A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost sat in his office with Hanlon and Wells, all moodily drinking Sandy Lane’s Scotch out of mugs. They were still shaken. Frost spat out a tea leaf. “Right. Why did they send us the tape?”

  Blank faces.

  “You’re a lot of bleeding help.”

  “We know there’s at least two of them,” said Hanlon. “One to take the film, the other to kill the girl.”

  “The camera could have been on a tripod,” suggested Wells.

  Frost shook his head. “No. It was jerking about too much—in any case, the girl was talking to whoever held the camera, pleading for her bleeding life.”

  A tap on the door and Jordan, Simms and Kate Holby came in, all looking shattered. “We’ve just seen the copy of the tape,” said Jordan.

  “Then you’ll need some of this,” said Frost, finding some battered polystyrene cups and slurping whisky in them. Even Kate didn’t refuse, coughing as she sipped it. It was a tight squeeze in his tiny office, some were sitting on chairs, others on the corners of the desks. “We keep this to ourselves,” said Frost for the benefit of the newcomers. “No one outside the station must know about the tape. If the parents find out they’ll want to see it and I’m not going through that. Anyone got any brilliant ideas to add to my own sod all?”

  “It was definitely taken in that office block,” said Simms. “The same walls.”

  “Yes, I noticed that,” said Frost. He snapped his fingers as a thought struck him. “She was sitting in a chair. They wouldn’t have brought one with them, so they must have taken one from the lobby.” He jabbed a finger at Jordan and Simms. “As soon as you’ve finished your booze, get over there. I want all the chairs collected and taken to Forensic. If our luck’s in for a change, there might be prints.”

  “The hands strangling her,” offered Hanlon, “definitely a man—bare hairy arms.”

  “The sod was probably naked and hairy all over,” said Frost. “The poor cow had already been beaten and raped.” He drained his cup and decided against a refill. The room was hot, he was overtired and the drink was going to his head. It was important to keep a clear mind.

  “Did you notice how he was keeping well to one side so as not to obstruct the view of the camera?” asked Kate.

  “He wanted to make certain he couldn’t be identified,” said Hanlon.

  “How could we identify him? We only saw his hands. No, it was more than that,” said the WPC. “He was making certain the camera got a clear view of the girl.”

  Frost spun round in his chair. “You’re right, girl, you are bloody right. Let’s take another look.” They drained their mugs and followed him into the Incident Room.

  They crowded round the monitor. There was silence as the tortured face of the girl appeared. Silence until the tape ended.

  Frost turned to Kate. “You’re dead right, love. Everything is arranged so we get a clear view of the girl. Nothing else matters. There’s a bit there where it judders and jerks. I reckon they stopped the camera because she moved her head, pulled it round to the camera again and restarted filming. I think we now know what’s behind that.”

  “Perhaps I’m a bit thick . . .” began Hanlon.

  “Don’t be so bleeding modest, Arthur,” said Frost. “You’re more than a bit thick, you’re bleeding thick. I reckon those bastards were making a snuff movie.”

  “What?” asked Wells.

  “There are perverts, Bill, who get their kicks out of seeing people die—preferably painfully killed. They’d pay a bomb for a video if they were sure it was genuine. I reckon the whole point of the killing was to make a snuff movie, either for kicks, for money or for both.”

  “Bloody hell,” hissed Wells.

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Frost, picking up the phone on its first ring. It was Harding from Forensic.

  Frost cradled the phone on his shoulder, wedging it with his chin as he lit up another cigarette. “What have you got?” He listened, grunting from time to time. “Yes . . . we bloody well knew that . . . Fingerprints?” His expression changed. He grabbed the phone and pressed it tighter to his ear. “Are you sure? If anyone says you’re flaming useless, tell them it’s only most of the time.” He slammed the phone down and turned to the others, who were looking at him expectantly.

  “Right. The videotape was brand new—never been used before. The bit we saw had been copied from the video-camera tape. It was copied with the audio lead out, either by accident or design. Harding agrees it had been stopped and started a couple of times, probably to re-arrange Debbie’s face so the camera could get a clear look at what the poor cow was going through. He confirms the background is the wall of the office block on Denton Road, which we flaming well knew. He’ll check it out, but is almost certain it’s the floor the boy fell from. I don’t think there’s much flaming doubt about that either. Right, now we come to the fingerprints. There were two clear dabs on the cassette—Sergeant Wells and Collier, so I’m arresting them both on suspicion. Clearly whoever sent it wiped it clean before wrapping it up. After they wrapped it and sealed it down, they wiped it again. It’s now smothered in dirty finger marks, but the odds are they came from the postal staff, plus Bill Wells who brought it to me, and me, who opened it. So far, so bleeding bad. But it looks as if they wiped off the prints after they stuck it down, so they couldn’t get to the prints on the taped folds and couldn’t wipe them off. Forensic have found two lovely clear dabs.”

  “Too much to hope they are on record?” asked Hanlon.

  “Yes, Arthur,” nodded Frost. “Too much to hope. But thanks to Forensic it narrows the field down. Before this, we didn’t have the faintest idea who did it, but now we can eliminate every one who has got a criminal record!” He sighed, took a last drag at his cigarette and ground it underfoot. “We’re still no further forward. Why did they send us the tape? To brag about what they had done, or to torment us for being a load of twats?—as if we didn’t know that already.” He sighed. “Come on, let’s kill that bottle of whisky.”

  As Frost pushed himself up out of his chair, the door burst open and Sandy Lane came in. “No one at the desk, so I let myself in,” he beamed. He pointed to the monitor. “You been watching the videotape of the girl?”

  Frost’s jaw sagged. He stared at Lane, then dropped back into the chair. “What videotape?” he asked. How the hell had Lane got wind of this? Had some bastard been blabbing to the press? He shot a suspicious look at Morgan.

  “The tape of the dead girl—Debbie Clark,” replied Lane, as if it was obvious what tape he was talking about.

  “I know nothing about any bleeding tape,” lied Frost. Who had told the sod?

  Lane dragged up a spare chair and sat next to the inspector. “Come off it, Jack. We’ve just had an anonymous phone call. A woman. She said, ‘If you want a scoop, ask the filth about the video we sent them. Ask them if they’d like a video of the other girl.’ As soon as she said filth, I thought of you.”

  Frost leant back in his chair and stared at the reporter, his mind racing. “What other girl?”

  Lane shrugged. “That’s all she said before she hung up. I presume she meant that girl you found on the railway embankment.”

  “Or she might have meant that other missing teenager, Jan O’Brien,” said Frost anxiously. “You record all incoming calls, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” nodded Lane. He dug in his pocket and pulled out an audio cassette and held it aloft. “But as you haven’t received the video, there’s no point in my giving you this.” He snatched his hand back as Frost tried to grab it. “Come on, Jack. Give me a flaming break. A story like this—I could get it in all the London dailies with an exclusive byline.”

  “Sod your bylines,” snarled Frost. “My only concern is to nail these bastards. That other poor cow might still be alive. I want to find her before they do to her what they did to Debbie. I want that tape, Sandy!”

  “No way,” said the reporter firmly.

  Frost beckoned to Kate Holby. “Run the v
ideo for him.”

  As she fed the tape into the machine, he grabbed the reporter’s sleeve. “This is off the record, Sandy, strictly off the bleeding record. If you breathe a bloody word of it outside . . .” He let the threat hang.

  But Lane was unaware of Frost. He was transfixed, staring at the screen. Towards the end he turned his head away. “Christ!” he muttered as the tape flickered to a close. “I’ve seen some shitty things in my time, Jack, but this . . .”

  “We don’t yet know why it was sent to us,” Frost told him. “But until we do, we’re keeping shtum. They want us to acknowledge it, that’s why they got on to you, but we’re not going to. Nothing appears in the press, Sandy, and I want that audio cassette now.”

  Without a word, Lane handed it over. Frost gave it to Kate, who loaded the cassette recorder.

  A beeping sound, then a woman’s voice:

  “I want to speak to the crime bloke.”

  “Speaking. Who is this, please?”

  “I ain’t telling you who I am. You know that kid who was murdered—the school kid?”

  “What about her?”

  “Debbie. If you want a scoop, ask the filth about the video.”

  “What video?”

  “And ask them if they want a video of the other girl.”

  “But—”

  A click, the dialling tone, then silence.

  Frost worried away at his scar. “Sounds like a real bit of low life.” He turned to Morgan. “Not one of your girlfriends is she, Taff?”

  Morgan grinned and shook his head.

  “She called the girl ‘Debbie’,” said Frost, half to himself. “Almost as if she knew the kid personally.” He leant back in his chair and fired a salvo of smoke rings up to the ceiling, watching them slowly disperse. “She wants publicity. She wants it in the press. Why?”

  No one could come up with a reason.

  “A snuff movie?” suggested Lane.

  “We’ve already thought of that. If it’s a snuff movie and they’re hoping to sell it, it’s only worth anything if it’s genuine.”

  “There’s no doubt it’s genuine,” said Hanlon. “That was Debbie Clark all right.”

  Frost sat up as a thought struck him. “Wait a minute . . . wait a flaming minute . . .” He turned to Sandy. “The only photograph published in the press was that old school photo taken when she was about nine. Her father wouldn’t let her have her photo taken after that. It wasn’t a very good photo and it was nothing like the way she looked now.” He clicked his fingers. “Of course! The sods want to be able to provide proof it is Debbie and not some tart acting and pretending to be Debbie. Well, they’re not bloody well going to get proof from us.” He spun round to the reporter. “She’s bound to phone you again, Sandy. When she does, tell her you’ve been to the police and they deny ever receiving a video. She’ll then have to send you—or us—another one, which might give us a bit more gen.” He stopped suddenly as another thought hit him. “If I was them, I’d then send a copy of the video to the mother. There’s no way that poor cow would keep quiet about it.” He jabbed a finger at Bill Wells. “Get on to the post office. I want them to hold all her mail until we’ve examined it. And let’s have someone on duty outside the house 24/7 in case they decide to deliver it personally. Mullett’s okayed limitless overtime. It’d be rude not to take full advantage of it.”

  Wells nodded. “I’ll put it in hand right now, Jack.” He scuttled out of the room.

  “Well,” said Frost, “we’ve got her fingerprints and her voice. If only we had her telephone number and knicker size.”

  “I’ve got the phone number,” said Lane smugly. “We’ve got caller ID. We hold the last ninety-nine calls dialled in to us.” He pulled a sheet of notepaper from his pocket and handed it to Frost. “It’s a Denton number. I dialled, but got no answer. I imagine it’s a public call box. People are getting too smart these days. They know calls can be traced.”

  Frost glanced briefly at the number, then handed the paper to Hanlon. “Get on to BT, Arthur. I want to know whose number that is and I want to know now, so no sodding about.” He drummed his fingers impatiently as Hanlon made the call.

  “Thank you,” said Hanlon, hanging up. “Sandy is right, Jack. It’s the public call box on the corner of Middleton Street.”

  Frost spun round to Jordan. “Pick up SOCO and nip down there. There could be prints on the phone.” But as Jordan reached the door, he called him back. “Hold it. She might be a creature of habit and use the same phone box to call Sandy again. I want it under constant surveillance.” Back to Lane. “I’ll lend you one of our police radios, Sandy. If she sees there’s nothing in the papers she might phone you again from the same phone box. If she does, radio through right away.”

  “What if she doesn’t use the same phone box?” asked Morgan.

  “Then we won’t bleeding catch her, will we?” snapped Frost. “Mullett’s given us carte blanche so we’ll have twenty-four-hour surveillance on every flaming call box in the area. But I still want dabs off that phone before someone else uses it. I want someone to get them who looks too much of a prat to be a policeman.”

  All eyes swivelled to Morgan.

  “OK, Guv,” said Morgan sheepishly. “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” said Frost. “Not only do you look too much of a prat, you are too much of a prat. I want someone with sense.” He turned to Kate Holby. “Change into civvies, love, then get a fingerprint kit from SOCO and make sure no one sees you taking the prints.”

  He rubbed his hands together. This was what he thrived on. Action. Getting things moving. Not sitting in a chair, twiddling his flaming thumbs. If their luck was in they’d get this cow. He stood up. “Let’s finish off that cat’s pee Sandy calls whisky. It would be a pity to let it go bad in the bottle.”

  It was a cold night with rain slashing against the window, but with everyone packed into Frost’s tiny office, which was thick with cigarette smoke, and with a warm inner glow provided by the second bottle of Sandy Lane’s whisky, Frost was sweating. He had called off the stake-out of the building-society cashpoints. Beazley could scream and shout as much as he liked, but the killing of the two teenagers was taking priority. All public phone boxes in the town were under observation, but there was no message yet from Sandy Lane. Kate Holby had checked the phone the woman had used, but it had been wiped clean of prints.

  A sudden mental image of Debbie Clark’s tortured face sent a shudder through Frost’s body. The silent scream. He banged his mug down and stood up. There had to be something on the tape that he had missed. He didn’t want to go through the harrowing ordeal of watching it again, but he had to.

  He stomped back to the Incident Room where Taffy Morgan, detailed to check through the list of cars captured on CCTV around the times of the blackmailer’s withdrawals, quickly slid a newspaper under the computer printout.

  “You’re not fooling me one bit, you lazy Welsh git,” snapped Frost. “Run that video again.”

  He waited impatiently as Taffy opened shut drawers before locating the cassette.

  Frost steeled himself, but found himself wincing, shuddering, sharing the kid’s pain and terror. “Hold it, Taff. Go back to the bit just before she screams.” He moved closer to the monitor. “She’s saying something.”

  “But we can’t hear her,” said Taffy.

  “You have a gift for stating the bloody obvious.” snarled Frost. “Maybe we can’t make out what she’s saying, but I bet a flaming lip-reader could.” Frost buzzed Johnny Johnson, the night-duty station sergeant. “Johnny, this is urgent. I want a lip-reader here, now.”

  “Now?” echoed Johnson. “You won’t get any one until the morning.”

  “Morning? What flaming office hours do they work?”

  “Jack,” said Johnson patiently. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  Frost focused bleary eyes on his wristwatch to check. “Bloody hell. Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself?”
r />   His mobile rang. Sandy Lane.

  “Yes, Sandy?” asked Frost excitedly.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Jack. She hasn’t phoned. It’s late. I’m going home.”

  “All right,” sighed Frost. “I can’t see her phoning now.”

  Back in his office, he killed the last drop of whisky, shrugged on his mac and walked unsteadily out to his car.

  A traffic car stopped him on his way home.

  “Your car’s been lurching all over the road. I’ve reason to believe you’ve been drinking, sir.”

  Frost smiled sweetly at him and slurred, “Not only have I been drinking, officer, I have a funny feeling I’m pissed.”

  The PC shone his torch. “Oh, it’s you, Inspector Frost.” He yelled back to his partner in the traffic car, “Follow us, Charlie. I’m driving the Inspector home. Move over, sir.”

  After three attempts to get the key in the lock, Frost eventually managed to open the front door. There were two messages on his mat from estate agents wanting to make appointments to view the house. He kicked at them but missed, then stumbled upstairs and flung himself, fully dressed, on the bed. He fell instantly asleep.

  He dreamt he was watching the video again, but this time there was sound, ghastly sound. The girl’s screams echoed and echoed round and round in his brain before turning into the shrill ringing of the alarm clock.

  16

  He was definitely not at his best when Sergeant Wells ushered in the lip-reader, a bird-like woman with a sharp nose and greying hair screwed back untidily into a bun. She sat uneasily in the offered chair, clutching a large handbag protectively to her chest, looking nervously at the liverish Frost, whose headache was giving him gyp. He palmed a couple of aspirins from a container and washed them down with the dregs of his tea. She declined the offer of a cup for herself, anxious to avoid anything that would delay her getting out of this dreadful place.