“We’ve got to talk to her,” said Frost. “She’ll be the one who made the phone call to Sandy Lane about the video tape.”
Car doors slammed in the car park. Frost turned back to the window. “Slippery Sam’s here. Look at the bleeding posh car he’s got.” He swilled down the dregs of his tea and cuffed his mouth dry. “Right, let’s get cracking . . .” He stopped dead and smacked a palm on his forehead. “Shit! That last call on the flaming phone—that was me checking if it was Debbie’s mobile!” He spun round to Jordan. “Is there any way we can erase it?”
Jordan thought for a moment. “We could probably wipe it off the phone’s memory, but the phone company will still have a record.”
“Human dung!” cursed Frost. “All right. If it comes to it, they will have to prove they didn’t make the call and I’ll do what every good police officer does—lie my bleeding head off!” He rubbed his face with his hands. He was always skating on thin flaming ice. One day it would crack and he’d fall in the freezing water.
PC Collier looked round the door. “Sarge, Kelly’s solicitor is here. He wants to see his client.”
“Coming,” said Wells.
Frost looked at his empty mug. They would have to wait until Kelly had briefed Slippery Sam on the lies he was going to tell before he could be questioned. “Any more tea on the go?” he called.
Deadly silence.
“Then someone bloody well make some,” said Frost, giving Taffy an encouraging kick. “Tea all round, Lloyd George.”
Taffy reluctantly pulled himself out of his chair, where he was half asleep. “Tea, Guv? Right away,” he yawned.
Frost didn’t have to wait long. Halfway through the next mug of tea Bill Wells came back.
“They’re ready for you, Jack, and Kelly wants bail.”
“I want a sex-mad teenage virgin,” said Frost, “and Kelly’s got the same chance as me!”
With Morgan tagging along, he made his way to the Interview Room, where he nodded at the solicitor, a weaselly-faced man you definitely wouldn’t buy a second-hand car from—he looked more of a villain than Kelly, who was sitting beside him. Frost waited for Morgan to set up the tape recorder, then opened his folder.
“As you know, Mr. Kelly, on information received we obtained a warrant enabling us to search your premises, where we found you in possession of these items.” He reached down and pulled up a polythene sack filled with the packets of coke Kelly had been carrying in the house. He took out one of the packets and showed it to the solicitor. “Forensic tests haven’t yet been carried out, but we have every reason to believe they contain an illegal substance.”
“As I explained to you earlier, Inspector,” said Kelly, in his reasonable voice for the tape recorder, “I found them in my airing cupboard. I had never seen them before. Someone must have planted them there.”
“You were found with these packets in your arms and were intending to flush them down the bog.”
“Hold on, Inspector,” interjected the solicitor. “You have no idea what my client’s intentions were.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Simpson,” said Kelly, still in his reasonable voice. “The inspector is quite right. To my shame, I did intend to flush them down the loo. I wanted to get rid of them. I knew he would never have believed they were planted. Inspector Frost is not a very trusting man.”
“Planted?” scoffed Frost. “Then who would have had access to your airing cupboard?”
Kelly smiled. “Someone who wanted to get me into trouble, Inspector. Perhaps the very same person who gave you the information you used to obtain the search warrant.”
Frost reached down beneath the table and brought up the box containing the credit cards, jewellery and mobile phone. “We found this hidden at the back of your airing cupboard too,” he told Kelly.
Kelly shrugged. “Never seen it before in my life. Whoever is planting these things is doing a good job.”
“Just a moment, Inspector,” interjected the solicitor. “What is the significance of this? What have these items got to do with the drugs that were planted on my client?”
Frost took a swig of cold tea. “Serendipity Mr. Simpson. We looked for drugs, the rest was a bonus.” He glanced at Kelly. “Drugs might be the least of your client’s problems, Mr. Simpson.”
“Oh?” said the solicitor. “Perhaps you could elucidate.” He leant back smugly, arms folded.
Frost poipted to the mobile. “That phone, which we found hidden in your client’s airing cupboard, was owned by Debbie Clark.”
Simpson gave a scoffing sniff. “The dead teenager? Tut, tut, Inspector, you are scraping the bottom of the barrel this time. I am sure there are thousands of phones of that make and model.”
“But not with the same phone number,” said Frost, playing his trump card. He leant across to Kelly. “We’ve checked the phone number. The phone we found in the airing cupboard is Debbie Clark’s phone. We are now talking murder.”
Kelly jerked back as if he had been hit. “I’ve never seen the bleeding phone before. It’s been planted. It’s been bloody well planted. Bloody hell. On my mother’s life . . . Drugs, yes. Bleeding murder, no.”
“Then how did the phone come to be in your possession?” demanded Frost.
Before Kelly could answer, the Interview Room door crashed open and a red and sweaty-faced, angry-looking Detective Chief Inspector Skinner burst in, swaying slightly, quivering with rage. “Frost! Out here. Now!”
It was Frost’s turn to be angry. “Didn’t you see the red light? I’m interviewing a suspect.”
“I don’t give a sod what you’re doing. Out here—now!”
“Excuse me for a moment,” apologised Frost to the solicitor. “I believe my superior wants to commend me for something.” He rose and walked out to confront Skinner in the passage. “How bloody dare you interrupt me when I’m questioning a suspect?”
“Don’t try your high and mighty larks on me, Frost,” retorted Skinner, breathing out clouds of whisky fumes. “What are all these officers doing in the Incident Room—on overtime unauthorised by me?”
“We are following a line of investigation,” said Frost, trying to remain calm.
“You don’t follow any lines of investigation without getting my approval first, especially for a tuppence-ha’ penny-possession-of-illegal-substances and receiving-stolen-goods pull. Send all those men home, now.”
“I’m questioning a suspect in connection with the murder of Debbie Clark and Thomas Harris.”
Skinner stared at Frost with eyes he was finding difficult to focus. “A suspect?” He grabbed Frost by the arm and pulled him into his office. “Tell me about it.”
Frost told him, skipping the details about breaking into Kelly’s house first.
Skinner leant back and considered this. “You got a warrant on information received. What information?”
“An anonymous phone call, about the drugs,” said Frost. “He’s phoned me before and his gen is always bang on.”
Skinner folded his arms and grinned with smug satisfaction. “You looked for drugs, you found the phone. Bleeding marvellous. You reckon they killed the kids and took the video?”
“They’ve got the girl’s phone,” said Frost. “That’s a good enough start for me.”
“And for me,” nodded Skinner. “OK, Frost. Piss off home now, I’m taking this case over. Don’t try to muscle in on any of my cases again. You find a suspect, you find me. You don’t try to steal the bloody glory.”
Frost stamped out to the lobby to commiserate with Sergeant Wells.
“At least you won’t have to do all the questioning, Jack. He’d have taken the kudos for cracking the case anyway.”
“I laid my bleeding job on the line by breaking into Kelly’s house,” wailed Frost. “I do all the flaming dirty work—”
They both looked up as, with a blast of cold air, the doors opened and a young, flashily dressed girl in high heels tottered in. She had clearly been drinking and it was a
n effort for her to walk over to the desk. Over-made-up, her lipstick was smudged and her lavishly applied cheap perfume battled with the aroma of gin. “Where is he?” she demanded of Wells. “How much longer have I got to sit in that bloody car.”
“Where is who, madam?” asked Wells.
“John. That big copper—grey suit, red tie. He’s supposed to have a room booked at the hotel for us. I’m bleeding shagged out waiting.”
Eyebrows raised, Wells and Frost looked at each other, silently mouthing the word “Skinner!”
“I’ll go and get him for you,” volunteered Frost.
Skinner, who was just about to enter the Interview Room with a bundle of case files under his arm, scowled as Frost approached. “I told you to piss off!”
“This is important,” said Frost. “Your granddaughter is in the lobby. She’s going off the boil waiting for you.”
Skinner glared. “You’re pushing your bleeding luck, Frost.” He dug in his pocket, fished out his wallet and extracted a twenty-pound note which he handed over. “Stick her in a taxi. Tell her to wait for me in the hotel, and tell her I might be a bit late. And then leave me in peace.”
Frost stuffed the note in his pocket as Taffy Morgan emerged from the Interview Room, dismissed by Skinner. “You got your car here, Taffy?” he called.
“Yes, Guv.”
“There’s a load of quivering crumpet in the lobby. Take her to wherever she wants to go,” said Frost.
“Right, Guv.”
“And keep your trousers on.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Frost mooched back to his office, his spirits flagging. It was far too late to go to bed, and in any case his mind was still churning over the night’s events and there was no way he would be able to go to sleep. He suddenly realised he was hungry. He’d send out to the all-night chippy for some nosh.
He gave Collier Skinner’s twenty pounds. “Who wants fish and chips?” he called. “I’m buying.”
Everyone wanted fish and chips. As Collier was taking the orders the phone rang. “It’s for you, Inspector,” called Jordan.
Frost glanced up at the clock. Who the hell was calling him at this unearthly hour? “It had better not be bleeding double glazing,” he growled, taking the phone.
It was Sandy Lane from the Denton Echo.
“What the hell do you want, Sandy?” asked Frost, putting his hand over the mouthpiece to tell Collier he wanted sausage in batter with his chips. “Tell them that last bit of cod I had from them was off.” Everyone began changing their orders from cod and he had to shout to make himself heard on the phone. “What do you want, Sandy? Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I was in bed. The office phoned me. They’ve just had another phone call.”
Frost flapped an urgent hand for silence. “Another phone call? When?”
“A couple of minutes ago. Same woman as before. She said, ‘Ask the fuzz about the whipping.’ ”
Frost went cold. The lash marks on Debbie’s back. They hadn’t released that information to the press. “Where did she phone from?”
“A call box—not the same one as before. I got the number, but the exchange wouldn’t give me its location.”
“We’ll get the location,” said Frost. All public call boxes were supposed to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance, but he’d pulled everyone off for the Kelly caper. His white-knuckled hand was squeezing the living daylights out of the handset. Whoever the tart was who had phoned, it certainly wasn’t Bridget Malone.
“What’s this about a whipping? Was she beaten up?”
“Later, Sandy, later. Just give me the flaming phone number.” He scribbled it down and banged the phone back on the handset. “Forget fish and chips,” he yelled. “That tart has phoned again about the video.”
“I thought we had her banged up,” said Lambert.
“Unless she’s in two places at once, we’re bloody wrong.” He gave Collier the phone number. “Speak to the phone company and find out where this call came from.” As Collier picked up the phone he turned to the others. “The rest of you, get in your cars and start driving around. There can’t be many motors on the road at this hour. I want registration numbers of the lot, so shift . . . Now!”
They thudded out while Frost waited impatiently for Collier to finish the call.
“Shouldn’t you let Skinner know about this, Jack?” suggested Wells.
“He said he wasn’t to be disturbed and I always do what I’m told, especially when he asks so nicely.” He turned back to Collier, who still had the phone pressed to his ear. “Come on, son . . .”
The other phone rang. He snatched it up. “What the bloody hell is it now?” It was the Fortress Building Society—another five hundred pounds had just been withdrawn from the cashpoint.
“You’ve made my day,” he grunted, banging the phone down. Hell! Beazley would be on to him first thing in the flaming morning. It never rained but it peed down. Still, one lousy crisis at a time. He turned his attention back to Collier. “Don’t take all flipping day, son.”
Collier snatched up a pen and scribbled on a pad. “Thank you.” He hung up. “The call box under the railway arch by Levington Street—the one I should have been watching.”
“Don’t rub broken glass in the flaming wound,” said Frost, grabbing his scarf. “Come on, let’s take a look.”
Levington Street, with its cobbled roadway, snaked up a hill, under a railway arch, then fizzled out. Redevelopment work which would have transformed it into a more modern slum area had been on hold for six years. There were no CCTV cameras anywhere near to film traffic. That tart knew what she was doing when she picked this spot, thought Frost.
The door to the darkened call box, with its smashed light bulb, was ajar. It stank of urine, with torn yellowing pages of the phone directory carpeting the floor and a batch of prostitutes’ calling cards stuck to the wall. “Mind where you put your feet,” grunted Frost. “Hello.” He bent and picked up a small square of paper—a Post-it self-adhesive note. Holding it carefully by the edges, he shone his torch and read it. ‘655555.’ He beamed triumphantly. “That, my son, is the phone number of the Denton Echo, and this is what we call in the trade a clue!” He foraged through his pockets, found a used envelope and slipped it in. “Just in case she’s obliged us by leaving her dabs.” He plucked one of the calling cards from the wall. “Flaming heck—is she still going? She went to school with my gran.”
With his handkerchief he carefully lifted the handset and studied it under the beam of his torch. “Wiped clean. If I had a suspicious mind I’d reckon she didn’t want us to find her finger prints.” He replaced the phone, then thought for a while, staring at the coin box. “You know, son, I reckon hardly anyone uses this call box It’s stuck out on the arsehole of Denton on a road leading to nowhere, and the way it smells you’d be better off making your phone calls down a sewer.”
“What are you getting at, Inspector?” Collier asked.
“I bet there’s hardly any coins in that coin box and they’ll all have fingerprints on them, and one will have the dabs of our lady caller.” He pulled his penknife from his pocket and began to saw away at the flex on the handset.
Collier looked on, horrified, turning his head from side to side in case anyone could see what Frost was up to.
Frost examined the flex. His knife had made hardly any impression. “I don’t know how these bleeding vandals do it,” he said. “There’s a pair of wire-cutters in the glove compartment of my car. Fetch them for me, son.”
The cutters sliced through the flex in one go. “Give us the tools and we’ll finish the job,” said Frost in his Churchill voice.
“Why did you do that?” asked Collier.
“Because I don’t want anyone else using this phone until we’ve got all the coins out of the box for testing. When we get back to the station, phone British Telecom. I want one of their engineers to liaise with someone from SOCO at the crack of dawn. I want the coins removed and fingerpr
inted.”
“But she could have been wearing gloves,” said Collier.
“If she was wearing gloves, my son, she wouldn’t have had to wipe the handset clean after using it. Oh, and you can tell BT that some vandalising bastard has hacked the handset off—give them Skinner’s description if you like.”
Skinner charged out of the Interview Room and yelled down the corridor to Wells, “That bleeding woman’s thrown up all over me. Get her to Denton General. Look at my suit—it stinks of puke.” His jacket was splattered with vomit.
“Dear, dear,” tutted Wells, trying not to laugh.
“Get me a tea towel or something to wipe this off. Where’s Frost?”
“Gone home, I think,” Wells told him.
“The bastard’s never here when you want him. What about the rest of the team?”
“I believe Inspector Frost sent them home. He said you’d instructed him to do so.”
“He picks and chooses what flaming orders he wants to obey,” snorted Skinner. “Sod it. I haven’t got time to waste on a drug-possession and petty-thieving case. Bang Kelly up and I’ll finish questioning him in the morning.”
“What about the dead girl’s phone, sir?” asked Wells.
“That Malone woman probably nicked it. She threw up when I asked her. She claims she nicked the other stuff from lockers at the school. She also says there’s about half a ton of bog rolls she knifed in their garage. If Frost had done a proper search he would have found them. I can’t see anyone who nicks bog rolls being a killer, somehow. Bloody Frost. The sooner he’s out of Denton the bloody better . . .”
The hands on the wall clock in the Incident Room crawled round to five fifty-eight. Frost yawned and rubbed his stubbled chin. His team had returned with the registration numbers of the few vehicles that had been spotted, but none had had woman drivers or passengers, so they didn’t look at all promising. He yawned again. “We’ll check the CCTV footage later. Might find something we missed on there.” He stretched his aching back. “The important question of the moment is this: do we go home and grab a couple of hours’ kip before reporting to Skinner for a bollocking, or do we go down to the all-night café and have a fry-up?”
A Killing Frost Page 35