he tempted fate further.

  “It had to be an inside job, Tommy. Whoever did it had to know the arrangements and the signal for tonight. Only three people knew: Mr. Baskin, Bert, and you . . .”

  Croll’s head sunk back on the pillow, his eyes showing how hurt he was. “That’s a wicked thing to suggest, Mr. Frost. Look at me wounded in the line of duty. I nearly had my head smashed in.”

  “But it wasn’t smashed in enough,” explained Frost patiently. “If your brains had been splattered all over Mr. Baskin’s floor and halfway up his wall, well, I might believe you, but as it is . . .”

  And before Croll realized what he was up to, Frost’s hand had snaked out and ripped the sticking plaster from his forehead. Croll yelled and clapped a hand over his wound, but Frost had already seen it.

  “A waste of bloody sticking plaster, Tommy. I’ve seen love bites from toothless women cause deeper wounds than that.”

  “I’m injured internally, Mr. Frost,” said Croll, putting a finger to his forehead to see if he was bleeding. “It don’t show on the outside.”

  More activity in the ward. The Asian doctor, who seemed to be the only doctor on duty in the entire hospital,
flapped in and made for the patient who had called out. Frost now saw that the front of the student nurse’s uniform was one dark, spreading stain of blood. The other nurse was rigging up apparatus for a blood transfusion. She signalled to Frost that she wanted him to leave.

  “We’ll chat again tomorrow, Tommy,” said the inspector, moving away from the bed.

  Croll pushed himself up. “Mr. Frost, I didn’t do it. I swear . . .”

  “I believe you,” beamed Frost. “Just tell me where you’ve hidden the money and I’ll believe you even more.”

  When they reached the main corridor they had to press back against the wall so that an orderly, pushing a patient in a stretcher, could pass by. The patient, head swollen by a turban of bandages which were almost as white as his bloodless face, looked a hundred years old.

  It was the hit-and-run victim.

  At four forty-five in the morning Denton Police Station was a dreary mausoleum, and the flowers Mullett suggested would have made it look more funereal than ever. It echoed with cold emptiness. Only two men were on duty, Police Sergeant Wells and Police Constable Ridley, the controller. Wells, slumped at the front desk, stared at the ticking time bomb the computer had presented him with. The licence plate found at the scene of the hit-and-run had been trotted through the massive memory banks of the master computer system at Swansea. The print-out read:

  Registration Mark: ULU 63A

  Taxation Class: Private/ Light Goods

  Make/ Model: Jaguar 3.4

  Colour: Blue

  Registered Keeper: Roger Charles Miller

  Address: 43 Halley House, Denton.

  What the computer didn’t say was that Roger Miller was trouble. Big trouble. He was the son of Sir Charles Miller, member of Parliament for the Denton constituency. And Sir Charles was even bigger trouble. He had money and he had influence, owning businesses as diverse as security organisations, newspapers, and commercial radio stations. He constantly criticised the police in his newspapers, and he was a permanent thorn in the side of the Chief Constable. And it was his son, Roger, a twenty-year old spoiled brat, who had brought seventy-eight-year-old Albert Hickman to the brink of death.