A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “Hold on,” said Frost. “Let’s make one last attempt to get the kiddy out.” He climbed out of Mullett’s Porsche and beckoned Kate Holby, then walked up the path with her so she was fully illuminated in the headlights. He called Taylor on the phone.

  “What now?”

  “I’ve got this young WPC here. She’s trained to handle children. Why don’t you let us have your son? He shouldn’t be placed in danger like this.”

  “No. He stays with me. She’s not having him. Where’s the press? Where’s that sod Beazley?”

  “On their way,” said Frost, aware that Skinner had slipped out of Mullett’s car and was circling round to the rear of the house. He was sure Taylor wouldn’t spot him behind the glare of the headlights. “The local TV boys are sending a team and I’ve arranged for ITV news to send a full crew, but it may take a little time. I expect they’ll want to send a cameraman into the house.”

  “No!” cut in Taylor. “No one comes inside the house.”

  “Let them see your son. You’ll get everyone on your side if they can see the kiddy.”

  “No!” screamed Taylor. “No one sees him. He stays with me.”

  He’s dead, thought Frost.

  “And I want that bastard Beazley here. I want the world to see what a shit he is . . . what that bastard has done to me.”

  “So you said. My colleague is on the phone now, trying to get him to come,” said Frost, glad to spin things out. “We can’t force him to come, but we’re trying.”

  “I want him here,” shrilled Taylor, his voice rising to a scream. “Do you hear me? I want him here.”

  “We’re trying now,” said Frost, signalling to Mullett to make the call. The Superintendent was speaking quietly into the mouthpiece but didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. “He wants to speak to you,” he said, handing the phone over to Frost.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” demanded Beazley. “If you think I’m coming in front of the flaming TV cameras you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not the bloody villain here. I didn’t try to kill bleeding babies. If he couldn’t meet our prices there were plenty of people who could. You keep my bloody name out of this, do you hear, or I’ll have your guts for flaming garters.”

  “Thank you,” grunted Frost, handing the phone back to Mullett and returning to Taylor on the other phone. “He’s on his way.”

  “Right . . . I . . . What’s that?”

  Shit, thought Frost. He’s heard Skinner. “Mr. Taylor . . . Mr. Taylor . . .” But Taylor had put the phone down. Frost could hear the thud of foot steps, and muffled voices.

  The sound of a shot blasted through the phone and echoed over the open ground.

  The colour seeped from Mullett’s face. “Did you hear that?” he croaked.

  Frost nodded grimly. “What’s going on?” he yelled down the phone. “Answer me, you sod, answer me . . .”

  Slow footsteps. A rustling as the phone was picked up. Heavy breathing.

  “Who’s this?” demanded Frost.

  It was Taylor. “You tried to trick me,” he screeched.

  “What the bloody hell has happened?” yelled Frost down the phone.

  “You sent someone up with a gun. He was going to kill me.”

  “What happened?” asked Frost again.

  “I shot him. I’ve got his gun.”

  “Is he dead?” Everyone around him held their breath, waiting for an answer.

  “No, but he’s bleeding badly. He could bleed to death.”

  “We’ve got to get him out of there . . . get him to hospital.”

  “No. If you want him, you do what I say. I want a car, with a full tank of petrol. I want that WPC to come with me. If anyone follows or tries to stop me, I’ll shoot her. I’ve nothing to lose. So help me God, I’ll shoot her.”

  “And if we do what you say?”

  “When I’m sure I’m not being followed, I’ll let her go. I won’t hurt her.”

  “Hold on,” said Frost.

  “I’m not bloody holding on. The way he’s losing blood, I’d say he’s got minutes. It’s pumping out.”

  “Hold on,” cried Frost. “I’m calling an ambulance.” He put his hand on the mouthpiece and yelled at Morgan. “Get an ambulance, Skinner’s bleeding to death.”

  “What’s going on?” demanded Mullett.

  “He says Skinner is still alive, but bleeding badly. He wants a car and Kate Holby as a hostage before he’ll let anyone in to Skinner. He says if we try to follow, he’ll kill her.”

  “Right,” said Mullett firmly, “then that’s what we do.”

  “No,” said Frost. “No bloody way. I’m not giving him a hostage.”

  “I’m willing,” said Kate. “I’ll do it.”

  “Forget it,” said Frost. “No bloody way.”

  The phone rang. “I’m not sodding about waiting,” yelled Taylor. “Two minutes. If I don’t get the car and the woman in two minutes, I’ll finish the bastard off with his own gun. I mean it.” His voice rose to a shrill shriek. “I’ll finish him off.”

  “Send in the girl,” ordered Mullett.

  “No,” Frost replied. “I’m not risking her life.”

  “I’m ordering you,” said Mullett.

  “And you’ll take full responsibility if she gets killed?”

  Mullett’s mouth opened and closed. Damn Frost to hell for putting him on the spot like this. He jabbed a finger at the inspector. “On your head be it,” he snapped.

  Back to the phone. “Mr. Taylor—”

  “Where’s the car?” yelled the man, before Frost could say any more.

  “You’re not getting a car, you’re not getting a hostage,” said Frost. “Chuck the guns out of the window, then come out with your hands up. It’s all over, Mr. Taylor.”

  Taylor’s voice was now hysterical. “Your last chance, or I shoot him.”

  “Come out with your hands up,” repeated Frost. “It’s all over.”

  The crack of a single revolver shot shattered the air.

  Shocked silence, broken by Mullett turning to Frost, his face black as thunder. “You hated Skinner. You wanted him dead. You killed him.”

  Frost said nothing. Yes, he hated Skinner, hated his guts. If the man was dead, then he was sorry—or was he? Had he secretly been hoping this would happen?

  More cars roared up the lane. The Armed Response team had arrived.

  Frost quickly filled them in and watched as they ran, half crouching, to the house. He tried to raise Taylor on the phone, hoping to distract his attention as the team burst their way in.

  “Mr. Taylor, talk to me. What have you done?” The armed police were at the front door, examining it to see if it would open with a kick. Heads shook and they silently made their way round the back to the door Skinner had used.

  “Mr. Taylor . . .” Frost was silently pleading for the man to answer, terrified he might be waiting, gun in hand, at the top of the stairs, ready to shoot as the men burst in.

  Silence. Creaking sounds. A door charged open. Silence again. Then someone picked up the phone. One of the Armed Response team.

  “Inspector Frost, we need an ambulance.”

  “On its way,” said Frost.

  “And you’d better get up here now.”

  Skinner was sprawled on the floor by the door of the upstairs room. His clothes were sodden with blood. Frost bent to touch his neck.

  “He’s dead,” said one of the flak-jacketed Armed Response team. “The other one is still alive, but he won’t be for long unless that bloody ambulance hurries up.”

  As if on cue, they heard the approaching urgent wail of the ambulance siren.

  Frost had to step carefully over Skinner’s body to get inside the room. Two of the team were waiting. Taylor was slumped on the floor, his back leaning against the wall. Frost winced. Half his jaw had been blasted away and blood bubbled from his throat. The wall behind his head was splattered with flesh, bone fragments and blood. On the floor, where it had dro
pped from his hand, was the police-issue revolver he had taken from Skinner, its muzzle wet and sticky red.

  “Must have tried to top himself,” said the sergeant. “Stuck the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger. Must have had it at an angle.”

  “Silly sod couldn’t even do that right,” said Frost sadly.

  The ambulance pulled up below.

  “Up here, quick,” yelled Frost.

  The paramedics carefully and gently lifted Taylor on to a stretcher and covered him with a blanket. They had managed to stem some of the bleeding from the shattered jaw. Taylor’s face was chalk white and his rasping breath was making blood flow again.

  “Will he live?” asked Frost.

  The paramedic looked down at the shattered wreck of a face. “If his luck’s in, he won’t,” he said.

  Frost watched them ease the stretcher down the stairs, then pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched it on. Seven unanswered calls, all from Mullett. It rang again.

  “What the devil’s going on up there, Frost?” barked Mullett. “Ah—I see they’re bringing Skinner down.”

  “No,” said Frost. “That’s Taylor. Skinner is dead.”

  Stunned silence as Mullett took this in. “What?”

  “He’s dead,” repeated Frost. “It’s now a murder scene. We need SOCO, Forensic, a doctor and a pathologist.” Then he suddenly remembered. He took the phone from his mouth and called to the sergeant. “The kid. Any sign of the kid?”

  “Next room,” said the sergeant, pointing.

  Frost dropped the mobile in his pocket and followed the man to the adjoining bedroom.

  The boy was fast asleep and completely unharmed.

  “He slept through it all,” said the sergeant. “I wish I could sleep like that.”

  Frost sighed with relief, then remembered the phone in his pocket. He fished it out.

  “Frost . . .” Mullett was shouting. “Answer me.”

  “Frost.”

  “I hold you solely responsible for DCI Skinner’s death, Frost . . .”

  “I knew I could rely on your support,” said Frost, switching off the phone. He looked down at Skinner’s body, now draped with a sheet from the bed, a sheet that was becoming more and more bloodstained.

  “I hated your bleeding guts,” he told the corpse. “I didn’t want you dead . . . but I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  19

  Frost woke with a start, screwing his eyes against the glare. The sun was hammering at the bedroom window and the room was as bright as day. Hell, he’d overslept with a vengeance. He fumbled for the alarm clock. Ten twenty-seven. A vague feeling of unease told him that something was wrong. His brain was out of focus.

  Then it hit him.

  Last night! That bloody disaster. Skinner, slumped on the floor, blood everywhere. Mullett bleating away, shovelling all the blame on to him. “You are solely responsible for his death, Frost. As sure as f you pulled the trigger, you killed him . . . You could have saved him, but you let him die . . .”

  He lay back and stared at the ceiling, his head throbbing. As he tried to piece everything together, a jumble of flashbacks elbowed their way through his brain.

  The visit to the hospital. Seeing Taylor unconscious, all drips, wires, blood-soaked bandages and tubes that gurgled from his throat, while the faltering monitors were bleeping away.

  “He’ll live,” the weary junior doctor had told him. “We might be able to repair most of the jaw, but he’s shot away the best part of his tongue, so there’s nothing we can do there.”

  “When will he be fit for trial?” asked Frost.

  The doctor shrugged. “God knows—if ever . . .”

  He organised a team of uniforms to keep vigil, although it was a waste of time as Taylor wasn’t going anywhere. But the man was a murderer and someone was bound to scream if he was left unguarded, even if he only had half a face.

  Then back to the station, where the phones didn’t stop ringing . . . the press, TV channels wanting facts and quotes, other forces offering condolences. Then the disgruntled Investigating Officer from County arrived, short-tempered at being dragged out of bed and trying to drum up some sense of urgency in the already knackered Frost, who he eyed with displeasure after accepting Mulleit’s version of events without question.

  “An officer’s life needlessly lost. There will be a thorough investigation. I want a full written report of what happened, and I want it now.” And this at four o’clock in the morning.

  He’d staggered back to his office, opened the window to tip out the contents of an overflowing ashtray on to the roof of Mullett’s car then started on the report. He’d barely put his name, rank and number when the phone rang yet again. “Yes?” he snarled.

  It was Beazley. At that hour of the night, flaming Beazley. “I’ve just heard on the radio that you’ve caught the bastard. What about my money?”

  “We’ve recovered a substantial amount,” yawned Frost. “Too many other things to do than bother to count it.”

  “It had better be all there. When do I get it back?”

  “When we’ve checked that it’s your money.”

  “Of course it’s my money. That prat Taylor didn’t have two ha’pennies to rub together. Whose bleeding money do you think it is?”

  “If the banknotes’ numbers tally with those issued by the building society, you stand a good chance of getting your money back. Until then you’ll just have to wait.” He slammed the phone down. It rang back almost immediately. He ignored it and pulled open the desk drawer for his whisky. He swigged it down from the bottle. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  He managed to catch young PC Collier, who was on his way to keep a watchful eye on Taylor at the hospital in case the man gathered up all the drips and wires and made a dash for it.

  Collier drove him home.

  He was still dead tired, fed up and miserable. Why had he had that flaming whisky? And he felt battered and bruised. Whether or not it was his fault that Skinner had died, guilt was chewing away at him. He still felt that part of him had wanted the sod to die and that he deliberately hadn’t let the WPC go in to take his place as hostage.

  Sod it. He didn’t want to go to the station and face everyone, but with Skinner dead and no one to take over his cases, he’d have to bloody well go in.

  After a quick wash and a half-hearted shave, he headed out of the front door. But his car wasn’t waiting for him in the street outside. Had some bastard nicked it? Then he remembered leaving it at the station when Collier drove him home.

  He called a minicab.

  “Denton police station,” he grunted.

  “What have the bastards nicked you for then?” asked the chatty driver. “Speeding? The bastards copped me the other night. Driving in a bus lane . . . ten minutes to midnight, no bleeding buses until the morning and they nicked me. Passenger was in a hurry, so I took a chance and they nicked me. Police cars do it all the bleeding time. One law for them bastards, another for us.”

  “There’s no justice,” muttered Frost.

  “See one of the sods got shot last night,” continued the cabby. “Hope it was the bastard who nicked me.”

  “Shouldn’t these back seats be fitted with safety belts?” asked Frost, fishing out his warrant card.

  “Honey, I’m home,” he called to Bill Wells, carefully stepping over the heaps of flowers and wreaths that covered the lobby floor. “Mullett’s mum and dad getting married?”

  Bill Wells grinned. “Morning, Jack. Seen the paper? Headline news.”

  He held out a copy of the Denton Echo—the headline read: POLICE HERO KILLED SAVING CHILD.

  “Nothing about Skinner, then,” sniffed Frost, pushing it away. He’d seen it all happen. He didn’t want to read about it.

  Wells looked at his scratch pad. “Everyone wants you, Jack. Mullett wants to see you the minute you arrive, Sandy Lane wants you to phone him and that nice Mr. Beazley has phoned about eight times.”

  Fr
ost held up a hand to cut him short. “They can all wait. I’m going to get myself some breakfast.”

  The phone rang. Wells answered it and held it out. “It’s for you, Jack. Meyers from the Crown Prosecution Service.”

  Frost took the phone. “Yes?”

  “Graham Fielding was granted bail.”

  Frost’s jaw dropped. “What! . . . A bleeding murderer? He raped and killed a girl.”

  “A long time ago, Inspector, and the defence are querying the DNA evidence. He’s married, with a business to run. The bench didn’t think he posed a risk. There was no one from the police to oppose bail . . . I thought Detective Chief Inspector Skinner—”

  “Skinner’s dead,” said Frost flatly.

  “Oh . . .” said Meyers, not really taking this in. “Sorry to hear that—then you, as second in charge . . .”

  “I’ve been up most of the night. I’ve only just come in.”

  “Well, it might have made a difference, but no use crying over spilt milk. He had to surrender his passport, his father-in-law met the £10,000 bail demanded and he’s now a free man. The trial has been set for next March.”

  “Thanks very much,” snapped Frost, banging down the receiver. “They’ve only let Fielding out on bleeding bail,” he told Wells.

  Before Wells could answer, a voice roared down the corridor. “Inspector Frost . . . my office, now!”

  “Flaming hell,” muttered Frost. “Mullett! I thought he couldn’t come out in the sunlight.” He called back sweetly, “Coming, Super,” then turned to Wells. “Probably wants me to put a stake through Skinner’s heart in case he comes back from the dead.”

  Mullett was wearing his best uniform, a black tie and a black armband. If the press or television wanted to interview him, he was ready. He frowned as Frost shambled in and flicked a finger at a chair. “The Chief Constable is very upset,” he snapped.

  “Few of us are laughing,” said Frost, flopping into the chair. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “What happened at court today?”

  “Fielding got bail.”

  “I know he got bail, Frost. I want to know why. Why weren’t you there to oppose it?”