Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “Well done, Constable. Good piece of observation.”

  The obligatory acknowledgement over, Allen and Ingram approached the Vauxhall and sniffed gingerly around, looking but not touching. Webster had hoped he and Sue would now be allowed to drive off and get to bed but Allen didn’t seem ready to dismiss them yet.

  Allen was standing on tiptoe to see over the hedge that bordered the lane. Behind it was a field of tall grass, heavy with early-morning dew. He dragged back his cuff to consult his watch. If he could do it in twenty-five minutes, what was holding up the forensic team?

  Then the brittle early-morning quiet was shattered as carloads of hastily summonsed off-duty men and the team from Forensic arrived. Soon the area swarmed with men crawling over every inch of the Vauxhall and its surroundings. The car was dusted for prints inside and out, the interior was given microscopic scrutiny for traces of blood and tissue, and then the seat covers and carpets were removed and vacuumed to retrieve clinging hairs and fibres.

  Other men were on their hands and knees, noses almost grazing the road surface as they looked for anything the murderer might have dropped. It was still dark, but the area was floodlit. The first success was the finding of a small patch of oil a few yards up the lane, indicating that another car had recently been parked on that spot for some time. More than likely this car was the backup that Stan Eustace transferred into after he had dumped the Cavalier. Judging from the amount of oil leakage, the other car must have been an old banger.

  One team was given the task of knocking on the door of every house in the vicinity to ask if anyone had seen a car parked in the lane during the previous day, or if they had seen the Vauxhall drive up.

  “I know it’s early and most of the householders are going to be tucked up in bed,” said Allen, addressing the team, ‘but that is their hard luck. Today they are all going to see the dawn break for a change. How you wake them, I don’t particularly care. Just do it. And if anyone complains that their beauty sleep is more important than finding the murderer of a police officer, let them write to the Chief Constable. Most important, I want you to make sure you speak to everybody in the house, not just the poor sod who staggers downstairs to open the door. Now off you go.”

  Another two men went with Ingram to search the section of the field near the hedge. It wasn’t expected to yield anything but Allen, unlike Detective Inspector Jack Frost, always did things thoroughly.

  Webster tried to catch the inspector’s eye to ask permission to leave, but Allen had marched straight past and was at the Vauxhall to talk to the two men dusting it for prints. “Anything yet?”

  One of them looked up from his work and shook his head. “Not a damn thing so far, Inspector. It’s been wiped clean.”

  As Allen turned away, Webster moved forward to let the inspector know he was going to make a move.

  “Good morning, son. The whole bloody place stinks of coppers, doesn’t it?”

  Webster visibly cringed at the familiar breezy voice. Where the hell had he come from? It was far too early in the morning to stomach a fresh dose of Jack Frost.

  With a grin and a nod to his assistant, Frost, looking as if he had slept in his clothes in a ditch, shuffled over to the immaculate Allen.

  “Hello, Frost,” said Allen without the slightest hint of enthusiasm. Events were going quite well and he didn’t want Frost’s jarring presence messing everything up. “Bit early for you, isn’t it?”

  “Bit late, actually,” yawned Frost, rubbing an unshaven chin. “I haven’t been home all night. I fell asleep in the office.” With his head on one side he gave the Vauxhall the once-over, his hands scratching an itch on his stomach through his mac pockets. “So this is where Useless Eustace switched motors?”

  “Yes,” acknowledged Allen curtly. “Your assistant spotted it.” He was now beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t be better served with Webster than with Ingram, who had been getting quite slapdash of late.

  “It’s the way I train them,” Frost said, moving forward for a look inside the car. The two men from Forensic shifted out of his way as he poked his head inside the driving door. “I can’t see much blood.”

  “We haven’t found any yet,” Forensic admitted, ‘but we’re still searching.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have to look very hard for it,” said Frost. “Shelby’s head was half blown off. The inside of the car ought to be swimming with blood, brains, and bits of ear hole.”

  Allen pulled a face. Frost’s crudeness was hard to take at the best of times, but at this tender hour of the morning . . . ! “Eustace could have wrapped the body in waterproof sheeting. A sheet was missing from the boot of Shelby’s patrol car when we went through it yesterday.”

  Frost tapped his first cigarette of the day on the packet and lit up. Then he had his first cough of the day. “I don’t care what you say,” he spluttered, “I just can’t see Useless Eustace as a police killer.”

  Allen started to reply, but his attention was diverted by a shout.

  “Mr. Allen!”

  He looked up. An arm was being waved from behind the hedge. Ingram had found something. “Excuse me,” he muttered, hurrying over to see what it was.

  Frost took a stroll across to the Cortina, where Webster, slumped in the front seat next to Sue, was fighting hard to keep his eyes open. Sue was talking to him, but he just didn’t seem able to take in what she was saying. Wasn’t it just his rotten luck spotting that car! If he’d kept his eyes closed, he would now be lying in the snug warmth of Sue’s little single bed, his arms locked around her un-nightdressed body, caressing her gorgeous - but why torment himself? He yawned. The thought of yet another long, dreary day muddling through with Frost seemed an unbearable prospect.

  Frost spotted the yawn and, of course, with his one-track mind, misinterpreted it. “Tired, my son? Heavy night with Sue, was it? You should have tried getting some sleep instead.”

  Webster was so tired he couldn’t even raise a scowl in protest.

  “One thing about a beard,” burbled Frost, rasping his chin again, "you don’t suffer from five o’clock shadow.” He turned his head. “Hello, what’s Old Clever Balls looking so happy about?”

  Allen was striding over, Ingram trotting at his heels. “Thought you might be interested to see this, Frost, especially as you can’t see Eustace as a police killer.” He held up something in a polythene bag. “We’ve found Shelby’s notebook.”

  Frost took the bag from Allen and turned it over and over in his hands. “Where was it?”

  Ingram pointed. “I found it in that field, close to the hedge, near where the Cavalier was parked.”

  Frost looked puzzled. “And how the hell did it get there?”

  Allen sucked in air, then sighed. How dense could you be? “I’d have thought that obvious, Inspector. Eustace found it in the car after he dumped the body. It must have fallen from Shelby’s pocket. It was incriminating evidence and he had to get rid of it in a hurry.”

  “Oh, I see,” exclaimed Frost as if this now explained everything. “He wipes the car clean of prints, doesn’t leave a speck of blood behind, but he gets rid of vital evidence by just chucking it over the nearest hedge.”

  “What did you expect him to do with it?” snapped Allen in exasperation. “Eat it? Stick it up his arse? He daren’t keep it on him, it linked him with the killing. What else could he do but chuck it?”

  A uniformed man approached and gave Allen a smart salute. “Lady in the cottage down the lane, sir. Says she saw a black Morris Minor parked down here for most of yesterday afternoon.”

  Allen’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Good work. I’ll be with you in a couple of seconds to talk to her.” He took the polythene bag from Frost and handed it back to Ingram. “I want the notebook checked for fingerprints. Odds are it’s been wiped clean, but you never know your luck.” He noticed Frost still hovering. “I’m sure you’re very busy, Inspector. Don’t let me hold you up.”

  “Actual
ly, I want to take a look in the notebook. Dave Shelby was supposed to have interviewed our anonymous phone caller. I’m hoping he kept his mind on the job long enough to write down the name and address.”

  Ingram held open the bag so Frost could carefully extract the notebook, holding it by its corners with his handkerchief. An elastic band looped around the unused pages allowed Frost to go directly to the entry, the very last entry Shelby had made before he died. It read Desmond Thorley, Dove Cottage. Interviewed re rape case phone call.

  “Bingo!” cried Frost, snapping the notebook shut and dropping it into the polythene bag. He trotted across to the Cortina. Neither Webster nor Sue seemed willing to yield their front seats, so he climbed into the back.

  “It’s all happening, son. I’ve got the name and address of the bloke who made the anonymous phone call. Drop Sue off, then we’ll go and pay him a nice early visit.”

  Webster’s spirits plummet ted to a new low. “It’s barely four o’clock in the morning,” he complained. “He’ll be fast asleep in bed . . .” He yawned conspicuously and added pointedly, “The lucky bastard!”

  “He won’t still be in bed after I’ve kicked his door down,” replied Frost cheerfully. “Come on, son, hurry up. There’s lots to do.”

  Even to Webster, punch-drunk through lack of sleep, Dove Cottage looked nothing like a cottage. The shape was all wrong. In the dark of early morning it looked just like a railway carriage, and as they neared it he could see that that was exactly what it was. A dilapidated Great Western Railway carriage of pre-war vintage, dumped on a piece of waste ground situated north of the woods. It stood on brick piers, allowing it to rise proud above islands of stinging nettles in a sea of coarse, waist-high grass. Tastefully dotted around to break the monotony of the landscape were mounds of crumbling oil drums, the rotting hulk of a Baby Austin car body, and odd rust-crusted relics of long-obsolete farm machinery.

  Like explorers hacking their way through virgin jungle, they pushed through the wet grass, eventually arriving at the foot of a set of rickety wooden steps that led up to the carriage door with its brass turnkey handle.

  “I think this is our train,” murmured Frost, risking the climb up the steps. He tried the handle, but the door seemed to be bolted on the inside, so he pounded at it with his open hand. The noise echoed like a drum, but there was no movement from within. He hammered again, much harder this time, making the whole structure shake on its brick foundations.

  Inside a bottle toppled over and rolled. A crash of someone bumping into something, the shout of someone swearing, then a bleary voice demanded, “Who’s there?”

  “Two lovely policemen,” called Frost. “Open up, Desmond.”

  The door opened outward, almost sending Frost flying. Desmond Thorley, in his late fifties, very bald and softly plump, un gummed his eyes and squinted at his visitors. He wore a filthy dressing gown the front and sleeves stiff with dirt. Under the dressing gown, were a pair of grimy, food-stained pyjamas, the trousers held up by a rusty safety pin. He looked dirty. He smelled even dirtier.

  “Meet Dirty Desmond,” said Frost to Webster.

  Thorley clutched together his gaping dressing gown to cover his pyjamas. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Frost. I suppose you want to come in.”

  “I don’t want to,” replied Frost, ‘but it’s one of the hazards of the job.”

  They stepped into thick, greasy darkness that smelled of stale sweat, unwashed socks, and bad food. A match flared as Thorley lit an an old brass oil lamp which spluttered and spat out choking black smoke, but at least masked most of the other odours. He cranked up the wick, then replaced the glass chimney. They could now make out, dimly, the camp bed, some upholstered chairs rescued from a rubbish heap, and a card table on which were four food-encrusted plates and various half-finished tins of beans and pilchards. The floor was carpeted with dirty socks, unwashed underclothes, and empty spirit bottles.

  “Be it ever so humble,” said Desmond, noting their disapproval.

  “Humble?” snorted Frost. “It’s a bloody shithouse.”

  “That,” sniffed Desmond, ‘is rude.” He fluttered a hand toward the chairs. “Sit down if you like, but be careful. The cat’s been sick somewhere and I’m still trying to find out where.” He flopped himself down, but they opted to stand.

  “Did you have a visit from one of our police officers yesterday?” Frost asked him.

  He flapped a vague, limp hand. “I might have done, Inspector, but my memory’s not at its best at this unearthly hour.” His tongue flicked along his lips. “You wouldn’t, by chance, have some alcoholic refreshment about your person?” He spoke like a failed actor, which is exactly what he was.

  From his mac pocket, Frost produced a miniature bottle of Johnnie Walker, part of the spoils from the party. He held it by the neck and swung it from side to side. Desmond’s eyes locked on to it like heat-seeking missiles.

  “Information first, drinkie-poos second,” promised the inspector. “You had a visit from a policeman yesterday?”

  A happy smile lit Thorley’s face as he recalled the incident. “A lovely boy, my old darling. His name was Shelby so good-looking and so macho. He suggested it was I who phoned the constabulary the other night when that poor woman was so brutally used.”

  “And was it you?” asked Webster, keeping close to the door, where a thin whisper of air was trickling through.

  Thorley’s gaze was transferred from the bottle to the constable. “Oh yes. I confessed all to him. How could I lie to someone with such long eyelashes as he had.” He leaned forward to study Webster’s face.“But not so long as yours, dearie.”

  Frost tugged at Webster’s sleeve to remind him who was supposed to be doing the questioning. “Do your courting later, son,” he whispered.

  “I couldn’t help your constable very much,” admitted Thorley. “I found the girl. Like any law-abiding citizen, I phoned the police. That was all there was to it.”

  “Did you see anyone that night?” Frost asked.

  “Not a soul, my dear.”

  Frost put the bottle back in his pocket.

  “I saw one person only,” added the podgy man hurriedly. “But not in the woods. As I was hastening to the phone box, there was someone in front of me, walking very quickly.”

  The bottle came out again. “Description?”

  “I only saw him from the back. Medium height, dark clothes.”

  “What were you doing in the woods at that time of night?” asked Webster.

  “Just taking a stroll,” replied Desmond.

  “It was a bit more than that,” said Frost. “You like sneaking around in the dark spying on courting couples, don’t you Desmond?”

  The podgy man grinned sheepishly. “A harmless hobby. And that’s how I found the girl. I was taking a late-night stroll, ears ever alert for the sounds of casual copulation, when I came across the poor dear all still and naked. I really thought she was dead.”

  “Did you see anyone jogging during your prowl around?” Frost asked.

  Desmond pushed out his lips in thought. “No, Inspector, I didn’t. You often see knobbly-kneed men in running shorts, or joggers in track suits going round and round the paths, but I don’t recollect seeing any last night.”

  It was clear he could tell them nothing more, so Frost handed the bottle over and they took their leave. Like a good host, Desmond saw them out.

  “I like your friend,” he whispered to the inspector.

  “He’s not used to the ways of men,” said Frost, steering the scowling Webster out into the clean, fresh-tasting air.

  They hacked their way back to the car.

  “What time is it?” asked Frost.

  Webster brought up his watch. “Four fifty-six.”

  “Drop me off at my place and then let’s get some sleep. I’ll see you back at the station at noon.”

  “Yes,” yawned Webster.

  The sky was lightening. Somewhere, way off in the distance, a rooster crowed, then
a dog barked. Lights were starting to come on in some of the houses. Denton was waking up. Frost and Webster were going to bed.

  Police Superintendent Mullett looked once again at his watch and angrily reached out for the ivory-coloured telephone.

  “No, sir,” replied Sergeant Johnson. “Mr. Frost still isn’t in yet.”

  Mullett replaced the phone and snatched up his copy of the Denton Echo. It was open at an inside page where the headline read FLEEING JEWEL THIEF SHOOTS POLICEMAN DEAD. Beneath it a recent photograph of David Shelby smiled across four columns. But it wasn’t this story that was causing Mullett’s annoyance. It was the story that had relegated it to the second page. He refolded the paper to page one, where enormous banner headlines screamed 17-YEAR OLD GIRL RAPED. HOODED TERROR CLAIMS 7TH victim. Alongside this story, in bold type, was an editorial which was headed “What is Wrong with the Denton Police?” The theme of the editorial was that, because of incompetence, after seven attacks Denton police were still without a single clue to the identity of the rapist. It suggested that perhaps an experienced officer from another division should be brought in to take over where the Denton force had so clearly failed.

  On first reading the editorial, Mullett had marched with it into Frost’s rubbish dump of an office, only to find that the inspector had not yet deigned to report for work. On Frost’s desk, unread, was a report from Forensic on the previous night’s rape, suggesting that a full-scale search of the area would be advantageous. When he checked with Sergeant Johnson, Mullett was appalled to learn that no search of the area had been made, or planned. And, to cap this catalogue of incompetence, Frost, the investigating officer, hadn’t even bothered to interview the rape victim!

  He slumped down in Frost’s chair, shaking his head in dismay. And that was when he saw, in the middle of the desk, weighted down with an unwashed tea mug, the crime statistics that Frost had assured him had gone off the previous day.