Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  He started to yell "Gilmore!" when a fist crashed down on his face. He jerked up a knee, blindly. A scream of pain as his assailant fell back. His groping hand touched something metallic. The torch. Thankfully he grabbed it and swung it upwards like a club. A sharp crack and a groan as his attacker collapsed on top of him. Frost pushed and wriggled and managed to get on top.

  Thudding footsteps up the stairs. "Are you all right, Inspector?"

  "No, I am bloody not!" panted Frost. "I’m fighting for my bleeding life in here."

  Gilmore pushed in and fumbled for the light switch. They were in a small white-tiled bathroom. Frost, astride the intruder, was wedged between the wall and the bath. His tongue took a trip round his mouth, prodding at teeth, tasting salt.

  He stood up to get a better look at the unconscious man on the floor. His attacker was around twenty, fresh complexion, his hair black and cut short, dressed in grey slacks, a grey polo-neck sweater and a windcheater. Gilmore searched his pockets. No wallet, no identification. No sign of a weapon but over the sweater a heavy silver crucifix on a chain glinted like the blade of a knife.

  The man on the floor groaned and stirred slightly.

  "Hadn’t we better get him to a doctor?" asked Gilmore.

  Frost shook his head. "He’s only stunned." Then he remembered the old lady who should have heard all the noise and be screaming blue murder. "Let’s find the old girl."

  She was in the bedroom. In the bed, eyes staring upwards, mouth wide open and dribbling red. The bedclothes had been dragged back, exposing a nightdress drenched in blood from the multiple stab wounds in her stomach. On the pillow, by her head, was a browning smear where her killer had wiped the blade clean before leaving.

  While the little house swarmed with more people than it had held in its lifetime, Frost and Gilmore closeted themselves in the bathroom with their prisoner, now securely handcuffed. He lay still, apparently unconscious. A dig from Frost’s foot resulted only in a slight moan. On the bath rack was an enormous sponge which Frost held under the cold tap until it was sodden and dripping, then he held it high over the man’s face and squeezed.

  The head jerked, and twisted, the eyes fluttered, then opened wide. He blinked and tried to focus on the piece of white plastic bearing a coloured photograph.

  "Police," announced Frost.

  A sigh of relief as the man struggled up to a sitting position. "In the bedroom—she’s dead . . ." He winced and tried to touch his head and then saw the handcuffs. "What’s this? What’s going on?"

  "Suppose you tell us," snapped Frost. "What’s your name?"

  "Purley. Frederick Purley."

  "Address?"

  "The Rectory, All Saints Church."

  "Are you trying to be funny?" snarled Gilmore.

  Purley raised his dripping face to the sergeant. "I’m the curate at All Saints Church. Please remove these handcuffs." He tried to rise to his feet, but Gilmore pushed him down.

  "Since when do curates break into people’s houses in the middle of the night?" asked Frost.

  "I only wanted to see if Mrs. Winters was all right. I never dreamed . . ." His head drooped.

  "Why did you think she wasn’t all right?" asked Frost, dropping his cigarette end into the toilet pan and flushing it away.

  "I’d been sitting with one of my parishioners—an old man, terminally ill—giving his daughter a break from looking after him. As I walked back I saw Mrs. Winters’ milk was still on the step. After that dreadful business with poor Mrs. Haynes, I had to make sure she was all right."

  Gilmore’s head jerked up. "You knew Mrs. Haynes?"

  "Yes, Sergeant. I was with her on Sunday. Her husband’s grave was vandalized. She was so upset."

  "It wasn’t the poor cow’s day," said Frost. Then his eyes narrowed. "There was no milk on the step when we arrived."

  "I brought it in with me. I put it in her fridge."

  Frost yelled down the stairs for the SOC man to check if there was an unopened bottle of milk in the fridge and if so, to go over it for prints. Back to Purley. "How did you get in?"

  "There’s a string connected to the front door catch. I’ve used it before . . . Mrs. Winters is a cripple—she’s under the hospital, chronic arthritis. She can’t always get to the door."

  "Right," nodded Frost. "So what did you do next?"

  "The hall was in darkness. I couldn’t find the light switch, but I made my way upstairs. I tapped on her bedroom door. No answer. I went in and switched on the light and . . ." He shuddered and covered his face with his hands, "and I saw her. And then I heard the door click downstairs. I thought it was the killer coming back. I switched off the light and hid in the bathroom. You know the rest."

  A brisk tap at the door. The SOC man came in holding a full pint bottle of red-top milk, shrouded in a polythene bag.

  "This was in the fridge, Inspector. Two different dabs on the neck—neither of them the dead woman’s."

  Frost squinted at the bottle. "One should be the milkman, the other ought to be the padre here. Take his dabs and see if they match." He ordered Gilmore to remove the cuffs.

  Another tap at the door. "The pathologist has finished," yelled Forensic.

  "Coming," called Frost.

  It was cold in the tiny ice-box of a bedroom with its unfriendly brown lino and the windows rattling where the wind found all the gaps. Drysdale buttoned his overcoat and rubbed his hands briskly. "I estimate the time of death as approximately eleven o’clock last night, give or take half an hour or so either way." He pointed to bruising on each side of the dead woman’s mouth. "He clamped his hand over her face so she couldn’t utter a sound, then he jerked back the bedclothes and stabbed her repeatedly—three times in the stomach and lastly in the heart. The wounds are quite deep. To inflict them he would have raised the knife above his head and brought it down with considerable force." Drysdale gave a demonstration with his clenched fist. "As he raised his hand, some of the blood on the knife splashed on to the wall." He indicated red splatters staining the pale cream wall paper.

  "Would he have got any of that on himself?"

  "Without a doubt," said Drysdale, pulling on his gloves. "Considerable quantities of blood spurting from the wounds would have hit his right arm and blood from the blade would have spattered him as he raised his arm to deliver the next blow."

  "No traces of blood in the bathroom waste-trap," offered the man from Forensic, who was measuring and marking blood splashes on the wall, "so he didn’t wash it off before he left."

  "Dirty bastard!" said Frost. "What can you tell us about the knife, doc?"

  "Extremely sharp, single-edged, rigid blade approximately six inches long and about an inch and a quarter wide, honed to a sharp point."

  "The same knife that killed the other old girl—Mary Haynes?"

  "It’s possible," admitted Drysdale, grudgingly. "I’ll be more positive after the post-mortem—which will be at 10.30 tomorrow morning. You’ll be there?"

  "Wouldn’t miss it for the world," replied Frost.

  Gilmore was waiting for him at the head of the stairs. The vicar of All Saints had been contacted and had confirmed that his curate, Frederick Purley, had gone out to visit a terminally ill parishioner, and the SOC officer had confirmed that one of the thumb prints on the milk bottle be longed to the man in the bathroom.

  Frost groaned his disappointment. "The old lady died yesterday. So unless Purley killed her last night, then came back today just to put the milk in the fridge, we’ve lost our best hope for a suspect."

  He waited in the kitchen while Gilmore brought down the verified curate, who was vigorously rubbing his freed wrists, and who declined the offer of a doctor to look at his head on which a lump had formed nicely.

  They sat round the kitchen table where the plates were already laid for the breakfast the old lady hadn’t lived to enjoy. Frost utilized the egg cup as an ashtray. A rap at the door as PC Jordan entered.

  "We’ve been all over the house, Inspector
. No sign of forced entry anywhere. The back door’s locked and bolted and all windows are secure. He came in through the front door."

  Frost nodded, then turned to Purley. "Who else knew about instant entry with the old dear’s piece of string?"

  "Very few people, I should imagine. She wasn’t a very friendly or communicative woman."

  "So how did you know her?"

  "She used to be a member of our church senior citizens’ club until her legs got too bad. I like to keep in touch."

  "Anything about her that would make her attractive to a burglar, padre? Was she supposed to have money, or valuables in the house?"

  Purley shook his head. "Not as far as I know."

  Frost scratched his chin. "Was Mrs. Haynes a member of your church club?"

  "Yes, but an infrequent attender. She hasn’t been for months."

  "What about a Mrs. Alice Ryder?"

  "Ryder?" His brow furrowed, then he shook his head. "No. I don’t recall the name."

  "We believe the same bastard killed them all," said Frost. "There’s got to be a link."

  Purley gave a sad, apologetic smile. "Then I’m afraid I don’t know it."

  On the way back to the station they detoured to drop off the curate at the vicarage. As the car passed the churchyard Frost was reminded of the wreath dumped in the Comptons’ lounge. He couldn’t remember picking it up and was relieved when Gilmore jerked a thumb to the back seat where the wreath lay between a pair of mud-caked wellington boots.

  "You might as well take the Compton case over, son. I’m not going to have much time for it."

  "Right," said Gilmore, trying to keep the delight from his voice. A case of his own. He’d show these yokels how to get a result.

  "You don’t buy wreaths off the peg—they have to be ordered specially," continued Frost. "If I were you I’d get Burton to check with every florist in Denton."

  "That’s what I intend to do," said Gilmore.

  As they crossed the lobby with the wreath, Sergeant Wells looked up from his log book. "Who’s dead?" he asked.

  "Glenn Miller," grunted Frost. "It just came over on the radio." He was in no mood for Wells’ jokes.

  "I’ll tell you who is dead," said Wells, anxious to impart his news.

  Frost groaned, and walked reluctantly across to the desk. More cheer from Wells. The man was a walking bloody obituary column. "If it isn’t Mullett, I don’t want to know."

  Wells paused for dramatic effect, then solemnly intoned, "George Harrison! Heart attack as he was going downstairs. Dead before he hit the bottom." He leant forward to observe the effect this had on the inspector.

  Frost’s jaw dropped. Police inspector George Harrison had only retired a few weeks ago after twenty-four years ser vice. "Bloody hell!"

  "First you come round with the list for their retirement present," said Wells, dolefully, "next thing you know you’re going round with the list for their wreath. You might as well collect both at once and be done with it."

  "Bloody hell!" said Frost again. The force was his life and retirement was the one thing he dreaded. The thought made him depressed. He jerked his head to Gilmore and headed for the stairs. "Come on, son, let’s get something to eat."

  "If you’re going to the canteen, don’t bother," said Wells, happy to be the bearer of more bad news. "It’s shut."

  "Shut?" echoed Frost in dismay.

  "The night staff are still down with flu. If you want any thing, you’ve got to bring it in from outside."

  "And eat it in this ice-box?" moaned Frost, giving the dead radiator a kick. "Sod that for a lark!" Then a slow grin crawled across his face. Somewhere in the building there was a room with comfortable chairs, a carpet and a 3-kilowatt heater. He pulled the car expense sheet from his jacket pocket and licked the tip of a stubby pencil. "I’m taking orders for the all-night Chinky. Who wants curried chicken and chips?"

  "I don’t like this, Jack," said Wells. "If Mullett finds out . . ."

  "He’s not going to find out." retorted Frost, peeping inside a foil container. "Who ordered the sweet and sour?"

  They were in the old log cabin, Mullett’s wood veneer-lined office, Gilmore, Burton, Wells, and the four members of the murder enquiry team, the heater going full pelt, the room hot and steamy and reeking of Chinese food. The top of the satin mahogany desk was littered with foil containers and soft drink cans. Frost, in Mullett’s chair, smoking one of Mullett’s special cigarettes, was sorting out the food orders. "Who wanted pancake rolls?"

  Gilmore stood near the door, hovering nervously, his eye on the corridor, expecting any moment to see an irate Divisional Commander bursting through the swing doors.

  "Come on, Gilmore," called Frost. "The chop suey’s yours."

  Gilmore smiled uneasily and sat himself where he could still see down the corridor. He shuddered to think what discovery would do for his promotion chances.

  "All we want is a disco and a few birds," said Frost, spilling sweet and sour sauce on the carpet, "and this job would be just about tolerable." He swung round to Burton who was demolishing a double portion of sweet and sour lobster balls. "Mrs. Ryder died in hospital. Any news from Forensic on that knife the killer dropped?"

  Burton swallowed hard. "Nothing that helps much, Inspector. Their report’s on your desk."

  "You know I don’t read reports," said Frost, dipping a chip in his curry sauce. "What did it say?"

  "An ordinary cheap kitchen knife of a standard pattern. No fingerprints, but traces of blood type 0."

  Frost sniffed disdainfully. "That’s a coincidence—the victim was type 0." He peered suspiciously into his foil dish. "This looks like stomach contents." He sniffed. "Smells like it, too."

  "Oh God, Jack," shuddered Wells, pushing his food away from him.

  Frost addressed the murder enquiry team. "Any joy from the neighbours?"

  "Most of them are in bed," Burton told him. "We’re going to have to go back first thing in the morning to catch the rest before they set off for work. Those we’ve spoken to hardly knew the old girl. She stayed in most of the time. No-one seemed aware of the string."

  "And no-one saw anyone suspicious hanging about," added Jordan.

  "Suspicious?" said Frost, pulling a piece of gristle from his mouth and flinging it in the vague vicinity of Mullett’s wastepaper bin. "This bastard isn’t going to mooch about looking suspicious. He won’t have a stocking mask on and a bleeding great knife poking out of his pocket. He’s going to be inconspicuous. I want to know about everyone who’s been seen going up and down the street—and that applies to the other two victims as well. I don’t care if it’s the road sweeper, the postman, doorstep piddlers or even a bleedin’ dog—I want to know. People, vans, cars, the lot. We can then start comparing—see if anyone’s been seen in all three streets."

  "The computer . . ." began Gilmore.

  "The computer’s a waste of time," cut in Frost. "I’m only going along with it to keep Hornrim Harry quiet. The only way to solve these cases is by good, solid detective work. By beating the hell out of some poor sod until he signs a fake confession."

  Gilmore faked a smile. "It will be quicker with the computer, I promise you."

  "All right," said Frost. "I’ll leave it to you."

  "What about a search team for the murder weapon?" asked Burton, wiping his mouth. "He could well have chucked it."

  "Put a couple of men on it, but don’t waste too much time. My gut feeling is that the bastard has kept it—ready for next time."

  The room went quiet. "Next time?" said Wells.

  "Yes, Bill." He pushed the empty container away and fished out his cigarettes. "I’ve got a nasty feeling in my water that he’s going to kill again."

  Mullett’s phone rang. A collective gasp and all eating stopped in mid-chew.

  "It’s all right," assured Wells, "I had the main phone switched through here."

  Frost picked it up. "Mullett’s Dining Rooms," he said.

  Wells’ eyes bulged
with alarm until he realized the inspector had his hand over the mouthpiece.

  The caller was a technician from Forensic reporting that he had extensively examined all the items removed from 46 Mannington Crescent, Denton and found nothing that would link them with the murder of Mrs. Mary Haynes. As Frost listened he raised his eyes to the ceiling in despair. "Sod clearing the innocent—what about nailing the guilty for a change? I asked you to drop that and check on those two newspapers as a matter of priority. No, I don’t know who I spoke to. All right, all right." He banged the phone back on its rest. "He never got the message. Flaming Forensic. They’re about as bloody efficient as we are. They can’t start on the newspaper until tomorrow."

  "Well, it is two o’clock in the morning," Wells reminded him.

  "Then I’m bloody going home," said Frost, not bothering to cover up a yawn. "I’ve had enough for today. The rest of you, go home too. Grab some sleep and be back here by six. You can pinch some men from the next shift and start knocking on doors before people go off to work."

  "But Mr. Mullett’s rota . . ." began Wells.

  "Sod Mr. Mullett’s rota. See you in the morning."

  He looked in his office on the way out. His in-tray was overflowing. He tugged the top paper from his tray. It was PC Collier’s report on the dead body outside the refuse tip. He had almost forgotten about it. Natural causes—heart attack. Well, that was a relief. Clipped to the report was the SOC’s photograph of the dead man in situ, sharp, clear and full of graphic detail. He showed it to Gilmore.

  "I shall dream about that damn face tonight," moaned Gilmore as they walked out to the car.

  "I hope I don’t," said Frost. "I want to dream of Mrs. Compton."

  He did dream of Jill Compton. But she was eyeless and screaming and crawling with bloody-snouted rats. He woke up just before five in a cold sweat and couldn’t. get back to sleep again.

  Wednesday morning shift

  Police Superintendent Mullett stamped up the corridor to his office. He was angry. His sleep had been continually disturbed by calls from the media, and then from County, the Chief Press Officer, demanding his comments on a possible serial murderer in Denton, the brutal killer of three old ladies. When he had phoned the station to try to get some information from Frost; he was informed that, despite the rota, the inspector and his team had left for the night and calls to Frost’s home indicated that the phone had deliberately been left off the hook. He finally managed to get the information required from Detective Sergeant Gilmore, but only after Gilmore’s wife had been extremely rude over the phone, asking why her husband was expected to be at everyone’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day.