Night Frost djf-3

by R D Wingfield

  Frost sank down in the car seat and expelled smoke. ‘All right, so that’s shot that theory up the arse. But I’d still like to have a word with this schoolmaster. Do you know where he lives, Burton?’

  Burton nodded.

  ‘Then take us there. Follow the route the girl went. Point out the houses where she delivered. Show me where her bike was found.’

  Burton backed out of Medway Road and cut through some side streets. Gilmore tried to orientate himself, but soon got lost. And then, after a few minutes, the area looked familiar and the car was splashing through Merchant Street. He looked up as the house flashed by, noting that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. Liz would be sleeping, making sure she would be fully refreshed, ready to renew her moaning when he finished his shift. God, what a cynic he was becoming. How he hated this lousy little town.

  The car juddered over cobbles as it negotiated a steep hill, then cut through the market place, empty of shoppers in the heavy rain. The houses they passed became fewer and further between and soon they were skirting the woods.

  ‘She made her first deliveries here,’ said Burton as they crawled past a small, walled estate of some forty houses and maisonettes built by the New Town Development Corporation. ‘You don’t want to see the individual houses, do you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Frost, ‘just a general outline of the route.’

  They left the estate and drove on to the Forest View area where old Victorian properties had been converted into flats, then they headed away from the wood, along bumpy lanes flanked by hedges, past little clusters of old cottages. Burton slowed down and stopped outside a green-roofed bungalow. ‘She made her last delivery there — the Daily Telegraph and a photographic magazine. The lady of the house saw Paula pedalling away down the lane about a quarter past eight. That was the last time she was seen alive.’

  Frost stared at the bungalow, then signalled for Burton to drive on. The car sloshed in and out of puddles and turned into an even narrower lane where overgrown branches on each side slashed spitefully at the car as it squeezed through. Burton braked. ‘This is where we found her bike and the abandoned newspapers.’

  They climbed out and stood looking down at a deep ditch running beneath an overhanging hedge. The ditch was brimful and covered with a thick layer of emerald green scum, through which the wheels of an upturned supermarket trolley protruded.

  ‘The bastard must have been waiting for her just about here,’ said Burton.

  Frost nodded glumly. He had hoped that visiting the actual locale would give him some magic flash of inspiration. He stood in the pouring rain, looking down into the green slimy water, and decorated it with his discarded cigarette end.

  Back in the car he asked Burton where the girl’s bike was. ‘Locked up in the shed at the station. The two newspapers she didn’t deliver are in the exhibits cupboard.’

  ‘Only two more houses,’ said Burton, as the car bumped into an extra deep puddle which sent a spray of dirty water all over the windscreen.

  ‘Mind what you’re doing,’ barked Gilmore, who hadn’t had a chance to put Burton in his place for some time.

  Burton’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but he controlled his temper. He pointed up a small side lane which crawled up to a two-storeyed house standing on its own. ‘That’s called Brook Cottage. They would have had the Sun but she never made it.’

  Brook Cottage looked a mite dilapidated. They could hear a dog barking as they passed.

  The lane widened and passed through empty scrub land. After some minutes a red-bricked house lurched up in front of them. It was an old, solid-looking property and stood alone in extensive grounds. A shirt-sleeved man was working in the garden seemingly oblivious to the pouring rain. ‘She finished her round here,’ announced Burton as he switched off the engine. ‘The man in the garden is Edward Bell, Paula’s schoolteacher.’

  Frost crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, then turned up the collar of his mac. ‘Let’s have a word with the bastard.’

  The man, wrenching up weeds from the heavy soil, gave a cry of pain as the sharp thorns of a hidden bramble pierced his palm. He stared angrily at the bright red globules welling from the punctures. The damned briar was everywhere. As fast as you cleared it from one section it appeared somewhere else. Well, if it thought it was going to defeat him, it was making a damn mistake. He tore up a thick clump of grass and wrapped it round the briar as protection then pulled and tugged, swearing out loud as the bramble resisted. It took a great deal of effort but at last he tore it free of the rain-sodden earth and hurled it on to the growing pile of garden refuse. His hand was sticky with blood and rain and sweat. He sucked salt and mowed on to the next section, only dimly aware of the sound of slamming car doors and approaching footsteps.

  ‘Mr Bell?’

  ‘Eh?’ He straightened up and eased the pain in his back. There were two men, one dark-haired, young and neatly dressed, the other older, hair starting to thin, wearing a crumpled raincoat that had seen better days. The younger one held up a piece of plastic bearing a coloured photograph. ‘Police, Mr Bell.’

  ‘Is it about Paula?’ he asked. ‘Has she been found?’

  ‘Let’s talk inside,’ said the scruffy man.

  The house was cold and unwelcoming. They passed through the kitchen, its sink and draining board stacked with dirty saucepans and crockery. On top of the fridge stood a half-bottle of lumpy milk. The room was a mess. It reminded Frost of home.

  Muttering apologies for the untidiness, Bell opened one door, decided against it and took them into a musty-smelling lounge. Rain streamed down the patio window, blurring the view of the garden beyond. A miserable room. Frost would be glad to get out.

  ‘Not too cold for you, is it? I haven’t had the heating on. I suppose I should, but it seems pointless…’ Bell’s voice trailed off.

  ‘This is fine, sir,’ said Frost without conviction, winding his scarf tighter. He and Gilmore sat side by side on the beige Dralon settee, facing Bell who was squatting on a footstool, dripping rain on to the pink carpet.

  Bell, who wore a rain-blackened checked shirt and baggy corduroy trousers, was in his late thirties. Thin and nervous-looking, his face was framed by unstyled light brown hair and a few tufts of a scraggy beard. A hint of dark rings around his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping too well.

  Unaware of Frost’s scrutiny, Bell unwrapped the blood stained handkerchief, studied his palm, then wrapped it again. Suddenly he remembered the reason for their calling.

  ‘Paula’s been found, you say? That’s splendid. How is she?’

  Frost’s eyes flicked to Gilmore, who sat impassive. This was too naive. Surely Bell must have heard about the discovery of the girl’s body? ‘Don’t you read the papers, sir?’

  ‘Papers?’ He shook his head. ‘They don’t deliver papers here any more. The parents won’t let their children do it.’

  ‘Don’t you listen to the radio? Or talk to your colleagues?’

  ‘It’s half-term and I’ve been too busy in the garden these past few days to listen to the radio. So what has happened?’

  ‘Paula is dead, sir,’ said Frost bluntly, carefully watching Bell’s reaction. The man jerked back as if he had been hit, then his face crumpled.

  ‘Oh no. That poor child. Oh no!’ His grief and shock at the news seemed genuine.

  Without taking his eyes from the teacher, Frost slowly lit a cigarette. ‘She was murdered, sir. Raped and murdered.’

  Bell stood up. He took the soiled handkerchief from his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Nervously, he paced the room. ‘She was only fifteen.’

  ‘Kids mature earlier these days,’ said Frost. ‘They have sex earlier, they get raped earlier, they get murdered earlier.’ He exhaled smoke and watched it disperse. ‘What sort of girl was she?’

  The man dropped back on the footstool and thought for a moment. ‘Quiet. Didn’t mix much. An excellent scholar.’

  ‘Why did you start giving
her lifts to school?’ asked Gilmore.

  ‘It was her parents’ request. Her newspaper round took her some five miles in the opposite direction. Sometimes the papers would be late which could make her late for school and they didn’t want her to miss any of her lessons. I would meet her at the top of the lane and give her a lift from there.’

  ‘What did you do about her bike?’ This from Frost.

  ‘It was one of those folding ones. I put it in the boot. She could then cycle home when school was over. This is all in your files

  … I made a full statement to that other officer.’

  ‘What sort of things did you talk about when you drove her to school?’ asked Gilmore. ‘Did she mention boy friends, or crushes on any of the masters, or anything?’

  Bell shifted his position to face the sergeant. ‘We hardly passed more than a few words. She was a quiet girl, and that suited me. When I’m driving, I like to concentrate, not talk.’

  ‘Was she a teaser?’ asked Frost.

  His pale cheeks showed two red spots. ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘In the car, sir, you and her, close. The old knees rubbing together… flashes of elasticated knicker leg and tender young thigh all juicy and throbbing?’

  Bell’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘I find you offensive, Inspector.’

  Through a haze of cigarette smoke Frost beamed at him. ‘You’re not alone in that, sir. But I found it offensive when I saw what that sod had done to that kid, so just answer my questions.’

  Bell stood up and towered angrily over the inspector. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I am involved in this poor child’s death?’

  ‘Let’s just say you’re quite high on my list of suspects.’ In fact, thought Frost, you’re my one and only bloody suspect, so if it isn’t you, I’m nowhere. ‘Can you tell me your movements for the morning she went missing?’ His raised hand halted Bell in mid-protest. ‘I know you’ve told it all to the other bloke, but I’d like to hear it first-hand.’

  ‘It was the morning of my wife’s funeral. The hearse arrived from the undertakers at 9.30. The interment was at ten. I got back home a few minutes before noon.’

  ‘So, before the funeral, you were alone in the house until 9.30?’

  ‘No. My wife’s parents were here. They’d travelled down from Berwick for the funeral and stayed with me overnight.’

  ‘Oh.’ Frost tried not to sound disappointed. ‘They’d confirm this, of course?’

  ‘I think you’ll find they’re already given statements to Inspector Allen.’

  Frost groaned inwardly. Why the hell hadn’t he done his homework? ‘I’ve only just skimmed through the files, sir. Skimmed! He hadn’t even opened them. ‘Your morning paper hadn’t arrived by the time you left for the funeral. Didn’t that worry you? Didn’t you wonder why?’

  ‘I didn’t give it a thought, Inspector. The only thing on my mind was the funeral.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Damn, thought Frost. There goes my best suspect. All he was left with now was the plumber. Which reminded him. ‘Did it rain during the funeral?’

  ‘There was a sudden cloudburst,’ said Bell. ‘We all got drenched.’

  And damn again, thought Frost. Now I haven’t even got the plumber. He poked another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The smoke curled and drifted and he followed it with his eyes, watching as it was drawn to the fireplace, some of it wafting up to the mantelpiece. In the centre of the mantel piece a clock in Chinese black lacquer, long unwound, had stopped at ten past eight. Something poked out from behind it. A light blue envelope, the address typed. It looked very similar to the one sent to old Mr Wardley.

  A sharp cough to catch Gilmore’s attention and a jerk of the head to direct him to the clock. Silently, Gilmore sidled over and pulled out the envelope. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. The typing was identical.

  Bell, staring out at the rain-soaked garden, saw nothing of this extended mime show.

  ‘One final thing,’ said Frost casually. ‘What did the poison pen letter say?’

  Bell stiffened, then slowly turned. He saw the envelope in Gilmore’s hand and snatched it from him. ‘You’ve no right…’

  ‘We’ve every bloody right,’ snapped Frost, standing and holding out his hand. ‘The letter, please, sir.’

  Bell stared at him, knuckles white, body stiff with fury. He almost threw the envelope at the inspector. ‘You bastard!’ he hissed. ‘You lousy bastard.’

  ‘Sticks and stones,’ reproved Frost, mildly. He unfolded the sheet of cheap typing paper. The typed message said, simply, Fornicator.

  ‘Terse,’ murmured Frost, passing the message to Gilmore. ‘Why should anyone accuse you of that, sir?’

  ‘It’s none of your damn business.’

  ‘In a murder enquiry, sir, everything is my damn business.’

  Bell walked back to the window and again stared at the puddled garden blurred out of focus by the curtain of rain crawling down the pane. He wouldn’t look at Frost. He spoke to the glass. ‘If you must know, my wife had been ill for a very long time. We were not able to live together as husband and wife. There was a woman in Denton…’

  ‘Do you mean a tart?’ asked Frost, bluntly.

  His back stiffened. ‘Yes, she was a prostitute. Someone must have been spying on us, hence the letters. Filthy letters. I burnt the others. This one came on the day of the funeral.’ He covered his face with his hands and his body shook. ‘The day of her funeral.’

  On the way back to the car they detoured. There was the remains of an old bonfire at the end of the garden. Quite a large bonfire. Frost poked at the rain-sodden ashes with his foot. Bits of twigs, stalks and dried leaves. No burnt remains of buttons or the charred remnants of clothes stripped from a schoolgirl’s body. He added his cigarette end to the heap.

  ‘We’re wasting our time here,’ said Gilmore.

  ‘Maybe,’ muttered Frost, looking back to the house where a thin, bearded figure was watching them from the patio window. ‘But my philosophy in life is never to trust bastards with thin straggly beards.’

  Burton started the engine as Frost slid into the passenger seat beside him. ‘Back to the station, Inspector?’

  ‘One more call, son. Let’s check with the headmaster of Bell’s school. I want to find out if there’s been any corn plaints of Hairy-chin teaching advanced anatomy to the senior girls.

  ‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ protested Gilmore from the back seat. ‘You’re forgetting — Mr Mullett said we should drop this case and concentrate on the stabbings.’

  ‘Mr Mullett says lots of stupid things, son. The kindest thing to do is ignore him.’

  As Gilmore had predicted, calling on the headmaster was a waste of time. The man, stout and pompous, was outraged that such an accusation could be levelled at any member of his staff. Mr Bell had an excellent record, was highly regarded, and didn’t the inspector realize that the poor devil had recently lost his wife?

  Frost felt like retorting, didn’t the headmaster know that while his wife was dying, his excellent schoolmaster was having it away with a tart in Denton? But he held his tongue and took his leave.

  ‘Yes, son,’ he said, before Burton could ask. ‘Back to the station.’ And they nearly made it. Another couple of minutes and they would have been in the car-park when Control called.

  ‘Calling all units,’ said the radio. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Selwood Road? Over.’

  Before Frost could restrain him, Burton had snatched up the handset. They were a minute away from Selwood Road.

  ‘Eleven Selwood Road. Old-age pensioner living on her own. Neighbour reports she hasn’t been seen all day, her newspaper’s still in the letter-box and her milk is still on the step.’

  The neighbour who made the phone call, a sharp-faced little busybody of a man wearing a too-big plastic mac, was hovering in the street and scurried over to the car as they pulled up. ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘More or less,’ grunted Frost.


  ‘I live next door,’ said the man, darting in front of them like an over-enthusiastic terrier as they made their way across to the house. ‘She always goes out during the day. I watch her through the window. She didn’t today. And none of her lights are on, her milk is on the doorstep. She’s an old-age pensioner, you know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ muttered Frost, wishing the man would go away.

  ‘I’m an old-age pensioner too, but you’d never think it, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Frost unconvincingly. ‘Never in a million years.’ The old sod looked at least eighty. They were now at the door, which was painted a vivid green.

  ‘Are you going to break in?’ asked the neighbour, pushing between them. ‘Only the council have just repainted these doors.’

  Frost leant on the bell push.

  ‘No use ringing if she’s dead!’

  ‘Nothing good on telly?’ asked Frost pointedly, hammering at the door with the flat of his hand.

  ‘You could get over my garden fence if you liked,’ offered the man, ‘but she always keeps her back door locked.’

  Frost moved the man out of the way so he could have a look through the letter-box.

  ‘You won’t see anything. Her morning paper’s stuck in there.’

  Frost tugged at the paper, but it was wedged fast.

  ‘You won’t shift it, I’ve tried.’

  Frost gave a savage yank and the newspaper came free.

  ‘You’ve torn it,’ reproved the man pointing to a thin corrugated tongue of paper that had caught on the side of the letter-box.

  ‘If she’s dead, she won’t mind,’ said Frost, peering through the flap. All he could see was solid dark. He sent Burton for the torch.

  ‘I’ve got a torch,’ said the neighbour, ‘but it doesn’t work.’

  Burton returned from the car with the flashlight. Frost shone it through the letter-box. He caught his breath. The beam had picked out a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. A woman. And there seemed to be blood. Lots of blood.

  ‘Kick the door in, son… quick!’