Frost 6 - A Killing Frost

by R D Wingfield

  He slid his chair back and stood up. ‘If that’s all . . .’

  ‘That’s not bloody all,’ snarled Skinner, his hand waving Frost back to his seat. But he’d run out of steam. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of something else, but he had covered everything in the tirade Frost had closed his ears to. ‘Just make sure you obey my orders to the letter in future. Comprende?'

  ‘Absolument pas,’ said Frost.

  He stuck his head round the door of the Incident Room to find Collier seated in front of a monitor, watching CCTV footage of late-night traffic the previous night. Collier pressed the Stop button when Frost came in.

  ‘More traffic about last night than we thought, Inspector,’ he reported, showing Frost the list of registration numbers he had noted down.

  ‘What do “L” and “V” mean?’ asked Frost.

  ‘That means it’s a lorry or a van, Inspector. All the rest are private cars.’

  ‘He won’t have come in a lorry or a van,’ said Frost. ‘Concentrate on the cars. We got the tape from the building society yet?’

  ‘There isn’t a tape, Inspector.’

  Frost gaped. ‘Why not?’

  ‘We took the CCTV tape out yesterday for examination. They didn’t replace it.’

  ‘You are bloody joking?’ croaked Frost.

  Collier shook his head. ‘I’m not joking. They didn’t replace the tape.’

  Frost stared at him incredulously. ‘The stupid bleeding sods.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do about it except swear, I suppose, and that’s not my style. Carry on, son.’

  Collier returned to the monitor and started the video again. A mustard-coloured Volkswagen Beetle sped across the screen. Frost’s eyes dimmed as he remembered . . . He’d had a mustard Beetle before he was married. He used to take his young wife-to-be out into the depths of Denton Woods. The larks they had got up to in that old car. They were mad about each other then, so what went wrong? Why did it all go sour? Why did she die hating him? Why? . . . Why?

  It must have been his flaming fault. Couldn’t he do anything bloody right?

  ‘You all right, Inspector?’ asked Collier, concerned.

  ‘I’m fine, son,’ grunted Frost. ‘Just fine.’

  He told Bill Wells about the ‘Request for Transfer’ form on Skinner’s desk. ‘It’s not Kate Holby, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Wells. ‘It would have come through me first, surely?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘And why would he lock it in his drawer if it was her?’ A sudden thought occurred to him. ‘It must be him - Skinner. Perhaps there is a God after all, and he’s not staying.’

  ‘He’s been on the blower to the decorators, chasing them up to do his office. He wouldn’t do that if he was leaving.’

  Frost shrugged and shook his head. He’d exhausted all possibilities. He picked up Wells’s phone. ‘I’d better ring the hospital to see how Taffy is. I want to find out if I can spend his wreath money.’ He dialled. ‘Hello Nurse. Is that the morgue? Do you have the body of a Welshman - little bloke, big dick? You’ve got lots of little men? Right, I’ll hold on while you check the other bit.’

  Wells looked concerned, then grinned when he saw that Frost still had the phone rest down. ‘You nearly had me going there, Jack.’

  Frost dialled the hospital and spoke to the Ward Sister. ‘He’s being discharged as we speak,’ he told Wells. ‘I’ll go and pick him up.’

  He was driving Taffy - who was rabbiting away about one of the young nurses on the ward - back to the station when the radio paged him. It was PC Lambert from Control.

  ‘Inspector, Mr Beazley from the supermarket has phoned. He’s heard about - his words - the balls-up last night. Leaving out the swear words, he wants to see you right away. He says if you’re not there in fifteen minutes he’s getting his money back from the building society and suing the police for the rest.’

  ‘All right,’ sighed Frost. ‘As he’s asked nicely, I’m on my way.’

  The customer car park was filling up so he drove round the back to the staff car park. ‘Try and look as if you’re at death’s door, Taff,’ he said. ‘I want to get a bit of sympathy.’

  Morgan stepped out of the car and surveyed the staff car park, then nudged Frost and pointed. ‘Cor. Look at that, Guv. I had one of those years ago. Smashing little cars - mine was pillar-box red.’

  Frost looked where Morgan was pointing. He stopped dead. It was a mustard-coloured VW Beetle.

  He slipped back into the driving seat. ‘Hold on a minute, Taff.’ He radioed the station. ‘Tell Collier I want the registration number of that bilious yellow VW Beetle we picked up on CCTV last night.’ He waited, then nodded. ‘Thanks.’ It was the same car.

  ‘That car, Taff, was logged coming into and leaving the town centre at the time the money was taken last night. If our luck’s in, we’ve found the bloke who clouted you round the head. Let’s find out whose it is.’

  The brown-overalled delivery man humping empty boxes down the stairs was most helpful. ‘The Beetle? Yeah . . . I had one years ago. Great little cars. That one belongs to Miss Fowler - Beazley’s secretary.’

  Frost’s eyes glinted. He was getting excited now. ‘A woman, Taff, not a man. That tom said she saw a woman at the Fortress cashpoint. I had an idea it was an inside job and someone who hated Beazley, and that’s her to a flaming T. He’s always yelling at the poor cow. And come to think of it, she was there when I told Beazley we wouldn’t be doing a stake-out last night . . . that’s why she took a chance.’

  ‘You need more than a car to prove it’s her, Guv,’ said Morgan. ‘She could have had all sorts of reasons for driving at night.’

  Frost bowed his head in thought, then took out his mobile phone. ‘If I’d taken that amount of money out, Taff, I wouldn’t want to be caught with it on me. You know what I’d do?’

  Morgan blinked, thought for a second, then shrugged. ‘No idea, Guv.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you, my little Welsh sexpot. You can pay money into those cashpoints as well as taking it out. I’d withdraw Beazley’s five hundred quid and I’d immediately pay it into my own Fortress account. Then if I was stopped by a little Welsh prat, I’d have nothing on me.’ He dialled his contact at the building society A quick conversation was followed by a thumbs up. ‘She paid a thousand quid into her account just after midnight, last night, Taffy. So who’s a clever boy then?’

  Morgan frowned, blinked and shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Guv.’

  Miss Fowler looked up from her typing and smiled a greeting. ‘Mr Beazley is most anxious to see you, Inspector Frost.’

  ‘Not half as anxious as I am not to see him,’ said Frost. ‘But actually, Miss Fowler, it’s you we’ve come to see, and I think you know what it’s about.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her tight little smile did nothing to hide her concern. ‘I can’t think what you mean, I’m afraid, Inspector.’

  Frost switched on his deceptively friendly smile. ‘It’s about Mr Beazley’s money, love. You were seen at the Fortress Building Society cashpoint just after midnight last night, and the night before.’

  The smile flickered weakly. She found her keyboard of great interest. Then she straightened up and shook her head sadly, managing a brave smile. ‘I knew. I just knew.’

  ‘Knew what, love?’ asked Frost.

  I knew you’d be the one to find me out. The minute you walked through that door, I knew it would be you.’

  Frost looked around the typing pool. The other secretaries were straining their ears to pick up what was going on. ‘Is there somewhere we could go? Somewhere more private?’

  ‘Of course.’ She took her handbag from the desk drawer and snapped it shut, but not before Frost spotted the Fortress Building Society pass book. She nodded towards a frosted-glass door. ‘That office is empty. We won’t be disturbed.’ She stood up and beckoned one of the typists. ‘If Mr Beazley buzzes, Lynn, would you see what he wants? I’ll be with these g
entlemen.’

  ‘How long will you be?’ asked Lynn.

  Five to ten years at least, thought Frost.

  He sat at the empty desk in the office. Miss Fowler sat facing him, while Morgan stood by the window.

  For a while she was silent, shoulders sunk, head bowed, staring at the top of the desk. Frost said nothing, waiting for her to speak.

  At last she looked up. ‘It was to pay that bastard back for all the years of humiliation I’ve suffered from him. I was loyal to him, but he didn’t give a damn about how he hurt people. He’s a sadistic swine. I didn’t even want the money. I gave it all away. I’ve given him years of loyal service. You’ve seen how he treats me . . .’

  Frost sighed deeply. ‘If there was any justice in this world, love, the court would award you thousands of quid from the poor box for what you did, but there ain’t no justice.’

  ‘What will happen to me? Will I go to prison?’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be avoided, love,’ said Frost. ‘The courts don’t take kindly to black mailers. They hate them almost as much as they hate people who smack armed burglars.’

  She stared at him, then leant back in her chair and blinked in bewilderment. ‘Blackmail? What blackmail?’

  ‘Please don’t play silly buggers,’ pleaded Frost. ‘You know bloody well what blackmail.’

  She stared again. Then the light dawned. ‘You don’t think it’s me who’s been poisoning the food? You surely don’t think it’s me?’

  It was Frost’s turn to look puzzled. ‘What money are we talking about, then? You paid a thousand pounds into the cashpoint last night . . .’ His eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been fiddling the books?’

  She bowed her head.

  ‘How much?’

  She didn’t answer. Her body shook as she broke down and sobbed.

  Frost took his handkerchief from his pocket, saw the state of it and hurriedly put it back. ‘How much?’ he repeated.

  She just shook her head.

  Frost turned to Taffy Morgan. ‘Wait outside for a minute.’

  Morgan frowned. ‘Outside?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Frost, pointing. ‘The other side of the flaming door. Out!’

  He waited until a puzzled Morgan left, then turned back to the woman. His voice softened. ‘All right, love. How much did you pinch?’

  She wiped a hand over her face to dry the tears. ‘I don’t know. It’s been over years. Something like ten . . . fifteen thousand pounds.’

  ‘Can you get it back without anyone knowing?’

  She blinked at him, not comprehending. ‘Put it back?’

  He leant across the desk and lowered his voice. ‘Listen, love, there’s only you and me here. If you can get the money back without any one knowing, I’m prepared to forget all about it.’

  She sniffed back the tears and shook her head. ‘I’ve given it all away . . . animal charities, Help the Aged Cancer Research . . .’

  ‘You got any savings, love, or is there anyone who would lend you the dosh?’

  ‘My savings!’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘They would nowhere cover that, and there’s no one who would lend me that sort of money. I couldn’t repay it anyway.’

  ‘Could you borrow it from a bank?’

  ‘With what security? I don’t own my own house. Mr Beazley does not believe in paying lavish salaries.’

  Frost slumped back in the chair and shook his head sadly. ‘That, love, as we say in the trade, is a sod. I can’t help you. I’ve got to make it official.’

  She rummaged in the depths of her handbag and found a ridiculously small handkerchief, which became quickly sodden as she dried her eyes. ‘What will happen to me?’

  ‘You’ll be charged, then, more than likely, released on bail until the trial.’

  ‘And will I have to go to prison?’

  ‘I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a distinct possibility.’

  She let the handkerchief fall into the waste paper basket. ‘I couldn’t face prison. I’d rather die - I’d rather kill myself than go to prison.’

  Frost kept quiet. What could he say? That it wasn’t as bad as people made out? Because it bloody well was, especially for a woman like her.

  ‘There’s always a chance Mr Beazley won’t press charges,’ he said. But even as he said it, he knew it was a forlorn hope. Beazley would delight in putting the poor cow through the hoop. ‘Come what may, he’s got to know, love.’

  He pushed himself up from the chair, pausing on his way to the door to look out of the window at the cars, like toys, in the car park down below. The VW screamed out at him. A less unusual colour and she might have got away with it, at least for a while. Looking down at the Beetle, it once again churned up memories of early days with his young wife. If he had acted differently, or if they had had a kid . . . He shook away the thought, opened the door and called Morgan in. ‘Keep the lady company, Taff. I’m off to see Beazley.’

  Beazley’s lower lip dropped in amazement. ‘Pinching my bloody money? Over ten thousand bleeding quid? The bitch! You try and be a good employer . . .’ He took an enormous cigar from his desk drawer, bit off the end which he spat in his waste bin, then lit up. ‘Well, that’s her bloody lot. The mealy-mouthed bleeding cow. Always so high and flaming mighty, and all the time she’s been sticking her grubby hands in my till.’

  ‘I take it you are going to press charges?’

  Beazley pulled the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end. Frost noted it was still connected to his mouth by a thread of spittle, reminding him of the umbilical cord joining a space walker to his spaceship. Beazley stuck the cigar back in his mouth and let a writhing smoke ring drift lazily across the office. ‘Press charges? That won’t get my bleeding money back, will it? And giving other members of staff time off to testify in court? No bloody fear. She’s out on her arse.’ He gave a smug grin. ‘Ten thousand quid? It would have cost more than that to make the cow redundant. She’s out of here - and she can think herself bloody lucky.’ A worried frown deepened as a sudden thought struck him. He picked up his phone and stabbed a few keys. ‘If I sack someone for misconduct, can we avoid paying them their staff pension? What? Shit!! That’s a rule we’re going to have to get changed.’ He banged the phone down, then ground his cigar into his ashtray and glared at Frost. ‘Can you believe that? The bitch robs me and walks out of here with a flaming pension. Get her off my premises now. I don’t want to see her miserable face again.’

  Frost pushed himself out of his chair and hurried to the door. He was doubly pleased. First, because Miss Fowler wasn’t going to prison, and second because, in all the excitement, Beazley had forgotten all about the latest withdrawal of five hundred quid.

  A terrible scream interrupted his thoughts.

  He dashed to the window. Six storeys down, in between the toy cars, lay a crumpled figure. People were running towards it.

  There was red. Lots of red.

  He sensed Beazley standing behind him, staring down in disbelief at the scene below.

  Frost ran to the vacant office where he had left Miss Fowler, crashing into Morgan on the way. The DC was carrying a glass of water and seemed completely oblivious to the commotion outside. Frost barged him out of the way and flung the office door open. The room was empty. The window was wide open, the blind flapping. Behind him, Morgan was looking round the empty room, puzzled. ‘Where is she, Guv?’

  ‘Get an ambulance, you silly sod,’ screamed Frost. ‘Get a bloody ambulance . . .’

  The ambulance took the body straight to the morgue.

  Frost sat slumped in the passenger seat, listening to Morgan saying for the umpteenth time how sorry he was. ‘She said she felt faint, Guv. She asked for a drink of water. I had no idea - ’

  ‘You never leave a prisoner unattended,’ snapped Frost. ‘You should know that. Now bloody shut up!’ Why the hell am I taking it out on Taffy? he thought. If she’d told me she felt faint, I’d have done exactly the same thing. I sh
ould have warned Taffy. She said she’d rather die than go to prison. If she’d only waited a couple of minutes . . .

  ‘I’m sorry, Guv,’ said Morgan yet again.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, shut up.’ Frost rammed a cigarette in his mouth. This had all the makings of another lousy day.

  ‘How did it go, Jack?’ asked Wells as Frost crashed through the lobby doors.

  ‘Don’t bleeding ask!’ he snarled.

  In his office he thudded down in his chair and looked for something to hurl at the wall to give vent to his burning fury. She said she’d rather die than go to prison, so why didn’t he warn Taffy to be on his guard?

  He looked up as Wells came in.

  ‘Morgan’s told me what happened, Jack. You can’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I do blame my bloody self.’ He shook a cigarette from the pack, stuck it in his mouth and passed another one over to Wells. ‘I expect there’ll be a bleeding inquiry.’

  ‘Bound to be, Jack, but they can’t blame you. You hadn’t charged her or arrested her, so she wasn’t in police custody. They can’t blame you.’

  ‘Maybe they can’t blame me, but I flaming well do. She said she’d rather die. I should have been on my guard.’

  ‘All right, so she said she would rather die. You had no reason to think she meant there and then. But if there is an inquiry, Jack, I wouldn’t mention that if I were you.’

  Before Frost could answer, the door swung open and Skinner burst in. He glowered at the two men. ‘What’s this - a flaming mothers’ meeting?’ He jabbed a finger at Wells. ‘The lobby’s unattended. Why aren’t you there? And take that bloody cigarette out of your mouth.’

  ‘Just going,’ mumbled Wells, snatching at the cigarette and squeezing past Skinner, who watched him scurry down the corridor.

  ‘Bloody useless,’ he snarled, before turning to Frost.

  ‘Another of your sod-ups, I understand? A prisoner killed herself in police custody?’

  ‘She wasn’t a prisoner and she wasn’t in custody,’ Frost told him. ‘She hadn’t been arrested or charged.’