They heard the door open, then Frost asking, “SOCO? What silly prat asked you to come here? No, forget it!”
Skinner fumed. He could see the two PCs were having difficulty stifling their laughter.
The bedside phone rang. Sadie answered it. “Just a minute, you want the fat bloke.” She handed the phone to Skinner. “It’s the hospital.”
Skinner hesitated. He wanted to chuck this case back to Frost. It was now too trivial and time-wasting for a detective chief inspector to handle. But Frost had gone.
He took the phone, which reeked of cheap scent. “Yes?” he grunted. His expression changed. “Say that again . . . OK, I’m with her now. Leave it to me.” He put the phone down and turned to Sadie. “Right, get your coat on.”
She pulled a red coat with an acrylic fur collar from the wardrobe and slipped it on. “We going to get my kid?”
“You’re not going to see your baby for a while, I’m afraid. Social Services have got him.”
Her eyes widened in indignation. “Social flaming Services? What are those interfering sods sticking their noses in for?”
“The hospital reckon your baby’s been poisoned.”
Her jaw dropped. She stared at him. “Poisoned?”
“His milk had been doctored.”
“Doctored? What do you mean, doctored?”
“You had another child, didn’t you? And it suddenly died.”
“A cot death. A bleeding cot death. I found her dead. I couldn’t wake her. There was an inquest. They said it was a cot death.”
“One dead baby I’ll accept as accidental,” said Skinner. “But when the other one is poisoned it gets me suspicious. I’m taking you down to the station for questioning.”
“What sort of a flaming country is this?” shrieked Sadie, shaking off the hand Skinner had placed on her arm. “People break into your house, steal your kid, smash your best china, and instead of getting sympathy you’re accused of flaming murder. You wouldn’t have treated me like this if I was an illegal immigrant.”
Ignoring her, Skinner signalled to Jordan. “There’s a baby’s bottle with milk in it by the side of the cot. Get it. Forensic can have a look at it. And check her cupboards. You’re looking for baby milk and salt.”
“Salt?” said Sadie.
“There was enough salt in that child’s milk to kill a dozen babies.” He smiled inwardly. This was more like it. Thank goodness he didn’t hand the case back to Frost. Attempted infanticide—and on his very first day at Denton. He beckoned to Simms. “Come on. Let’s get her down to the station.”
Police Superintendent Mullett took a sip of coffee and beamed across his mahogany desk at his newly arrived detective chief inspector. “So glad to have someone of your reputation with us in Denton, John.”
Skinner faked a beam back. “I’m looking forward to a long stay, sir.” A lie, of course. Once I get my promotion you won’t see my arse for dust. He let his eyes flit round Mullett’s office with its polished oak panelling. The old log cabin, as Frost called it. The rest of the station was a tip, but Mullett had done all right for himself. Skinner would make certain his own office was done up to the same standard during the short time he had to spend in this lousy division. He drained the coffee from the poncey little cup Mullett had given him and replaced it in the tiny saucer. “As you know, sir, I’ll be travelling backwards and forwards to my old patch over the next few weeks. I’ve got cases to clear up, court appearances and so on.”
Mullett nodded. “I fully understand that, but we are extremely short-staffed at the moment, what with people on courses and the uniforms we’ve had to loan to County for that drug-smuggling operation. The sooner we can have you full-time, the better.”
“Shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks to tie up most loose ends, but I want to get shot of Frost as soon as I can. I met up with him today and I agree with you, sir. The man is useless.”
With a look of alarm, Mullett raised a warning finger to his lips, then hurried across to his office door, opened it and peered cautiously up and down the corridor to ensure no one was in earshot. Back at his desk, he clicked the switch which lit up the red ‘ENGAGED—DO NOT ENTER’ sign. “This must be kept absolutely confidential, John. If it got out prematurely . . .”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Skinner assured him. “It will get out when I want it to get out, and not before.”
Mullett gave an approving nod. He could hardly believe that what he had been wishing for for so long was actually going to happen. “But what if he doesn’t agree to a transfer out of Denton?”
Skinner gave a smug smile. “He’ll have no choice but to agree. I’ve done this many times before, so I know what I’m doing.”
Mullett sighed with relief. “It’s good to have you aboard the Denton flagship, John. I can see we’re going to get on very well together.”
Skinner smiled back. Mullett looked the sort of man he could twist round his little finger. If he played his cards right, he could end up sitting in that very chair behind that mahogany desk. He stood up. “I’d better get back to my suspect now—the woman who tried to kill her baby.”
“I’m impressed by the way you’ve got stuck in on your very first day,” said Mullett. “Very impressed.” As Skinner left, he switched off the red warning sign. It would be good to have someone like Skinner in the division to do all the dirty jobs Mullett didn’t have the guts to do himself. Yes, this was going to work out very well.
Frost squeezed his car into the only available space, narrowly avoiding scraping the paint off Mullett’s brand-new, metallic-blue Porsche. He mooched across the car park to the rear entrance of the station. He was not feeling very happy. The semen sample from the rape victim didn’t match any known offenders—but perhaps that would have been too easy. And Forensic, while admitting that the severed foot could have come from a hospital dissecting room, refused to rule out the possibility of foul play, which meant he would have to treat it as a possible murder inquiry. And his team was already stretched to the limit now that Hornrim Harry had sent half the force out to catch some other division’s drug barons, and the other half were on courses to improve efficiency. The way to improve sodding efficiency was to be on the spot, solving the flaming crimes, not writing poncey essays about understanding the criminal mind. If Forensic had to provide the manpower, they’d flaming soon classify the foot as a medical student’s joke, he thought glumly.
Ahead of him, Jordan and Simms were escorting a weaselly-looking man they had arrested for shoplifting, who was bewailing his luck. “I had to do it, officer,” he told Simms. “I haven’t eaten for three days.”
“So what were you going to do with the bra you nicked?” asked Jordan. “Boil it or fry it with the knickers?”
“It’s easy to be funny when you’ve got a full stomach,” whined the man.
Frost followed them down the passage and through the swing doors leading to the lobby, where a frazzled Sergeant Wells was with a frosty-faced elderly woman who was clutching a shopping basket. When the woman caught sight of the shoplifter, she dropped the shopping basket and raised a shaking finger, her eyes wide. “That’s him. That’s the man. He did it!”
“Did bloody what?” blinked the man. “What’s the silly cow on about?” He moved towards her, but Frost pushed him away.
“Get him to the Charge Room now,” he ordered the two constables. “I’ll sort this out.” He turned to the woman, who was now trembling and panting with fright. “What’s this all about, love?”
She waited until the Charge Room door had closed before answering. “I’d just drawn my pension. I went down that little alley at the side of the post office and he jumped out, snatched my handbag and legged it. How am I going to get through the week with no money?”
Frost sighed. There’d been a spate of these handbag-snatchings over the past few weeks, usually from elderly women. “Are you sure that he was the man who robbed you?”
“Positive. I’d stake my life on it. I’
d know him anywhere.”
“And when did you say this took place?”
“About half an hour ago. I’d just drawn my pension . . . You ask them in the post office.”
Frost held up a hand to stop her. “It couldn’t have been him, love. Half an hour ago he was in Marks and Sparks nicking bras.”
“If he says that then he’s lying to protect himself,” she snapped. “I’m not senile. It was definitely him. Have you searched his house?”
“From top to bottom,” lied Frost. “All we found were nipple-less bras and crotchless knickers.” He waited in the lobby while Wells found a WPC to make the woman a cup of tea and see her home safely.
“Bloody, woman!” moaned Wells. “She’s positively identified every face in the flaming mug-shot book. We haven’t the faintest idea what the bloke looks like. She’s identified men of every colour, any age, hairy, bald, giants, flaming midgets. As long as they wear trousers, she’ll identify them!”
“Show her a picture of Mullett,” said Frost. “If she identifies him, I’ll arrest him for you. I suppose no one’s come hobbling in saying they’ve lost their foot?”
“No,” grinned Wells. “Did you know the new DCI has arrested Sadie Rawlings on suspicion of attempted infanticide?”
Frost stopped in his tracks. “Sadie? He’s bloody mad.”
“He reckoned there was enough salt in her baby’s bottle to kill an elephant.”
“I can imagine her killing an elephant, but not a baby. She’s a long way from being a bloody saint, but she’d never try to kill her kid. The man’s a bloody fool.” He sniffed. The siren call of sausage and bacon was wafting from the canteen.
“I’m off for some breakfast.”
The phone rang. Wells answered it. “Hold on, Jack! It’s the manager from Supersaves. They’ve had a letter from some nutter claiming he’s poisoned some of the food on their shelves.”
“Supersaves? Half their stuff tastes as if it’s been poisoned anyway. Send DC Morgan.”
“He’s out collecting the CCTV tapes from the multi-storey car park.”
Frost frowned. “The car park?” Then he remembered. Oh—the rape. “Send an area car—it’s probably a hoax.”
“Jordan and Simms have just gone out to see the parents of a girl who went missing last night.”
“I’m flaming starving. There must be someone else you can send?”
Wells shook his head. “Only you, Jack.” Frost took a farewell sniff of the heady fry-up aroma which was trying to Pied Piper him upstairs. “Sod it! Tell him I’m on my way.”
2
The letter, handwritten in block capitals on cheap A4 paper, read:
I HAVE POISONED A BOTTLE OF SUPERSAVES OWN BRAND EXTRA STRONG MOUTHWASH, A BOTTLE OF SUPERSAVES “VINTNERS CHOICE” WINE AND AN ECONOMY SIZE TIN OF SUPERSAVES HAPPYBABE MILK POWDER. TO IDENTIFY THEM, I HAVE MARKED THEM WITH A BLUE CROSS. YOU WILL NOT FIND THEM IN THE PROPER AISLE. I HAVE HIDDEN THEM AROUND THE STORE. GET TO THEM BEFORE YOUR CUSTOMERS DO OR YOU’LL HAVE DEATHS ON YOUR HANDS. INSTRUCTIONS TO PREVENT A RECURRENCE WILL BE SENT TO THAT SHIT BEAZLEY.
Henry Martin, the store manager, a man in his late forties, looked underpaid and overworked. His desk overflowed with papers and his in-tray spilled over. It reminded Frost of his own office. Skilled at reading typescripts upside-down, he squinted at a charming, red-inked, underlined memo to the manager from the store owner, Mr. Beazley, which was headed “ARSE-KICKING TIME” and began: “If that stupid useless prat who thinks himself a greengrocery manager . . .” Frost nodded to himself. Typical Beazley. A bullying bastard. He had met him before and knew what an arsehole the man was.
Martin was pacing up and down the office in agitation, sucking nervously at a cigarette.
“What do we do?” he pleaded. “What the hell do we do? There’s no way we can shut the store down. The boss would do his nut.”
Frost gave a non-committal grunt and returned his attention to the blackmail letter. Beazley, the owner of the store, would do a lot more than his nut. “Do you have the envelope?”
Martin shook his head. “Why should we keep them? When the post is opened, envelopes are shredded.”
“Great,” said Frost. “Saves us the bother of finding out where it was posted.”
“Of course it might be a hoax, but we can’t take the chance,” said Martin, plonking down in his chair.
“Then shut the store down until you find the marked items,” said Frost.
“If I shut it and it’s a hoax, I’ll be queuing up at the Job Centre before lunch.”
“If it’s not a hoax,” said Frost, “I’ll invite you and Mr. Beazley to the postmortems.” He took a sip of coffee and shuddered. It tasted foul. Probably Supersaves own economy brand. He pushed the cup away and read the letter again.
“. . . GET TO THEM BEFORE YOUR CUSTOMERS DO OR YOU’LL HAVE DEATHS ON YOUR HANDS.” “My feeling is that this isn’t a hoax. But if you’re prepared to take a chance . . .”
“I’ve got the staff out now, checking the aisles,” said Martin, “and the check-out girls are keeping their eyes open just in case a customer has put one in their trolley.”
“You should close the store down until you find the lot,” Frost told him.
Martin looked horrified. “Mr. Beazley would never allow that. We’re trying to contact him, but he hasn’t reached his office yet. If we shut down without his consent, he’ll be furious.”
“It won’t make him happy if customers come in with dead babies as proof of purchase, asking for their money back,” said Frost. “Kick everyone out and shut the flaming place down.”
“But if it turns out to be a hoax . . .”
“Flaming heck,” said Frost. “Is that your theme tune?” He moved to the window and looked down at the store, its aisles thronged with customers, mingled with hordes of red-overalled Supersaves employees searching the shelves.
There was a tap at the door and a thin, be spectacled man sporting a lapel badge reading ASSISTANT MANAGER came in, followed by a young, red-overalled assistant clutching two bottles to her chest. “We’ve found these so far, Mr. Martin. One wine, one mouthwash.” He took the items from the girl and handed them to the manager.
Frost groaned. “Why don’t you pass them round the store so everyone can have a turn mauling them about? I’d hate the blackmailer’s fingerprints to be nice and clear so we can find out who he is.”
“Sorry,” flushed the assistant manager. “I didn’t think.”
Slipping a polythene bag over his hand to avoid adding any more fingerprints, Frost carefully took the items from Martin and placed them on the desk. “Where were they?”
“We found the wine in the Grocery Warehouse, on a shelf by the door. The mouth wash was in the Household aisle.”
Frost unscrewed the cap of the mouthwash and sniffed. The smell was unmistakable. “Bleach,” he said. “Well, one thing’s for sure—we can stop deluding ourselves it’s a hoax. This bastard means business.” He turned to the assistant manager. “What about the baby milk powder?”
“We’re still looking.”
“Find it,” ordered Frost, “and quick.” He turned to Martin. “Shut the bleeding place down.”
“Yes,” agreed Martin. He turned to the assistant manager. “Close the store. Say there’s an electrical fault or something—we can tell Mr. Beazley it was on police orders.”
Frost waited until the assistant manager and the girl had left. “They found the wine in the warehouse area. Who’s allowed in there?”
“The warehouse staff and staff from the shop floor who help to unload and stack.”
“Members of the public?”
“Oh no. Staff only.”
“Then it’s odds on it being an inside job. Can you think of any member of staff who would have a grudge against Supersaves?”
“Every bleeding one of them,” said Martin bitterly. “Me included. Mr. Beazley is not the nicest person to work for.”
“I’ve met him,” sympa
thised Frost. “I wouldn’t work here for a thousand quid a day. Let me have a list of all employees—include those who have been sacked or left within the last month or so. We’ll run them through the computer.” He read the letter through again. “It’s not dated. It came today, did it?”
“I think so,” said Martin.
Frost stared at him. “You think so? Don’t you flaming well know?”
“It could have come on Saturday. We have limited clerical staff on duty at weekends. Head Office correspondence gets priority, other stuff is left unopened until Monday.”
“Bloody brilliant,” muttered Frost. “He says instructions to stop his actions will follow. I take it you would have told me if you had received a blackmail demand.”
“We haven’t received it, and of course I’ll let you know when we do.” Martin looked through the office window down to a store now devoid of customers. “I wish they’d hurry up and find that missing jar. Mr. Beazley will be furious. He’s not renowned for his tolerance.”
Frost’s stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten yet. “Do you serve breakfasts here?” Before Martin could answer there was a tap at the door. His eyes brightened as the assistant manager came in.
“You’ve found it?”
The man shook his head. “We’ve exhausted all possibilities, but we’re going over everything again.”
“It could have been sold to a customer,” said Frost. “We’ll have to get the media on to it to warn the public.” He reached for the phone.
“Hold it!” said the assistant manager. “It might not be necessary.” He pulled a computer printout from his overall pocket. “That baby powder is a brand-new line. We didn’t put it on the shelves until all stock of the old line had gone. It went on display late on Sunday, just before closing time. A box of twenty-four. I’ve checked and there are twenty-three left—only one has been sold, and that must be the adulterated one.”
“So how does that help us?” asked Frost.
Martin took over. He could see what the assistant manager was getting at. “We can check the printed receipts. When it goes through the check-out, the product is registered. If the customer paid by credit card we can easily get their name and address from the credit-card company.”
A Killing Frost Page 3