A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Morgan swung an ineffectual kick at the hinge side of the door, then leapt back, clutching his leg in pain.

  “Prat!” hissed Frost, kicking hard just under the lock. There was a splintering of wood and the door crashed open.

  They plunged into the room, where a semicircle of empty chairs faced a computer. Debbie Clark’s father was bent over the keyboard. On the screen, lists of names were rapidly vanishing. Harry Edwards pushed past Frost and clicked the computer off.

  Clark shot a smug, knowing nod to Alman. “I don’t know how I did it,” he said, trying to sound apologetic, “but I think I’ve accidentally erased everything on the hard drive. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “These things happen,” said Alman. He stepped back and waved an expansive hand at Frost. “If you’d like to search this room, Inspector . . .”

  Frost groaned inwardly and turned appealingly to Edwards, who beamed back a reassuring smile.

  “It’s a lot harder to delete things on a computer than one would think,” said Edwards, sitting down and switching the computer back on. He frowned impatiently at the monitor as the computer seemed to be taking forever to boot up. “Come on, come on,” he urged. At last the ‘Welcome’ screen appeared, but repeated clicking of the mouse brought nothing else up.

  “You need the password,” Alman told him. “But in all this excitement and upset, I’m afraid I’ve completely forgotten it.”

  “No need to apologise,” said Edwards. “Nearly everyone seems to forget their password when I’m around. Now let’s see if we can jog its memory and make everyone happy.” His fingers blurred over the keyboard as Frost held his breath. Lines of text flashed across the screen, only to vanish and be replaced by more text. Frost hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on, but hoped Edwards did. It was taking so long, he was beginning to lose hope. Alman seemed to be sighing with relief, but his optimism was short-lived.

  At last Edwards stopped, and pushed the chair back from the screen. “I’ve got it all back, Inspector,” he announced.

  “What do you want—applause?” grunted Frost. “If you’ve got it, let’s flaming well see it.”

  Edwards slid the mouse across its pad and clicked away. The screen rapidly filled up with postage-stamp-sized coloured images with text underneath, all too small for Frost to make out what they were. One small picture was selected, a magnifying-glass icon was clicked and the image filled the screen.

  Frost screwed up his face in disgust at the photograph of a naked, hairy man forcing a naked child of no more than seven or eight on to a bed. The child was terrified and tearful.

  Frost swung round to Alman in disgust. “So what’s your text for today, Father Alman? ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’?”

  Alman flushed deep red, but said nothing. Clark, pretending to be disinterested, was edging towards the door.

  “That’s one of the milder ones,” Edwards told him. “Take a look at this.” He brought up another image.

  “Leave it,” cried Frost. “It might give these two bastards a sexual thrill, but I’m ready to throw up. I’ve seen enough.” He turned to Alman. “You, sunshine, are under arrest.”

  Clark cleared his throat. “Look, Inspector, this has got nothing to do with me. I just popped in to visit a friend. I know nothing about these images, so if you will excuse me . . .” He scooped up his briefcase and moved towards the door, but Frost blocked his path and held out a hand. “I’d like to see what you have in your briefcase, Mr. Clark, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m afraid I do mind, Inspector,” said Clark. “This has absolutely nothing to do with me. I came here for a Bible class. I had no idea Alman was involved in anything like this. You may have a search warrant to search this house, but not the property of innocent people who are only visiting.”

  “I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong,” Frost told him. “The search warrant covers everyone and everything that happens to be in the house at the time.” He spoke with all the conviction he could muster, but wasn’t sure of the facts himself and hoped he was right. The bleeding law was so tricky, but he didn’t have time to mug it up. Again he extended his hand. “Your briefcase, please.”

  With a snarl, Clark hurled the briefcase at Frost and looked away as if isolating himself from its contents. Frost opened it. Inside was a laptop computer.

  “I wonder what we’re going to find on here?” beamed Frost. “I’m all agog.” He passed the lap top over to Edwards.

  The computer man cleared a small table of papers and positioned the laptop. He opened the lid, pressed some keys and little coloured lights flashed. It took less time to boot up than the desktop model. He stroked the touchpad, clicked on an icon and the screen filled with thumbnail images similar to those on the desk top. He enlarged one. Another small child being abused.

  Frost waved an agitated hand in disgust. “Switch the bleeding thing off.” He turned to the two men. “Well, well, well. Two dirty bastards for the price of one. No Bible class for you, I’m afraid, Mr. Clark—I’m arresting you as well. I hope your friends in high places won’t get too upset.”

  Alman shook off Morgan’s hand. “This is outrageous! We’ve done no harm. These were bought for our private and personal use. Think we are perverted if you like, but we have harmed no one.”

  Frost jabbed a finger at the desktop computer. “Done no harm? If bastards like you weren’t prepared to pay through the nose for this filth, bastards like that hairy sod wouldn’t be putting kids through such torment.”

  The doorbell rang. Alman and Clark exchanged worried glances. Frost twitched the curtain and looked out. A thin, middle-aged man clutching a laptop-sized briefcase was waiting on the doorstep. “Another student for the Bible class,” said Frost. “Show the gentleman in, Taff.” He peeked through the curtains again. Another car pulled up outside and another man, also holding a briefcase, got out and made for the house.

  Frost beamed with delight. “This is like shooting fish in a barrel. I’ll have to get some more back-up. I think this is going to be our lucky day.”

  Sergeant Wells slammed the cell door shut and turned the key. “We’re going to run out of cells at this rate, Jack,” he moaned.

  “The price you have to pay for my brilliant success,” said Frost. “Five of the bastards. All we had to do was wait for them to ring the doorbell and then run them in.”

  “Inspector Frost!” Clark was calling from the end cell. “Can I have a word?”

  Wells unlocked the door and Frost went in. Clark was sitting on the bed, looked deflated and dejected.

  “What is it?” asked Frost.

  “I know what you must think of me, but I’m still a father. Any news of Debbie?”

  “We’ve got teams out searching now, but nothing so far. As soon as there’s any news, you’ll be informed.”

  Clark’s head sank. “Thank you,” he mumbled, knuckling tears from his eyes. “Thank you so much.”

  Wells closed the cell door and locked it again, then raised an eyebrow at Frost.

  “Crocodile tears,” Frost told him. “Clark is my number-one, prime bleeding suspect. When we find his daughter she’ll be dead, and that bastard will have killed her.”

  He looked in on the Incident Room, where Harry Edwards was now checking and printing out the contents of the confiscated computers.

  “Lots of duplicates, Inspector,” he said. “They obviously swapped the goodies around.”

  Frost had a sudden thought. He unpinned a photograph from the pinboard and gave it to him. “If she’s in any of the downloads, let me know.”

  Edwards studied the photo and laid it on the desk. “Lovely little kid. Who is it?”

  “Clark’s missing daughter, Debbie.”

  The man looked at the photo again. “But she’s only about six or seven. I thought the missing girl was in her early teens?”

  “It’s the only photo we have of her,” said Frost. “Her doting father had a thing about her being photographed in ca
se dirty bastards other than himself drooled over her. There might be early photos of her on the computer.”

  “I’ll see what I can find.” Edwards pinched his nose and rubbed his eyes. “Some of these are the nastiest I’ve seen, and I’ve seen some bloody filth in my time. There’s a couple with kids and dogs.”

  “Rather you than me,” said Frost.

  Morgan was waiting for him when he got back to his office.

  “We’ve turned Alman’s place over, Guv. Nothing else, but a few more addresses we can check.”

  “We’ve got enough on our hands with the bodies we picked up today,” said Frost. “The rest will have to wait.”

  “One of them is a doctor,” said Morgan.

  “Show me!” Frost took the list and whistled softly. “Dr Cauldwell! Mrs. Clark’s GP. The one Clark invited me to contact to confirm his wife imagined things about him lusting after his daughter. Hardly an unbiased confirmation, then. We’ll check that sod out first.” He flopped into his chair and fished out his cigarettes. “Anything else?”

  “You’d better see this, Guv,” said Morgan. “They were under our noses and we nearly missed them.”

  Frost took the sheet of bright-green A4 paper. It was the weekly announcement of Alman’s Bible classes. He skimmed through it and handed it back. “So?”

  “Look at Sundays, Guv,” insisted Morgan.

  Frost took back the sheet and looked again. He went cold. His mouth dropped open and the unlighted cigarette fell to the floor. “Shit, shit and double shit.” He read it again in disbelief. Sundays, 2.30–3.30. Children’s Bible Class. “Children! The bastard has kids in there.” He pushed Morgan out of the way and marched down to the holding area, yelling for Bill Wells to unlock Alman’s cell.

  “We never touched the children,” blurted Alman, white-faced. “On my word of honour, we never laid a finger on those kids.”

  “Your bleeding word of honour isn’t worth shit,” roared Frost.

  “Look, Inspector,” pleaded Alman in a ‘let’s be reasonable’ voice, “I’m a lay preacher. My Sunday School is all above board. Yes, I liked being with children. It gave me pleasure, but that is as far as it went. I might have wanted to do things, but I didn’t.” He spread his hands. “Don’t you see? If I tried anything and they reported it, I’d be finished. I wouldn’t dare risk that.”

  “You’d better be telling me the truth,” snarled Frost, “otherwise I’ll personally come in here, ruin my career and castrate you with my bare bleeding teeth.” He stepped back and signalled for Wells to slam shut the door and lock it.

  “Do you think he’s been interfering with those kids?” asked Wells.

  “My gut reaction is that he likes dribbling over photos, but hasn’t got the guts to do anything else. But we can’t take any chances. I want the names and addresses of all those kids, then I want a team to call on the parents.”

  “Where are we going to get this team from, Jack? I’ve got most of the lads out searching for Debbie Clark and her boyfriend.”

  “Scrape the bottom of the barrel . . . use Taffy—and that young WPC, the new girl—what’s her name, by the way?”

  “Kate Holby. And you can’t have her. Skinner’s got her correlating the past five years’ crime statistics.”

  “That’s a bleeding waste of time, and soul destroying.”

  “I know. That’s why Skinner gave it to her, Jack. He seems to have it in for her.”

  “Why?”

  Wells shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is he’s trying to get her to jack the job in, so he’s giving her all the shitty jobs he can find. He had her on a cot death yesterday, and you know how everyone fights shy of them.”

  Frost nodded grimly. He’d had his share, so he knew only too well. Parents crying, the mother in hysterics clutching the dead baby, defying any one to try and take it from her.

  “He sent her on her own? We always send two officers.”

  “Skinner said he didn’t give a monkey’s what we always did—she went on her own. As you know, we have to treat all cot deaths as suspicious, so Kate had to get the baby from the mother, and strip it so she could examine it for signs of injury or abuse. Nineteen bleeding years old. She was shaken rigid when she came back. Skinner’s a real right bastard.”

  “What’s he got against her?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. There’s something, but she won’t say. Anyway, you can’t have her.”

  “Yes I bleeding can. She can stuff Skinner’s crime statistics. I want her and Taffy to interview the parents. They mustn’t mention the word ‘paedophile’ or suggest the kids might have been sexually abused. They can tell the parents that one or two Bible Class pupils think they had stuff stolen, so have their kids lost anything? If the parents have any suspicions at all, I reckon they’re bound to tell a cop calling on them.”

  Frost looked up as Taffy Morgan and Kate Holby returned to his office.

  “Covered most of the parents, Guv,” reported Morgan. “None of them gave any hint. A couple reckoned their kids had lost money and now think it could have been pinched, but that’s all.”

  Frost grunted his approval. This was what he had hoped for.

  “I’d better get back to DCI Skinner’s work,” said Kate.

  “Hold it, love,” said Frost. “I’ve got something better you can do. You were on the last Fortress Building Society stake-out, weren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you’re on another one tonight. It’ll be an all-night job, so go home, get a bit of kip and report back at eleven o’clock for some overtime.”

  “But DCI Skinner said—”

  “I’m overriding him. He’ll take it out on me, love, not you, so don’t worry. Now off you go.”

  She smiled a loin-tingling smile. “Thank you.”

  He watched her go. “Cor,” he purred. “If I was thirty years younger, and a dirty bastard like Taffy.”

  But Wells was looking puzzled. “What’s this about a stake-out? I’ve got no authorisation for overtime.”

  “Skinner’s left me in charge, so I’m giving you the authorisation,” replied Frost. “The same team as before.”

  “But the blackmailer’s already taken the five hundred quid for today.”

  “So he’ll come just after midnight. Trust me, Bill, I’ve got one of my feelings.”

  “You’ll be in the shit if you authorise all that overtime and he doesn’t turn up, Jack.”

  “He’ll turn up,” said Frost. But even as he said it the doubts began piling up and up . . .

  Quarter past eleven. The Incident Room was warm and no one was looking forward to huddling in shop doorways on the off chance that the blackmailer might do Frost a favour and get himself arrested in the act of taking some more money from the building-society account. But the overtime money would come in handy and had to be grabbed while it was going. The red-hot rumour was that Skinner was going to cut overtime to the bone.

  Frost gloomily sipped his mug of tea as he surveyed his team. His feeling that tonight would be the night they caught the blackmailer had long since evaporated and he suspected this was going to be another expensive waste of time. Too late to call it off now, though. But they were spread too thinly. Bill Wells had only managed to rake up Simms, Jordan and Collier. Everyone else was involved in the search for the missing teenagers and there was no way they could be expected to stay alert all night, then start the search again at seven the next morning.

  Also there, of course, was Taffy Morgan, with WPC Kate Holby, who looked stunning and vulnerable, wearing a fleece jacket over a tight-fitting grey turtleneck sweater and slacks. She doesn’t look more than sixteen, thought Frost. Just a kid—who we’ll soon be sending out on her own into pubs to break up fights between knife-wielding drunken skinheads, or to scrape road-accident victims’ bodies off the road. Just a bleeding kid!

  He glanced quickly at the clock. Twenty past eleven. “Right. You know where you’ll be stationed. Go and take up your position
s, but do it in dribs and drabs. I don’t want a coach-load of the Old Bill all turning up at the same time. And remember, we’re only there for the stake-out. We turn a blind eye to muggings, rapes, peeing in shop doorways and flashers. We leave them to on-duty uniforms to handle. We don’t touch them—understood?”

  A murmur of assent.

  “Right. If you want to do a wee, do it now, and off you go. If we catch him tonight, I’ll buy us all an Indian . . .”

  Frost retreated further into the shop doorway as a squall of wind blew splashes of rain in his face. It had been threatening to rain all day, but there had only been the odd drizzle so far. He shivered. It was flaming cold. He looked quickly round Market Square to make sure Taffy Morgan was well concealed. He had given the DC the cashpoint the blackmailer had used before on the principle that lightning wouldn’t strike in the same place twice and Morgan was the one most likely to sod things up.

  He checked his watch. Six minutes to one. The bastard wasn’t coming. He knew it. If he was going to come he’d have been here just after midnight. He’d give it another hour, then call it off. He tried to concentrate on watching the cashpoint, but his mind was whirling with thoughts of the missing teenagers. Three missing and no flaming idea where they were. Were the disappearances associated or was it just a coincidence?

  His mobile bleeped. He fished it out of his mac pocket. It was Taffy Morgan.

  “No sign of anyone, Guv,” moaned Morgan.

  “Then I don’t bloody well want to know,” snapped Frost.

  “It’s freezing cold,” added Morgan.

  “We’re having a heatwave over here,” said Frost, ending the call and dropping the phone back in his pocket.

  He heard footsteps approaching and peeked out. A man with his head down against the driving wind was approaching. Frost stiffened, his hand on his mobile ready to summon aid. The man put his hand in his pocket, took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, then went on his way. Shit! thought Frost, dropping the mobile back in his mac. He looked again at his watch: Two minutes to one. Come on, you bastard, he urged. Don’t you know we’re all cold and flaming fed up waiting for you?