Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  ‘Of people butchered by her son. Don’t worry, Super. I’ll be gentle with her next time.’

  ‘There’s not going to be a next time,’ said Mullett emphatically, thumping the desk and wincing as it made his head ache.

  ‘I need to break his alibi,’ insisted Frost.

  ‘Even if you broke his alibi. Even if his mother confirmed he was out on each and every one of the murder nights, that simply means he could have killed the victims . . . you still don’t have a shred of proof which says that he did kill them. I want proof, Frost, not suspicion, not gut reaction – good, old-fashioned solid proof.’

  ‘Let me talk to her and I’ll get your proof.’

  ‘No!’ Mullett’s head was now throbbing constantly and he wished the inspector would accept the position and leave him alone.

  ‘Without proof, I’ll have to let Gauld go,’ said Frost despairingly.

  ‘That’, said Mullett curtly, ‘is your problem.’ He winced as the door slammed behind Frost and set his headache roaring off again. He could feel the sweat beading his brow as he tugged open the drawer for the aspirins. It was this wretched virus, he knew it, but if he went down, then that would leave Frost as the senior officer. And there was no way he was letting Frost run the division.

  Gilmore was waiting for him outside the interview room. ‘Gauld’s shut up like a clam. He’s going to sue us for what we did to his mother and he’s not saying another word unless we get him a solicitor.’

  ‘We’re letting him go,’ said Frost. He filled the sergeant in on his interview with Mullett. ‘But I still want him tailed twenty-four hours a day. At best we might get the bloody proof we want. At worst we can probably stop him killing another poor sod until Mr Allen returns on Monday and takes over the case.’

  ‘Will I be transferring to him?’ asked Gilmore, hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Frost.

  Gilmore tried to look disappointed.

  ‘We haven’t got the men to carry out a twenty-four hour surveillance,’ said Johnny Johnson.

  ‘You’ll have to find them,’ said Frost. ‘Plain-clothes, uniformed, dog-handlers, walking wounded . . . I don’t care. The important thing is we don’t let the bastard out of our sight even for a second.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s the Ripper?’ asked Johnson. ‘A fine lot of fools we’d look with the entire force following the wrong man while the Ripper kills someone else.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Frost.

  ‘I’ve trusted you before, Jack, and you’ve dropped me right in the muck.’ He sighed. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’

  The phone rang. Burton from the Oxfam shop. ‘Can you come over, Inspector? There’s a locked cupboard here full of stuff belonging to Gauld, and I can’t get it open.’

  ‘We’re off to the Oxfam shop,’ Frost called to Johnson.

  ‘Buying another suit?’ called Johnson after them.

  The Oxfam shop used to be a carpeting and furniture retailers until the firm went broke. Pushing past racks of used clothing and stacks of kitchen utensils, Frost and Gilmore, hastily pursued by the manageress, a thin, angular woman in a green overall, followed Burton to the rear of the shop where he led them down a short flight of stone steps to the basement. There, Burton clicked a switch and an unshaded bulb lit up a small, stone-flagged room in which an old-fashioned solid fuel boiler, belching sulphurous fumes, clanked away, a heap of anthracite glittering at its side. To the left of the boiler was another door which took them into a narrow passage where six metal lockers, painted light grey, backed against one wall.

  ‘That one is Gauld’s.’ Burton indicated the last locker in the row.

  Frost examined the solid-looking padlock and fumbled in his pocket for his bunch of keys.

  The manageress looked uneasy. ‘I presume you’ve got a warran?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frost, curtly, staring back at her, defying her to ask to see it. The second key did the trick. He turned the handle. The manageress pushed forward, eyes goggling. ‘You’d better keep back, madam. It might be a body.’ Alarmed, she hopped back, stepping on Gilmore’s toe as she did so.

  ‘Abracadabra,’ said Frost and pulled open the door.

  The locker was crammed tight with men’s clothing; jackets, trousers, shirts, assorted styles and colours. Some of the clothing was old and threadbare, some in reasonable condition, all second-hand.

  The manageress gasped and stared open-mouthed.

  ‘Looks as if he’s been nicking your stock, madam,’ suggested Frost.

  ‘I can’t understand it. Ronnie seemed such a nice boy. I’d have trusted him with my life.’

  ‘Lots of people thought the same,’ smiled Frost. ‘What exactly did he do here?’

  ‘He drove our little van – collected items that people wanted to give to Oxfam. And he would deliver some of the larger items that people bought. Oh, and he helped with the boiler . . . keeping it well stoked.’

  ‘Sounds a little treasure,’ said Frost. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about the clothes. I’m sure he’s got a good explanation.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘I think I can hear a customer in the shop.’ As soon as she had left he began examining the clothing. ‘It’s all about Gauld’s size – he was taking it for himself.’

  ‘So he’s been pinching the stock,’ sniffed Gilmore. ‘Big deal.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, son.’ Frost was getting excited. He held up a pair of torn and paint-splattered jeans. ‘Much of this is rubbish. So why did he nick it?’

  ‘I give up,’ shrugged Gilmore, not sounding very interested.

  ‘None of his own clothes were bloodstained. Supposing he kept a supply of old clothes that he could change into just for his Ripper jobs?’

  Gilmore’s eyes widened. ‘And after each job he disposed of them in the boiler! It’s so simple, it’s almost brilliant.’

  They went back to the boiler room. ‘Any point shutting this thing down?’ Gilmore asked. ‘We could rake through the ashes. There’ll be bits that don’t burn . . . buckles . . . clips . . . zips.’

  ‘It wouldn’t prove anything,’ said Burton. ‘I was talking to the manageress before you arrived. They get lots of clothes offered to them that are verminous, or too dirty to sell . . . so they shove them in the boiler.’

  ‘Damn.’ Frost gave the boiler a kick. ‘This bastard is either too clever or too lucky. If we want proof, we’re going to have to catch him in the act.’ He stretched his arms and yawned loudly. ‘Come on, Gilmore, let’s get some kip. I get the feeling we’re going to have a busy night.’

  The house was strangely still and quiet when Gilmore closed the front door behind him. Liz was either out, or had gone back to bed. He tiptoed up the passage so he wouldn’t disturb the dormant fury. In the living-room the ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud. Or was it because the rest of the house was so quiet?

  Her farewell note was tucked into the frame of the mirror above the mantelpiece. She’d used the expensive blue monogrammed notepaper he’d bought for her birthday, his name scrawled across the envelope in green ink. He read it, then dashed up to the bedroom to make sure. The unmade bed was empty, her clothes gone from the wardrobe. He crossed the passage. Her toilet things had been removed from the bathroom.

  Back downstairs he read her note again, his free hand pouring out a drink. He tried to feel sad, but couldn’t. He swilled down the remains of the drink, stuffed the note on top of the unpaid bills in the bureau and went upstairs to the empty bedroom.

  Even as his head touched the pillow he was in a deep, dreamless, trouble-free sleep.

  Friday night shift (1)

  Police Sergeant Bill Wells shivered and turned the lobby thermostat up to full in the hope that it would encourage the radiator to belt out some more heat. A waste of time, because as soon as Mullett came in, he’d complain about the lobby being like a tropical greenhouse and would turn the thermostat right down again. It was all right for him, with his 3-kilowatt heater, but let him
try working in this draughty lobby with the door opening every five minutes and that gale-force wind roaring through.

  The lobby door slammed open, the wind roared through, and there was Jack Frost, his scarf wound round his face to cover his nose. He was unwrapping himself when Burton pushed through the swing doors carrying the sergeant’s tea.

  ‘What news on Ronnie boy?’ asked Frost, warming his hands on the radiator.

  ‘He drove to the hospital at 7.22 and brought his mother back home,’ said Burton.

  ‘His mother? I thought they were keeping her in overnight?’

  ‘She couldn’t have been as bad as they thought.’

  ‘I knew the old cow was faking. So where’s Gauld now?’

  ‘Indoors. Collier’s watching the house.’

  The phone rang. Wells answered it, then pulled a face at the mouthpiece. The caller was Mullett. ‘Mr Frost, sir?’ Frost shook his head vigorously ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’

  ‘I won’t be in until later,’ said Mullett. ‘I’m feeling a bit under the weather. What have we got on the menu?’

  ‘There’s this threatened gang violence when the pubs shut, sir. Can I call on other divisions for assistance if necessary?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be necessary,’ replied Mullett. ‘Put every available man on to it.’

  ‘Mr Frost is going to need much of the available manpower to keep tracks on Gauld, sir,’ persisted Wells.

  ‘You must give Mr Frost every assistance possible, Sergeant. Both operations are top priority. I’m relying on you to ensure that each operation does not hamper the effects of the other.’

  A click as he hung up, leaving Wells spluttering helplessly at the dead phone ‘Both top priority and neither must hamper the success of the other! He knows it’s flaming impossible, that’s why the bastard’s staying away. Why is it always me?’ He swung indignantly round to Frost. ‘You’re the senior officer. You should have taken the call.’

  ‘I wasn’t here,’ said Frost. ‘I heard you tell him.’ He hurried off to collect Gilmore, leaving Wells staring at an empty mug and slowly realizing that the inspector had drunk his tea.

  PC Collier champed at the cheeseburger. He was parked at the end of the little cul-de-sac, tucked tightly behind a cream-coloured Ford Consul whose owner had decided it would look better in green, but had abandoned the idea after painting just the front wing. The car radio, on which he reported every fifteen minutes that there was nothing to report, was turned down low so that its stream of messages were not audible to passers-by. His eyes were fixed on the house in mid-terrace. Gauld’s house. Parked opposite the house, but out of sight from Collier’s position, was Gauld’s Vauxhall Astra.

  He twisted his wrist so he could see his watch. A quarter to ten. He’d been stuck down this side turning for some two hours. In mid-bite something made him pause. Movement reflected in the rear-view mirror. Two men, keeping tight to the wall, stealthily approaching, obviously up to no good. Collier sank down in his seat so his head was below the window and waited. Suddenly the car echoed like a drum as someone pounded a fist on the roof and jerked the door open.

  ‘Are you playing peek-a-boo, Collier?’

  He grinned sheepishly and kicked the yellow polystyrene food container out of sight under the dash. It was Detective Inspector Jack Frost with the new chap, Gilmore. ‘I spotted you coming, sir. Thought you were villains trying door handles.’

  The car lurched as Frost and Gilmore climbed inside and settled themselves down on the back seat. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. He’s still inside. Went in with his mother just after eight. Hasn’t come out.’

  Frost’s nose began to twitch suspiciously. ‘Can I smell cheeseburger?’

  Collier blushed. ‘Yes, I did have one, sir.’

  ‘Did you cook it in the car,’ asked Frost, innocently, ‘or was it delivered?’

  ‘Delivered?’ frowned Collier, not sure what the inspector was getting at.

  ‘You didn’t bloody go off watch to get it, did you?’ barked Gilmore.

  ‘I’ve had nothing to eat for hours. I wasn’t gone more than five minutes.’

  ‘Five minutes!’ repeated Frost, sadly. ‘A lot can happen in five minutes. I could have five women in five minutes – on an off day. Is his car still there?’

  Collier craned his neck, but the Ford Consul blocked his view. ‘I think so,’ he stammered.

  ‘You think so?’ exploded Gilmore. ‘If you’ve blown this, Collier . . .’

  ‘Nip out and see,’ said Frost, trying not to let his anxiety show. Collier was soon back and Frost’s heart nose-dived as he read the answer in the young constable’s white face.

  ‘His car’s gone, sir. A couple of kids said he drove off about five minutes ago.’

  ‘You stupid fool!’ yelled Gilmore.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ said Frost, ‘I should have had two men in the car, not one.’ He leant forward to grab the handset. ‘Frost to Control, receiving?’ He barked out his orders for all cars, all patrols, to be on the lookout for Gauld’s Vauxhall and to report the sighting immediately.

  Half-way back to the station, Frost smote his forehead with his palm. ‘The Oxfam shop! He might try to burn the evidence there.’ He radioed through to the station requesting a man on permanent watch at the Oxfam shop.

  ‘I haven’t got anyone to spare,’ protested Wells.

  ‘Just do it,’ said Frost, switching off the set before Wells could reply.

  As they roared past a public house they noticed a gang of youths pouring out of an old van and making for the public bar. They seemed to be spoiling for a fight.

  He sat in Control, listening to the stream of radio messages, a mound of mangled corpses of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray at his side. He hardly looked up when Wells banged a cup of tea in front of him.

  ‘Bloody Collier,’ snarled Wells. ‘He must choose the busiest flaming night of the week to sod things up.’

  ‘I sodded it up,’ said Frost, lighting another cigarette and offering the packet to Wells. ‘Collier didn’t have the experience and I shouldn’t have left him on his own.’

  PC Lambert, the officer on Control duty, twisted his head. ‘Inspector! Punch up at the Denton Arms. A gang of yobbos smashing the place up. Can I send a couple of cars?’

  ‘Send one,’ said Frost. ‘I need all the rest.’

  ‘One won’t be enough,’ protested Lambert.

  ‘It’s better than sod all,’ Frost told him. ‘Tell it to drive with its sirens screaming full blast. With a bit of luck the pub will empty before they burst in.’ He tossed his cigarette packet across to Lambert. ‘And I want them back searching for Gauld’s car as soon as they’ve mopped up the last drop of blood and guts from the sawdust.’ He sipped his tea and shuddered at the taste while Control directed Charlie Able to the pub.

  No sooner was that task completed than Control was in trouble again. ‘Serious domestic at Vicarage Terrace. Neighbours report couple seem to be smashing the happy home up. They can hear kiddies crying. I’d like to send a car.’

  ‘You’re car-mad,’ admonished Frost. ‘Haven’t you got a foot patrol who could handle it?’

  ‘It will take a quarter of an hour for the foot patrol to get there. There’s kiddies involved!’ protested Control.

  ‘The kids won’t get their throats cut. Some senior citizen will if we don’t find Gauld quickly. The bastard’s going to try it on again tonight, I just know it.’

  Anxious squawks from Control’s headphones. Lambert turned a permanently worried face to Frost. ‘The fight at the pub is getting out of hand, sir. It’s sprawled into the street. Windows have been smashed and they’re damaging cars now.’

  Frost sighed. ‘All right, son. You handle it. Send what you want.’ His mouth felt stale and bitter. The last thing he wanted was another cigarette, but he lit one up. Nothing was going right.

  It was Burton who saved the day. Control switched the call to the e
xternal loudspeaker.

  ‘Have located Vauxhall Astra registration K, Kansas, X, X-Ray . . .’

  ‘Sod the phonetic spelling, Burton,’ yelled Frost, snatching the handset from Control. ‘Where is the bastard?’

  ‘He’s parked half-way down Wedgewood Street. I only spotted him by chance.’

  At Frost’s raised eyebrows, Control indicated Wedgewood Street on the large-scale map. A derelict side street in an area scheduled for demolition. ‘I can’t think what he’s doing down there, Inspector. All the houses are boarded up and empty.’

  Frost nodded and went back to Burton. ‘You got him in full view?’

  ‘Yes, I’m parked right at the end with my lights off. I don’t want him to see me.’ A pause, then, ‘Damn!’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘He’s turned his lights off. There’s no street lamps down there. It’s pitch black.’

  Frost peered up at the wall map. ‘He’s got to pass you to come out.’

  ‘Only if he stays in the car. If he goes on foot he can cut through any of the empty houses.’

  ‘Right. We can’t be sodded about any more. If he’s still in the car, arrest him and bring him back here . . . parking without lights . . . any excuse you can think of. And hurry.’ Frost drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited. Then a crackle from the loudspeaker.

  ‘Have subject car in view.’

  ‘But is the sodding subject in the sodding subject car?’ demanded Frost.

  A pause. Then, ‘Subject car is empty . . . repeat empty.’

  ‘Shit,’ moaned Frost, ‘repeat shit! I suppose he hasn’t got out just to have a pee or something innocent like that?’

  ‘No sign of him anywhere,’ said Burton.

  With a weary grunt, Frost flopped back in his chair. ‘Right, son. This is what you do. You immobilize his car . . . wee in his petrol tank, let his tyres down, anything, just so he can’t use it. We don’t want him driving off the minute your back is turned.’

  He waited nervously sucking at his cigarette until a blast of static from the loudspeaker announced Burton to report that he’d immobilized the car.

  ‘Good boy. Still no sign of him?’