Night Frost djf-3

by R D Wingfield

  ‘She’s eighty-one,’ said Frost, ‘and her skull’s fractured. The hospital don’t reckon she’ll pull through. I’m anticipating on this one.’

  Mullett clenched his fist angrily. ‘Catching this swine must be our number one priority, even to the exclusion of other cases.’ He pulled his notepad towards him. ‘I’m holding a press conference at two on the Paula Bartlett case. No joy with your plumber?’

  ‘Not unless we can pick holes in his story, and I don’t think we will.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Mullett pointedly, as if it was Frost’s fault. ‘Have you told the parents yet that she was raped? I don’t want them to find out from the media.’

  Damn! thought Frost. He’d completely forgotten this aspect. ‘No, sir. I don’t want to sod up your nice new roster, so as I’m off duty I’ll leave that for you.’

  The Parker pen doodled in the air and dotted an imaginary ‘i’. ‘I’d do it willingly, Inspector. But you’ve got their confidence. They don’t want a stranger breaking such bad news. I’ll leave that in your capable hands.’

  Frost smiled his ‘you bastard!’ smile. ‘Of course, sir.’

  Mullett studied his list. ‘Only one case demands urgent attention. This maniac with the knife. He’s got to be caught before he kills again. That’s the case we deploy our manpower on. The rest can go on the back burner until we’re back to full strength.’

  ‘But what about Paula Bartlett?’ protested Frost. ‘She’s been murdered and raped — do we stick her on the back burner?’

  Mullett nodded emphatically. ‘She’s been dead for over two months. The trail’s gone cold. Waiting a week until Mr Allen returns is sensible and won’t make the slightest bit of difference.’ At Frost’s continued hesitation, he added, ‘It’s a question of priorities, Inspector. Face facts! We haven’t the manpower to handle more than one major investigation. By concentrating our resources, I’m looking forward to an early arrest.’

  Frost pulled a cigarette stub from behind his ear and poked it in his mouth. ‘I’ll give it a whirl,’ he muttered doubtfully. He wasn’t happy at back-pedalling on the school kid. His every instinct screamed for him to go all out to find the bastard responsible. But Hornrim Harry was right for once. They didn’t have the resources for more than one big case and they weren’t going to get any help from County.

  ‘Good man!’ Mullett smoothed his moustache with his two forefingers. ‘But we must keep a high profile with the public. We mustn’t let them know we are marking time on the Bartlett case.’ His eyes gleamed and he snapped his fingers triumphantly. ‘I’ve got it! There’s a video somewhere that Mr Allen had made when the girl first went missing. I’m sure we could get the TV companies to run it again.’ The video showed a Paula Bartlett look-alike, wearing similar clothes and riding the identical bike along the route of Paula’s newspaper round. It was hoped it would jog someone’s memory, but it hadn’t been successful. As Paula did her round every day, same route, same time, there was much confusion in the minds of people who had come forward as to the actual day they had seen her. The usual reports of strange men in slow-moving dark cars, but none of the leads had led anywhere.

  ‘If it didn’t work when memories were fresh, I can’t see it working two months later,’ said Frost, ‘but I’ll arrange it if you like. I could do an appeal to the public.’

  ‘Leave it all to me,’ cut in Mullett hastily. ‘You’ve got far too much to do.’ There was no way he was going to let Frost appear on TV, slouching in front of the cameras in that terrible suit, retrieving half-smoked cigarettes from behind his ear. He beamed at Frost. ‘See the parents, then go and get some sleep. And remember, we concentrate only on vital things. Nothing else matters.’

  Frost had almost reached the door when Mullett called him back, waving the complicated inventory return from his in-tray. ‘You might fit this in when you have an odd moment, Inspector.’

  Frost’s gave the return a dubious stare. ‘It doesn’t look vital to me.’

  Mullett’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Shouldn’t take you long, now that I’ve lightened your work load. County want it back this week.’

  County can bleeding want, thought Frost morosely as he walked back to his office. He buried the inventory return in his in-tray, screwed up the new duty roster and hurled it at the waste bin, then kicked shut the door and sank wearily into his chair. In two minutes he was fast asleep.

  Tuesday afternoon shift

  Frost, cold and stiff from an uncomfortable sleep, staggered into the Murder Incident Room where Gilmore and Burton, seated at adjacent desks behind mounds of green folders, barely gave him a glance. They were transferring details from the folders on to roneoed forms which were then collected by WPC Jill Knight who fed them into the computer for collation.

  A large-scale map of Denton, well-studded with coloured pins, had been fixed to the wall alongside the computer and Frost wandered over to take a look at it. The pins marked the scenes of all the recent senior citizen burglaries. On the far wall hung the map compiled by Inspector Allen showing the route of Paula Bartlett’s last paper round. A newly added black thumb tack pin-pointed the crypt where the body was found. A beefy little blonde WPC brought in another armful of green folders and dumped them on the desk.

  ‘You seem to have things well organized,’ said Frost.

  ‘Someone had to do it,’ grunted Gilmore who was in a sour mood. A little over three hours’ sleep and then treated to a dose of Liz whining and moaning at being left on her own so much and then, when he reported for duty, he had found Frost sprawled asleep in his office without having done a damn thing about getting the Murder Incident Room set up.

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Frost. Organization was not his strongest point. ‘Well, the good news is that according to Mr Mullett’s new roster, we’re all off duty until tonight.

  The bad news is, we’re far too busy to sod about with his rubbish.’ He wandered across to Burton and Gilmore, both occupied with their green folders. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ He dropped a cigarette on each desk, then poured himself a mug of tea from Burton’s thermos.

  Gilmore looked up from his folders. ‘I’m initiating a computer program. What it does…’

  Frost’s hand shot up. If it was to do with computers, then he didn’t want to know. ‘Please don’t explain how it works, son, then I won’t have to pretend I understand what you’re talking about.’

  But Gilmore explained anyway. ‘We’re feeding the computer with details from all the recent break-ins and burglaries and attacks involving senior citizens to see if we can build up some sort of pattern… why did the burglar pick on them, and so on.’

  Frost peered over Jill Knight’s shoulder, watching the cursor fly across the monitor screen, leaving a complicated trail of facts and figures. ‘Any pattern emerging so far?’

  ‘A lot of the victims, seem to belong to senior citizens’ clubs,’ she told him.

  ‘Perhaps that’s the sort of club that senior citizens join,’ said Frost, unimpressed. He flicked through a file half-heartedly, then pushed it away and jabbed a finger at Burton. ‘You were going to check with the vicar about Mary Haynes.’

  ‘I left a report on your desk,’ protested Burton.

  ‘You know I don’t read reports. Tell me what it said.’

  ‘She’d been a member of the church senior citizens’club for nearly six years. No relatives as far as the vicar knows. She kept herself to herself, never invited anyone back to her place and didn’t have any close friends.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been worth reading a report, for,’ commented Frost moodily.

  ‘There’s more,’ continued Burton. ‘She visited her husband’s grave at the cemetery on Sunday…’

  Frost’s head shot up. The cemetery. That reminded him. ‘Get the car out — we’ve got to give her parents the good news that their daughter was raped.’

  ‘If I could finish,’ said Burton. ‘Her husband’s grave had been vandalized… swear words sprayed on w
ith an aerosol. She had a row with the vicar about it. She was always having rows. I’ve started a list of people she quarrelled with, but it’s all trivial stuff.’

  ‘Follow it through anyway,’ said Frost. ‘Did anyone spot our famous blue van?’

  ‘No-one so far.’

  A sudden thought. Something else he had forgotten. ‘Damn! We should have asked dry-cleaners to look out for bloodstained clothing.’

  ‘Already in hand,’ said Gilmore, smugly.

  A messenger entered with a large envelope and a package for Frost. He ripped it open. The post-mortem reports from the pathologist, beautifully typed by his loyal secretary on expensive paper. Frost flipped open the first and skipped through it. It was for the suicide, the kid in the Mickey Mouse night-shirt, Susan Bicknell. Drysdale’s usual thorough job. He hadn’t missed the marks of the beating, but reported them without comment. His sole concern was the cause of death which was confirmed as barbiturate poisoning, probably self- inflicted. Signs of recent intercourse, but she was not pregnant.

  He gave the file to Gilmore who studied it grimly. ‘She didn’t kill herself because she was up the spout, son.’

  ‘Then why did she?’

  ‘We’ll probably never know.’ Frost opened up the other folder. ‘I hope everyone’s had their lunch — because it’s stomach contents time.’ He quickly read the typed sheet. ‘Isn’t science wonderful? She’s been dead two months, yet they can tell us she died within half an hour of knocking back chicken and mushroom pie, chips and peas and — wait for it — a dollop of brown sauce.’

  The plump blonde WPC pulled a face. ‘I had that for dinner yesterday.’

  ‘If you get raped and strangled, we’ll know there’s a connection.’ He studied the report again. ‘Paula must have had another meal. She’d never have eaten all that for breakfast.’

  ‘She was a growing girl,’ suggested Burton. ‘You’d be surprised what kids eat these days.’

  ‘She died within half an hour of eating,’ Frost reminded him. ‘The meal wasn’t fully digested. I saw it. I can show it to you if you don’t believe me.’ At Burton’s shuddering refusal, he continued. ‘If she had eaten it at home, she would have to be dead by half-past seven.’

  ‘We’ve got a witness who saw her at 8.15,’ said Burton.

  ‘Either the witness is lying, or mistaken, or Paula had another meal. A hot, cooked meal.’ He opened up the package. ‘I hope this isn’t the bloody stomach contents.’ They backed away as he plunged his hand inside but it was a polythene bag he pulled out. Inside were the shoes found on the body. He gave them to the blonde WPC and asked her to send them to Forensic. And that reminded him. ‘Bloody hell — I forgot to ask Forensic to send Drysdale the knife from last night’s stabbing.’

  ‘Already done,’ said Gilmore. What an inefficient lout the man was.

  Frost nodded his thanks. Naked, but wearing shoes. Ate a hot meal. You couldn’t force a kid to eat. She must have gone willingly with her killer and that tended to rule the bald plumber out. But Mullett said they shouldn’t spend time on this case. Leave it for whizz-kid Allen. Sod Mullett. He’d do things his way. ‘Come on, the pair of you,’ he told Gilmore and Burton. ‘Let’s drive over the route she took for her paper round.’

  There were a number of strange cars in the car park. Of course. Mullett’s press conference must be in full swing. Mullett would be telling them all about the suspected rape and he hadn’t broken the news to Paula’s parents yet. ‘We’ll call on them first,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it bloody over.’

  Burton waited in the car and watched Gilmore and the inspector make the short dash through the rain to the Bartletts’ house. The girl’s father, who answered their knock, was stooped and grey-faced and seemed to have aged some ten years since the previous night. He showed them into the living-room where his wife sat staring into empty space. She forced a ghost-smile of greeting. Frost stood uneasily by the door, not knowing how to begin.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mr Bartlett asked them.

  ‘We’d love one,’ Frost replied, hoping the mother would leave the room to make it. He wanted her out of the way while he broke the news of the sexual assault to her husband. But she sat, staring, unseeing, and didn’t move.

  Her husband touched her shoulder. ‘Tea for you, love?’ She shook her head.

  Frost left Gilmore to keep the woman silent company and followed the man into the kitchen. Bartlett filled an electric kettle from the tap. ‘She’s been like this ever since we heard.’

  ‘There’s something I must tell you,’ said Frost. He steeled himself to deliver the blow. The father steeled himself to receive it. ‘Your daughter was sexually assaulted before she died.’

  The hand holding the kettle shook violently, splashing water all over the tiled floor. Gently, Frost took it from him and guided him towards a chair. Sobs, racked the father’s body.

  His face sharing the man’s pain, Frost could only watch and wonder what the hell to say next. The sobbing brought Mrs Bartlett into the kitchen. She cradled her husband’s head in her arms and held him tight. ‘What is it, love?’ But head bowed, tears streaming, he couldn’t answer. She looked enquiringly at Frost who had to force the words out again.

  ‘I had to tell him that… that Paula was raped.’

  Husband and wife clung together, clutching each other like young lovers, saying nothing, their closeness consoling each other. Ignored by them both, Frost fidgeted and wished he was miles away. ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he told them, ‘your daughter was a virgin.’ Why the bloody hell did he say that? What possible consolation could it be that your daughter was a virgin before some bastard raped and choked the life out of her? He became aware that the father, his tears now of anger, was shouting at him.

  ‘Of course she was a virgin. She was only fifteen. A kid. She’d had no bloody life…’ And then he was sobbing again.

  Hastily, Frost excused himself ‘I’ll be in the other room.’ In the living-room Gilmore, uncomfortable in a too-low chair, raised an eyebrow in query. ‘I sodded it up,’ Frost told him. ‘It’s the wailing bleeding wall out there.’ He flopped into a chair. No sign of an ashtray, but he had to have a smoke. He lit one up, offering the pack to Gilmore who declined.

  Barely two puffs later the woman was back, her eyes red. She seemed surprised that they were still there. He pinched out the cigarette and stood up. ‘Two more things, Mrs Bartlett.’ She looked apprehensive. What further horrors could he inflict? ‘It’s just that we’re repeating the video made when Paula first went missing. It’ll be shown on the television news tonight.’

  She nodded, relieved that it was nothing worse.

  ‘And — just for the record. Can you tell me what Paula ate on that last morning?’

  ‘Cornflakes and toast.’

  ‘You’re sure? She wouldn’t have cooked herself anything?’

  ‘Oh no. I was down here with her… cornflakes and toast. That’s all she ever had for breakfast.’ As they moved to the front door, she clutched the inspector’s arm. ‘When can we put her to rest?’

  At first he didn’t understand what she meant, then realized she was asking about the funeral. ‘Not for a while, love,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to see her,’ said Mrs Bartlett, her eyes blinking earnestly behind her glasses.

  ‘No, love,’ said Frost firmly.

  ‘Please…’ She gripped so tightly, it hurt.

  He gently disentangled her fingers from his sleeve. ‘She wouldn’t want you to see her as she is now, Mrs Bartlett.’

  ‘I don’t care how she looks. She’s my daughter. She’s my daughter…!’

  Her shouts followed them to the car. With the car door closed she stood in the doorway, still shouting, but they could only hear the rain thudding on the car roof. Then her husband appeared and led her back into the house.

  ‘That wasn’t an unqualified success, was it?’ sighed Frost, sticking the cigarette end back in his mouth. ‘She had cornfla
kes for breakfast, Burton. What do you deduce from that?’

  ‘That you were right, sir. She must have had another meal after she was abducted,’ replied the detective constable.

  ‘Precisely.’ He scratched the match down the car window. ‘You’re a fifteen-year-old virgin, Burton. You’ve been abducted and taken somewhere. Would you have an appetite for chicken pie, peas and chips?’

  ‘It depends how long I’d been without food. She might have been held for hours without having anything to eat.’

  Frost thought this over and nodded. ‘Cooked food, so it’s got to be indoors. And if he’s keeping the girl hidden there for any length of time, he’s got to be alone in the house. Lastly, to get her from his car to the house, he must be pretty certain he won’t be seen. Which means the house has got to be remote.’ He blew the end of his cigarette and watched it glow. ‘The schoolmaster who usually gave her a lift. Is his house remote?’

  Burton nodded. ‘It’s all on its own — miles from anywhere.’

  ‘Then we’ve got the bastard.’

  What are you suggesting?’ asked Gilmore who was feeling left out of the discussion. This was typical Frost, plucking a suspect from thin air, then forcing the facts to fit.

  ‘I’m suggesting that bloody schoolmaster met her in his car and took her back to his house.’

  ‘The schoolmaster was at his wife’s funeral that day,’ Burton reminded him.

  ‘This was around eight in the morning. The funeral wouldn’t have been until ten at the earliest.’

  ‘But he didn’t have to go in the car and fetch her,’ said Burton. ‘She was due to call at his house with the paper anyway.’

  ‘He was impatient,’ said Frost, stubbornly. ‘Burning for a bit of the other and couldn’t wait.’

  ‘So impatient,’ scoffed Gilmore, ‘that he gives her chicken pie, peas and chips at eight o’clock in the morning before he has it away with her and then trots off to his wife’s funeral.’