A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “I won’t get caught,” said Frost stubbornly.

  “You said you wouldn’t get caught with your fiddled car expenses.” countered Wells.

  “That’s right,” snorted Frost. “Hit me with bleeding common sense. It’s stupid, it’s daft, it’s suicidal, but I’m going to do it. I’ve turned Kelly’s house over enough times. I know my way around it blindfolded, and I know how to get in without leaving a trace.”

  “But Jack—”

  Frost waved him to silence. His radio, which was on the desk in front of him, was squawking. It was PC Jordan.

  “Inspector, Kelly and the woman have just left 23 Dunn Street in a light-blue Citroën heading for the town centre.”

  Frost glanced up at the wall clock. Ten thirty-four. “They’re going to the Blue Parrot. They go there every Friday night. Keep on their tail. Once they’re inside, radio back and I’ll send someone else to take over the surveillance for when they come out.”

  “Roger.” The radio clicked off.

  “What’s this about, Jack?” demanded Wells. “Jordan and Simms are supposed to be checking a suspected flasher at Flint Street.”

  “This is more important than a flaming dick-dangler. Kelly and the tart go to the Blue Parrot every Friday night and stay until two o’clock in the morning. That gives me over three clear hours to turn their pad over.”

  “You’re mad, Jack. Stark, staring mad. You joined the force to uphold the law, not break it.”

  “I didn’t join the force to stand idly by when a kid’s life could be in danger just because some fat cow of a magistrate won’t sign a search warrant.” Frost unhooked his scarf and yelled down the corridor for Taffy Morgan.

  “Yes, Guv?”

  “Get your jemmy and a sack marked ‘Swag’. We’re going to do a spot of house-breaking.”

  “You’re taking Morgan with you?” asked Wells incredulously.

  Frost nodded.

  “Then it’s doomed, Jack. It’s flaming doomed.”

  No lights were showing from the front of the house as the car cruised past. Frost tapped Morgan’s arm. “There’s a road round the rear—next turning on the left. Let’s make sure there’s no sign of life round the back.”

  Morgan drove round to the back street, where a high brick wall with wooden doors fastened on the inside provided a back entrance to the houses. Only one of the houses showed a light. Frost did a quick count: it wasn’t Kelly’s house. He double-checked. He’d be a real right prat if he broke into the wrong house. “One last check, Taff,” he muttered, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and dialling Kelly’s number. He let it ring and ring before clicking off. “No one at home,” he reported. “Park here, Taff, and switch off the lights.” He looked up at a starless sky. “A burglar’s moon. Just what we want.”

  Morgan didn’t share the inspector’s enthusiasm. “I don’t like this, Guv.”

  Before Frost could reply, PC Jordan radioed in. “I’m at the Blue Parrot, Inspector. Kelly’s parked the car. They’re entering the club now.”

  “Keep the car under continuous observation. They shouldn’t be out until gone two, but if they emerge any bleeding earlier, don’t keep it to yourself. Let me know right away. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a couple of hours.”

  Frost lit up a cigarette and noticed that his hand was shaking. His sprained wrist was aching like mad—it was not in an ideal condition for climbing over brick walls, but it was now or never. He rubbed it to ease the pain. An icy blast of chilling premonition that things were going to go badly wrong rippled through his body. “Right, Taff, it’s over-the-top time.”

  “Do you want me to come with you, Guv?” asked Morgan, praying for a ‘no’.

  “No, Taff. For two reasons. If it all goes pear-shaped it’s better that one silly sod is caught instead of two, and secondly, if you come with me you’re bound to sod things up. Stay in the car with the engine running, and if I come charging out with people screaming behind me, don’t say ‘What’s going on, Guv?’—just put your foot down and drive the flaming heck out of here—making sure I’m in the bleeding car first.”

  “Right, Guv,” nodded Morgan.

  Frost pinched out his cigarette and dropped it back in the packet. “Come on, Taff. Give me a leg up so I can get over the wall, then I’ll unbolt the back door ready for a speedy withdrawal, or coitus interruptus as we call it in the trade.”

  Morgan, too nervous even to grin, heaved the inspector up to the top of the wall. Frost pulled himself to the top, wincing at the pain from his wrist, when –

  “Shit!”

  A security light flashed on, flooding the back garden with light. Frost hugged the top of the wall, trying to bury himself into the bricks. Then he gave a sigh of relief as something scuttled along the ground below him. The security light was in the garden of the house next door and had been set off by a cat. Heart hammering, he pressed harder against the top of the wall, waiting for the neighbours to come out to see what had triggered the security light. He waited. Nothing happened. The cat had probably caught them out many times before.

  Sliding over, he dropped down into Kelly’s garden, narrowly missing the cucumber frame that Taffy Morgan would have hit spot on, then he quietly unbolted the back gate and opened it. “Back in the car, Taff,” he said to Morgan. “Engine running and ready to get the hell out of here.”

  Morgan nodded and returned to the security of the car.

  Leaving the back gate slightly ajar, Frost made his way up the path towards the rear of the house. It was dark. There were tall wooden fences on each side which meant the chances of him being seen were limited. Crouching down, he hurried to the back door and, ever the optimist, tried the handle. It was locked.

  The old Victorian house had sash windows, which were usually a sod to open quietly. He hoped the catch inside wasn’t on. He managed to get his fingernails under the frame, then his fingers. For a change, his luck was in. The window slid upwards, but in the silence of the night the creaking sound screamed out. Someone must surely hear that. He paused, listening, ready to run—but nothing.

  The beam of his torch travelled around an expensive fitted kitchen in charcoal grey with solid teak worktops. A knee up on the sill and he was inside.

  Again he paused, ears strained. The silence was broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room and the thudding of his heart.

  He headed to the large, double-doored, American-style fridge-freezer, which was crammed with all sorts of expensive foods and bottles of wine. He helped himself to a strawberry then went straight for the chiller compartment. Nestling next to the tomatoes and salad stuff was a roll of greasy banknotes, just where he expected to find them. Kelly was nothing if not consistent. He riffled through the wad—about six thousand quid. Crime was definitely paying for Kelly. He replaced the notes where he found them and pushed through a door into the dining room, walking across deep-piled, expensive fitted carpet to a massive oak sideboard.

  Frost pulled open a couple of drawers and made a half-hearted search, but his gut feeling was that whatever Kelly had to hide, he wouldn’t keep it in such an obvious place. His gut feeling also told him the missing girl wasn’t in the house. That would be too much to hope for.

  He gave the lounge a quick going-over—a massive forty-two-inch plasma screen dominated the room and there were surround-sound speakers all over the place. A flashy figured walnut cocktail cabinet bulged with wines and spirits.

  He followed his torchbeam up the stairs. First stop the bathroom, where he lifted the ceramic top of the lavatory cistern and took out a water proof bag. Five thousand pounds or more in used banknotes and about twenty small polythene packets of white powder—drugs of some kind. Not what he was looking for. He put them back in the cistern and replaced the lid.

  A car horn sounded. He stiffened. God, was it Taffy? Was Kelly back early? But no, Morgan wasn’t that subtle. He’d jam his thumb on the horn and wake up the whole bleeding street. He held his breath and
listened. The sound wasn’t repeated. He expelled his held breath and fished out a screwdriver from his mac pocket, then turned his attention to the panels on the side of the bath, another favourite hiding place of Kelly’s. Tunelessly humming to himself, he began to turn the screws holding the panel in place.

  Back at the Blue Parrot, Jordan yawned and looked again at his watch. He hated surveillance duty especially when you were on your own. Nothing to do but stare out of the windscreen. You daren’t pick up a paper or a magazine for a quick read—something always happened the minute you took your eyes away. Friday was a busy night—cars kept driving in and out, shrieking, shouting passengers alighted or embarked. Everyone but him seemed to be having a great time. He yawned again and shivered. It was cold in the car, but he couldn’t put the heat on in case it sent him to sleep. He took a swig from his flask of coffee. He had smoked too much. His fingers were oily with nicotine and his mouth tasted foul. The last thing in the world he wanted was another cigarette, but there was nothing else to do. He lit one up and stared out again at the light-blue Citroën parked on the other side of the car park.

  Frost had to resist the temptation to smoke. Kelly was a non-smoker and the absence of ashtrays suggested the woman was also. They would detect the smell of cigarette smoke the minute they entered the house.

  The screws were proving obstinate, but at last he got the panel off and poked his torch inside. Nothing. Absolutely sod all! Not like the last time he did the place over, when it was jam packed with expensive fax machines and DVD recorders, and Kelly had expressed utter hammy astonishment as to how they had come to be there. “God’s truth, Inspector, someone’s trying to frame me.”

  He tried to replace the panel, but the damn thing wouldn’t go back in the space it had come out of so easily. He banged it with his fist and the hollow sound echoed round the empty house. Shit. He froze, hoping no one had heard. He tried again. Still the stupid bleeding thing wouldn’t cooperate, in spite of being helped with his knee. Double shit. If he couldn’t get the flaming thing back it would be a dead give away. He had a sudden thought and turned the panel upside-down and tried again. This time it purred into place. Hands sweating, he replaced the screws, noting that he had managed to chew the heads of a couple of them. He rubbed in some grime from the soles of his shoes to disguise the shiny scratches and hoped they wouldn’t be noticed. A cigarette. He’d give his bloody right arm for a cigarette. Wiping his sweaty palms down the sides of his trousers, he made his way into the main bedroom.

  Nothing in the bedroom. Not a bloody thing! Doubts began chewing away at his inside wasn’t going to find anything. Everything would go wrong. He’d be caught red-handed in the flaming house and Mullett would think Christmas had come early. What had he got? Sod all, really. Just a name the poor kid may or may not have called out and someone with a nick name that matched. He went to the window and peered out at the back alley just to make sure Taffy hadn’t decided to nip off and get some fish and chips. The car was still there a Taffy was in the driving seat, looking more or less awake. Why had he come here? Bill Wells was right. He was stark, staring, flaming mad.

  He left the bedroom and stood on the landing looking up at the ceiling. There was a trapdoor leading to the loft. There wouldn’t be anything in the loft. He knew it. There never was and Kelly was a creature of habit, but he had to look. It was his last hope. A quick flash of his torch on his wristwatch. Flaming hell. He’d been here over an hour and still hadn’t finished. He hoped Kelly and Molly Malone were enjoying themselves.

  Jordan shook his head and reached out again for the flask of coffee. It was supposed to help keep you awake, but all it did was make him want to pee. He was bursting. He nipped out for a quick slash behind the car, then climbed back into the uncomfortable driving seat. He looked at his watch. Only an hour had passed. It seemed like flaming years. Where was the relief Frost was supposed to be sending?

  There was a gentle tapping on the side window. Good old Frost, for once he hadn’t forgotten. Jordan opened the car door so that WPC Kate Holby could slide into the seat beside him. He filled her in, pointing out the location of the Citroën. She was about to leave for her own car when— “Jordan! What the hell are you doing here?”

  Shit! Detective Chief Inspector Skinner was all tarted up in a smart suit, stinking of beer and with a nasty ‘I’m looking for trouble’ glint in his eye.

  Jordan’s mouth opened and closed. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

  “I asked you what the hell you were doing here, both of you?”

  “Surveillance, sir,” Jordan choked out at last.

  “Surveillance?” Skinner checked his watch. “At this time of the bloody night. Who authorised it?”

  “Inspector Frost, sir.”

  “And where is Inspector Frost?”

  “Back at the station, I think, sir.”

  “And what, Constable, are you supposed to be surveillancing?”

  “Suspect is a chap called Kelly, sir. Receiver of stolen goods.”

  “And he’s inside the club?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With his arms full of stolen goods?”

  Jordan thought quickly. “He sometimes seeks orders for stolen goods from contacts in the club, sir. We want to follow him to find out where he’s got them stashed.”

  Skinner gave Jordan a cold, hard stare, then turned his attention to Kate Holby.

  “And what do you think you’re doing here?”

  The girl flushed. “I’m relieving PC Jordan.”

  “You’re doing surveillance as well? Who the hell gave you permission to do surveillance? Have you finished compiling those lists that I gave you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t I say you were to do no other duties until you’d finished everything I’d allocated you?”

  “Yes, but Inspector Frost—”

  “You don’t take orders from Inspector Frost, you take them from me. This is a bloody waste of time. I’m the only one who authorises surveillance overtime and this is unauthorised. Clear out of here right now, the pair of you, and tell Inspector Frost I want to see him first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector,” mumbled Jordan.

  “Now!” yelled Skinner. “Clear out of here now!” He waited for Kate Holby to return to her car and for Jordan to reverse and leave the car park. As Jordan did so, he noticed a flashily dressed woman in Skinner’s car, obviously waiting to be taken into the club. He doubted she was Skinner’s wife. No wonder he wanted the surveillance discontinued.

  Jordan was backing out when, to his horror, he saw Kelly and Malone leaving the club and making for the Citroën. Kelly had his arm round the woman, who didn’t seem very well. This was confirmed when she turned her head and vomited all over the tarmac.

  “Shit! They’re leaving early.” He snatched up his mobile to warn Frost.

  The loft was tightly crammed with junk and looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for years. The floorboards were crumbling with dry rot and Frost nearly put his foot through to the ceiling below. A quick flash around with his torch revealed nothing. He climbed down and brushed dust and cobwebs from his coat. He checked his watch. One thirty. Plenty of time. Kelly never left the club until two at the earliest.

  Jordan had lost Kelly’s car. He was so sure Kelly was heading for home that he had overtaken him in case he saw he was being followed. He tucked into a lay-by and waited. And waited. Shit! They must have turned off down one of the side roads, but where the hell would they be going at half one in the flaming morning? Hoping and praying Skinner wasn’t listening in, he radioed all area cars asking them to keep a look-out for Kelly and to report back as soon as they saw him.

  He had tried to ring Inspector Frost on his mobile phone to warn him, but all he got was a recorded message that the person called was not available and would he like to leave a message. Typical! Frost had switched the damn thing off. He tried Frost’s radio. “Inspector Frost, come in please . .
. Please . . . come in . . .”

  Why Frost suddenly decided to look in the airing cupboard was a complete mystery to him. His experience of his own airing cupboard was that when you opened the door the contents cascaded out all over the floor and had to be rammed back with much swearing. He tentatively opened the door, his torchbeam crawling over neatly folded towels and sheets. On the bottom shelf lay a pile of assorted items in a card board box. He pulled it out and examined the contents. Creditcards, chequebooks, cheque-guarantee cards, all in different names—clearly the spoils of theft.

  As he was pushing the box back, he spotted another one at the back of the shelf. He pulled it out half-heartedly and lifted the lid. Wrist watches, cheap jewellery, assorted credit cards and . . . His heart stopped. At the bottom of the box was a phone. A Nokia mobile phone. The same make, model and colour as Debbie Clark’s missing mobile.

  Taffy Morgan had just finished off a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and was chucking the screwed-up bag out of the window when he suddenly heard a muffled voice.

  “Inspector Frost, come in please . . .”

  Where the hell was it coming from? The glove compartment. He opened it and there was the pocket radio Frost should have taken with him. Morgan pulled it out and answered the call.

  “For Pete’s sake, get hold of Inspector Frost!” yelled Jordan. “Kelly’s left the club. We think he’s on his way home.”

  Hands trembling, Frost carefully wrapped a handkerchief around the mobile, took it out and examined it more closely under the light of his torch. It was switched off, so he clicked it on. What next? There was no indication of the phone’s number. On his own mobile there was a way to bring the owner’s number up on the screen, but he couldn’t remember how it was done and didn’t want to press keys randomly in case it messed things up. He brought up the menu. The battery level was very low—it looked ready to die at any minute. He switched it off quickly. If the phone was dead there was no way he could find out if it was Debbie’s.