Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Don’t Miss the Other Titles

  Night Frost

  1. Sunday

  2. Monday Evening Shift

  3. Monday Night Shift

  4. Tuesday afternoon Shift

  5. Friday Night Shift (1)

  6. Friday Night Shift (2)

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  Epub ISBN: 9781407068060

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  NIGHT FROST

  A CORGI BOOK: 9780552145589

  First published in Great Britain

  in 1992 by Constable & Co. Ltd

  Corgi edition published 1992

  Copyright © R.D. Wingfield 1992

  R.D. Wingfield has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.

  About the Author

  After a successful career writing for radio, R.D. Wingfield turned his attention to fiction and created the character DI Jack Frost, who has featured in six novels. The series has been adapted for television as the perennially popular A Touch of Frost starring David Jason.

  R.D. Wingfield died in 2007. His final book, A Killing Frost, is out now.

  DON’T MISS THE OTHER TITLES IN THE DI JACK FROST SERIES

  A TOUCH OF FROST

  A wealthy businessman’s daughter is missing, the son of an MP is suspected of a hit-and-run and a multiple rapist is on the loose . . .

  ‘What impresses most is the extraordinarily vivid interplay between the police characters. Frost himself is splendidly drawn’ The Times

  ‘A funny, frantic, utterly refreshing brew’ Sunday Telegraph

  FROST AT CHRISTMAS

  Ten days before Christmas a child goes missing. Then Dead Man’s Hollow yields up a skeleton . . .

  ‘Affecting, frightening and, especially in Frost’s dialogue, extremely amusing’ Listener

  ‘A crisp, confident, ripely-characterized novel; exciting, ingenious, roundly satisfying’ Literary Review

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  HARD FROST

  One boy is found dead, another is missing and a psychopath is on the rampage. Then a supermarket MD is sent a ransom demand . . .

  ‘Crime pick of the year. Darker, funnier and more violent than the television adaptation, but just as high quality’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘Inspector Jack Frost (is) deplorable yet funny, a comic monster on the side of the angels’ Guardian

  WINTER FROST

  A serial killer is murdering local prostitutes, a man uncovers a skeleton in his garden and armed robbers hit the local minimart . . .

  ‘Frost is a splendid creation, a cross between Rumpole and Colombo’ The Times

  ‘If you enjoy crime fiction at all, read this. If you’ve never read a crime novel in your life, start with this one’ Morning Star

  A KILLING FROST

  A macabre discovery in Denton woods, two young girls missing and a supermarket reporting poisoned stock, just as DI Jack Frost meets his nemesis . . .

  ‘Another jam-packed, thrilling outing for Wingfield’s DI Jack Frost. With more twists than a bucket of eels, this is a fitting climax to an incredible series’ STUART MACBRIDE

  Sunday

  The old lady’s name was Mrs Haynes – Mary Haynes, but no-one had called her Mary for years, not since her husband died. She was seventy-eight years old and she stood on the doorstep trembling with fear.

  She had just come back from the churchyard. She went there every Sunday, weather permitting, to tidy up her husband’s grave and put fresh flowers in the cut glass vase that had once stood on the dark oak sideboard they had bought the first year they were married and which was now in the unused back room. Today, when she reached the churchyard the vicar was waiting for her, his face grim. ‘I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock, Mrs Haynes.’

  When she saw what they had done to the grave she thought she was going to pass out. The headstone she had saved for so carefully was desecrated with purple painted graffiti. A crudely drawn skull and crossbones and words she couldn’t bring herself to repeat defaced her husband’s name. The vase had been hurled against the headstone and smashed to pieces.

  The vicar was most sympathetic. He and his curate had been comforting distraught mourners all day. Vandals had left a trail of broken headstones, graffiti and strewn wreaths in a mindless moronic orgy of destruction. The police had been informed, he assured her, and had promised that the cemetery would be kept under constant observation in the hope of catching the perpetrators in the act.

  She couldn’t remember the journey home, her mind in a whirl at what had happened. Such a relief to creak open the front gate. But at the tiny porch another shock. As she fumbled in her purse for the key she noticed that the porch doormat had been moved. She was ever so careful how she replaced it when she hid the spare door key and there was no doubt it had been moved.

  Hands shaking, she lifted the corner of the mat. The key wasn’t there. Someone had taken it. Perhaps even used it to get inside. She stepped back and looked up at the house. Was it her imagination, or had the bedroom curtains shivered as if someone had just twitched them shut?

  Her gloved hand clutched her chest to hold the hurt of her fluttering heart. She needed help. Anyone’s help. A light was on next door where that awful young man with the motor bike lived. She staggered across and pressed the door bell. She could hear it ringing inside the house. No-one came. She pressed it again.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, the man with the knife smiled to himself and patiently waited.

  Monday morning shift

  Rain slashed across the windows blurring the view of the dreary houses on the opposite side of the street. Liz Gilmore, kneeling on the settee, stared out moodily. It hadn’t stopped raining since they moved into this poky little house two days ago. Married three years and all they’d eve
r lived in was a succession of rented police accommodation. ‘I hate this lousy town,’ she announced. She had never wanted to come to Denton. When the promotion came through she was hoping he’d be posted to somewhere exciting, somewhere with a bit of life – theatres, clubs, decent shops . . . not this boring little backwater.

  Her husband, Detective Sergeant Frank Gilmore, twenty-four, stockily built with dark, close-cropped hair, checked his watch for the eighth time. He wished Liz would stop her moaning. He had so much on his mind. 8.45. In a quarter of an hour he would be meeting his new Divisional Commander to take up his first assignment as a newly promoted detective sergeant. He wanted to keep his mind clear. First impressions were important. Denton was a one-eyed town, but it was the first step on the ladder leading to dizzy heights. ‘It won’t be for long, Liz.’

  She flicked back her blonde hair and picked up the local newspaper, the Denton Echo. The front page was dominated by a photograph of upturned, smashed and graffiti-desecrated headstones. Graveyard Vandals Strike Again, screamed the headline. Vicar Suspects Black Magic Coven. ‘Black magic coven,’ she muttered. ‘If I knew where it was, I’d join it. Probably the only bit of excitement in this dead-and-alive hole.’

  He faked a smile. Liz seemed to delight in shocking people with her outrageous remarks. ‘Any other news?’

  ‘“Denton crippled by flu epidemic”,’ she read, then tossed the paper to one side. ‘Graveyards, flu, poky rooms and non-stop rain. This town is just one bag of laughs!’

  Again he consulted his watch. Timing was important. He didn’t want to turn up too early. That smacked of insecurity. A newly promoted detective sergeant shouldn’t appear insecure. He wanted to breeze in at a minute to nine and be shown directly to the Divisional Commander’s office. ‘I’ll have to leave soon.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at you.’ She stood up and studied him, removing an imaginary speck of fluff from his new charcoal grey Marks and Spencer’s suit. An approving nod. ‘You’ll pass.’ And then she was the old Liz, pressing close to him, her arms holding him tight. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a bitch sometimes.’

  ‘You’re not!’ he assured her, his arms round her.

  She winced. ‘Your pen is sticking in me.’ She unbuttoned his jacket and he could feel her hot, burning body and the arousing smell of her perfume. Good old Liz. Her timing lousy as always.

  ‘You smell nice,’ she purred, nuzzling her nose against his chin.

  He frowned uneasily. At her insistence he had put on that expensive Chanel aftershave she had bought him for Christmas, but he knew it was the wrong thing. He pulled away. ‘I really must go. I’ll be late.’

  ‘And you will be back at six? None of this working all the hours God sends stuff?’

  He smiled. He was now on surer ground. The Denton Divisional Commander’s office had sent him an itemized timetable, detailing almost minute by minute his itinerary for the coming week. Denton was clearly a well organized, efficiently run station. Today, after his meeting with the Divisional Commander, he was to be taken around the station and introduced to the personnel and the various departments. Then his new boss, Detective Inspector Allen, was taking him on a tour of the district to familiarize him with the area. After lunch in the canteen (1.15-2.15) he was off to visit the local Forensic Laboratory. At 5.30 precisely, a car would collect him up and return him to his home (e.t.a. 5.55 p.m.). ‘I’ll be back by six,’ he assured her.

  One last lingering kiss and he put on his mac and dashed through the rain to his car. Liz flopped back on the settee and flicked through the paper again. She barely gave a glance to the item at the bottom of the front page: Hope Dies For Missing News Girl.

  Denton Police Station didn’t look the model of efficiency Gilmore had been led to expect. The lobby was unattended, the floor wet from a hasty mopping and reeking of disinfectant. Somewhere a phone was ringing and no-one answered it. Leaning against the counter, snorting with impatience, a middle-aged man waited. He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling as Gilmore entered, inviting him to share his disgust at the treatment meted out to rate-paying members of the public. ‘My car’s been pinched. They won’t accept details over the phone – that’s too bloody easy. You have to take time off from flaming work, hire a cab because you’ve got no car and come down in person and fill in a damn form.’

  A balding, uniformed sergeant with a mournful face came in. This was Bill Wells, pushing forty, tired and fed up. Today should have been his rest day. ‘Right, Mr Wilkins. Details have been circulated.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘It was probably taken by joyriders. If a member of the public reports it abandoned somewhere, we’ll let you know so you can collect it.’

  ‘And that’s the limit of the help I get from the police? If someone happens to spot it, you’ll pass on the message. Brilliant. Aren’t the police going to look for it?’

  ‘Of course we are,’ the sergeant told him, ‘but we do have more important things on our plate.’ He nodded towards the poster on the wall behind him. The poster displayed a black and white photograph of a child in school uniform standing by a bike. The heading read: Missing – have you seen this girl?

  The man snorted his contempt as he stamped out. ‘If I’ve got to wait for you to find that poor little cow, I’ll wait for ever.’

  Wells stared stony-faced at the man’s retreating back, then opened a door to yell, ‘Can’t someone answer that damn phone,’ before turning his attention to Gilmore. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gilmore to see Mr Mullett.’

  Behind Gilmore the lobby door opened again and two men and a woman came in, shaking umbrellas. One of the men unbuttoned his raincoat to reveal a clerical collar. ‘Appointment with Mr Mullett,’ he announced.

  ‘Yes, vicar. He’s expecting you,’ Wells told him.

  ‘My appointment’s at nine,’ hissed Gilmore, waving his itinerary as proof.

  ‘Then you’ll have to wait.’ The sergeant brushed past him to escort the trio through the swing doors to the Divisional Commander’s office.

  Fuming, Gilmore checked his watch. A minute to nine. The one thing he knew about his new Divisional Commander was that Mullett was a stickler for punctuality and, because that fool of a sergeant had let the newcomers through first, he was going to be late reporting for duty on his very first day.

  He slumped down on the hard wooden bench and prodded a puddle of disinfectant-smelling water with his shoe. The hands of the wall clock clunked round with monotonous regularity, marking out the number of minutes he was going to be late. He shifted his gaze to the missing girl poster. Paula Bartlett, aged 15, dark hair, pale complexion, height 5’ 3”. Last seen September 14th, in the Forest Lane area. September 14th! Some two months ago! She wasn’t a particularly pretty-looking kid, but perhaps the photograph didn’t do her justice.

  The swing doors clicked together as the sergeant returned. Gilmore sprang to his feet. ‘My appointment with Mr Mullett . . .’

  ‘You’ll have to wait.’ Wells had no time for jumped-up newly promoted constables.

  Gilmore felt he had to report to someone. He consulted his itinerary. ‘Tell Inspector Allen I’m here.’

  ‘He’s off sick. Everyone’s off flaming sick.’ The internal phone buzzed. ‘No, Mr Mullett, Mr Frost isn’t in yet. Yes, I did tell him nine o’clock. Yes, sir.’ He hung up.

  Rain blew in from the lobby doors as a scruffy figure in a dripping mac pushed through. He peeled a sodden maroon scarf from his neck and wrung it out. ‘It’s peeing down out there,’ he announced, then his nose twitched. ‘Disinfectant and perfume. This place stinks like a tart’s slop-bucket.’

  ‘The disinfectant is from the cleaners,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘We had drunks throwing up all over the place last night. And the poncey scent is from the new boy’s aftershave.’ He jerked his head at Gilmore, who scowled back. ‘Mr Mullett’s been asking for you.’

  ‘He’s always asking fo
r me. I think he fancies me. He likes a bit of rough.’ He unbuttoned his mac to expose a crumpled blue suit with two buttons missing. The red tie beneath the frayed shirt collar had a tight, greasy knot and looked as if it had been put on by being pulled over his neck like a noose. He turned to Gilmore and held out a nicotine-stained hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’

  Gilmore shook the proffered hand, his mind racing. A detective inspector! This rag-bag was a detective inspector? A joke, surely? But no-one seemed to be laughing. ‘You’ll be working with me,’ continued Frost.

  Now that just had to be a joke. He waved his itinerary. ‘I’ve been assigned to Mr Allen.’

  ‘All been changed – Allen’s got the pox,’ said Frost.

  ‘He’s down with flu,’ corrected the station sergeant. ‘Half the damn station’s down with it, most of the others are on sick leave following Friday’s punch-up and the rest of us silly sods are dragged in on their rest day and working double shifts.’ The internal phone buzzed.

  ‘If it’s Mullett . . .’ said Frost, backing towards the exit doors.

  It wasn’t Mullett. It was Control for the inspector. ‘The Comptons – the couple receiving the hate mail. They’ve had a fire – someone’s tried to burn their summer house down.’

  ‘On my way,’ said Frost, banging down the phone. He jerked his head at Gilmore. ‘Come on, son. If you like rigid nipples you’re in for a treat – the lady of the house is a cracker.’

  ‘But I’m supposed to report to the Divisional Commander,’ Gilmore protested.

  ‘You can do that when we get back.’

  The internal phone rang. This time it was Mullett.

  Frost grabbed Gilmore’s arm and hurried him out into the rain.

  Frost’s old Ford Cortina was tucked out of sight, round the corner from the station car-park where, hopefully, Mullett wouldn’t spot it. While Gilmore waited in the pouring rain which was finding its way through his new raincoat, Frost cleared the junk from the passenger seat, including two mud-encrusted wellington boots which he tossed into the back of the car. ‘In you get, son.’