Frost 5 - Winter Frost

by R D Wingfield

  'Probably thought you were a Jehovah's Witness,' said Frost.

  'It's not bloody funny,' snarled the man. 'I want her arrested and I want my money back.'

  'Arrest her? You don't even know the number of her flat,' said Wells.

  'I'd know it if I saw it again. Take me there.'

  Wells jabbed a thumb at the two uniformed men. 'Take him there.'

  Before they could move there came the sound of a struggle from the corridor and the thud of running feet. The man PC Collier had been dragging to the coach suddenly burst in and promptly sat himself down on the floor with his arms folded, a dishevelled PC Collier following, just too late to stop him. A roar of approval from other drunks on the floor. Wells winced and raised his eyes to heaven. The internal phone rang. He snatched it up. 'What is it?' he barked, quickly changing his tone when he realized it was the Divisional Commander. 'Oh. Sorry, sir. Yes, sir . . . I'm doing the best I can, sir . . . Yes, sir.' He banged the phone down. 'Bloody Mullett! He causes all the trouble, now he wants us to keep the noise down - it's giving him a headache. I'll give the bastard a headache.' He yelled for Jordan and Simms to bring Hughes back. 'Leave him and get these other sods into the coach.' He turned to Frost. 'And Mullett wants to know where the crime statistics return is.'

  As if on cue, Morgan poked his head round the door and waved a sheaf of papers. 'I've done the return, guv. All you've got to do is sign it.'

  Frost scribbled his signature, not bothering to check the figures which meant little to him anyway. 'Good boy, Taff. As a reward you can visit a prostitute with this gentleman and get his wallet back.' He quickly filled him in. 'And bring her straight back here - no freebies on the way.'

  'And bring him back as well,' called Wells, indicating Hughes. 'He's on a drunken driving charge.' He watched Jordan and Simms manhandle another football fan out. What a peaceful flaming night this was turning out to be . . . And it wasn't over yet.

  The cashier at the petrol station mini-mart was shaking, sobbing and almost incoherent, so Liz had to rely on the statement taken from her by PC Lambert to find out what had happened. All she could remember was this man, his face covered by a black ski mask, suddenly bursting in with a shotgun, firing it up into the ceiling, then ordering her to empty the till into a carrier bag. An old man who was pottering about in the DIY section suddenly came charging down the aisle, hollering and shouting, hurling whatever came to hand from the shelves at the armed robber. He chucked a can of paint which shed its lid and spilt all over the robber's coat, then hurled himself at the man and tried to wrestle the gun away. In the struggle, the shotgun went off leaving the old boy writhing on the floor, screaming with pain. The robber snatched up the carrier bag of cash and fled. The cashier remembered hearing a sound of an impact as if the getaway car had hit something before roaring away.

  The victim, grey-faced and clearly in shock, was being carefully lifted on to a stretcher. 'He's not too badly hurt,' one of the ambulance men told Liz. 'Give the hospital a ring in an hour or so after they've taken the pellets out. He should be able to talk to you then.'

  Harding from Forensic was on his knees by the chalked outline of the shot man, carefully avoiding the pool of blood which had mingled with a puddle of white paint, tingeing it pink. He beamed up at Liz. 'Clues galore. White paint over his clothes, of course - we'll be able to match it if you catch him - and I reckon the gunman got hit with some of his own shotgun pellets.'

  'How do you know?' asked Liz, bending as he pointed to the main pool of blood.

  'The victim was shot and fell here - this is his blood. But there's more blood further along.' He ringed with blue chalk some splashes of blood nearer the exit. 'We can safely assume this came from the gunman. Lucky for us we can match the DNA should you catch him. Unluckily for him, he's bleeding pretty badly and will almost certainly require medical attention.'

  Liz radioed the station where Bill Wells, sighing audibly at being dragged away from something more important than a lousy armed robbery, reluctantly agreed to contact all hospitals and doctors.

  PC Lambert, who had been chaining off the entrances to the service station to stop motorists driving in, reported that the post holding the Fina emblem had been damaged, probably hit by the getaway car. Harding hurried out to check, returning happily to announce there was plenty of dark blue paint scraped from the getaway car to keep him happy. 'Find the car and we can match the paint,' he said. Again Liz radioed the station.

  'What is it now?' barked Wells, his voice raised against a background of shouts and crashes.

  'All units to look out for a dark blue car with a damaged nearside wing, wanted in connection with an armed robbery,' she told him. 'Approach with caution . . . driver believed to be armed with a shotgun.' She had to repeat herself as Wells couldn't hear over the background. 'Those drunks still there?' she asked.

  'Yes, they flaming well are!' snapped Wells, banging down the phone.

  The ambulance men taking the wounded man to hospital were also taking the woman cashier who was still in a state of shock. As Liz watched the ambulance leave, she spotted the surveillance camera on the forecourt. Excitedly, she pointed it out to Lambert. 'Get the videotape.'

  Lambert shook his head. 'Sorry Inspector, we've already checked. The recorder's up the spout. The tape's all snarled up inside and the cashier forgot to report it.'

  'Very convenient for the robber,' muttered Liz significantly. She made a mental note to get Morgan to check on the cashier's background as soon as she got back to the station. Suddenly the aisle of shelves blurred in and out of focus and seemed to lurch to one side and there was a roaring in her ears, making her grab at Lambert for support.

  'Are you all right?' asked Lambert with concern.

  'Of course I'm all right,' she snapped, making an effort to pull herself together; 'Just a bit sick, that's all . . . something I ate.'

  She coasted her car into the station car-park, keeping well clear of the coach into which a rabble of noisy drunks were being herded. As they spotted her they let out a torrent of wolf whistles, accompanied by crude gestures. Ignoring them she pushed her way through to her office, clutching her handbag tightly. She hoped to find Morgan in Frost's office as she wanted him to check on the cashier, but it was empty. Frost was in the lobby talking to Bill Wells who acknowledged her with a scowl. 'Any idea where DC Morgan is?'

  'He's out getting a punter's wallet back from a torn,' Frost told her. 'He should be back soon.'

  The explosive roar of the coach engine bursting into life and urgent shouts and yells from the car-park sent them charging down the corridor. Then came the teeth-setting sound of metal grinding against metal. They reached the rear entrance just in time to see the coach, its jeering passengers giving them the 'V sign, weaving an erratic path to the exit, chased ineffectively by Collier, Simms and Jordan.

  Wells' jaw dropped. 'They've driven off in the bloody coach,' he shrilled, staring accusingly at Frost whose idea it was in the first place.

  Frost glared back at him. 'Didn't you think to check who had the flaming key?' They glowered at each other.

  Giving up the chase and sucking air into spent lungs, Jordan and Simms made their way to the area car. 'We'll soon head them off, Sarge.'

  'No, you bloody won't,' bellowed Wells. 'Let the next Division have the pleasure of catching the sods. Chase them until they reach our boundary, then get a puncture and radio that you've lost them.' He was grinning broadly at this happy outcome when the grin froze solid on his face. 'Look!' he croaked, pointing a wavering finger at Mullett's blue Rover, the Divisional Commander's pride and joy. It was now clear what the sound of metal grinding against metal had been. The rear wing was crumpled and the rear passenger door punched in. His mouth opened and closed. He could barely get the words out. 'Look what they've done to his motor!'

  Frost looked and winced. 'Perhaps he won't notice.'

  'Won't notice?' shrieked Wells. 'There's over a thousand quid's worth of damage there - of course he'll
bloody notice!!'

  Even before they reached the lobby they could hear the internal phone shrilling angrily. Wells stared at it. 'It's bloody Mullett. What shall I tell him?'

  'Go on the offensive,' suggested Frost. 'Ask him why he hasn't made you to up inspector.'

  Even at one o'clock on a cold winter's morning there were still people furtively scuttling along the back streets. A drunk clutching a lager can suddenly lurched in front of the car without warning and Morgan had to pound the horn and swerve violently to avoid hitting him. To express his gratitude the drunk jerked two fingers at the car, hurled the lager can at it and let off a stream of oaths before lumbering off into the dark. 'You should have run the bastard down,' grunted Hughes, who clearly had no fellow feeling for other drunks. Nearing their destination, they passed through the red light area where one lone prostitute, shivering in an artificial fur coat, forced a welcoming smile and moved forward hopefully as the car approached, slumping back against the wall as it drove past.

  'She's a bit long in the tooth,' commented Morgan.

  'Looks like the Queen bleeding Mum,' said Hughes, now staring ahead. 'It's down there!' He directed Morgan down a side street lined with parked cars. 'That's the place!' He indicated a three-storied building with a multitude of bell pushes alongside a front door which was swinging ajar. A couple of lights shone weakly from upstairs windows. Morgan parked behind a dark brown car which had its tyres slashed and the windscreen and side windows shattered. 'Nice neighbourhood,' he muttered. Hughes leapt out and bounded into the house. Morgan followed cautiously and slowly. If there was trouble, let Hughes have it. Some of these toms had long sharp fingernails and very short tempers.

  He trotted behind Hughes, up uncarpeted stairs to the first landing where three doors faced them, each bearing a card affixed with a drawing pin showing the name of the occupant. Hughes stopped outside the end door. The card read 'Lolita'. As he pounded it with his fist, it swung open. He charged in. The woman lying on the bed didn't look up. 'Where's my wallet, you cow!' She didn't move. He went over and shook her, then let out a cry and stared in horror and disgust at his hands. They were red and sticky with blood. 'Flaming hell.' He backed away from the bed, wiping his hands down the front of his jacket. 'Flaming hell!'

  Morgan elbowed him out of the way. She was lying on her back, on top of the bedclothes, eyes wide open. A trickle of blood from her mouth had dribbled down to her chin. All she wore was a white bra and white panties, the panties heavily stained with blood which had oozed from a deep gash in her stomach. She didn't look very old . . . in her mid-twenties at the most. Very gently, Morgan felt for a pulse in her neck. No sign of life, but the flesh was still warm. She hadn't been dead very long.

  As he fumbled for his radio to call the station there was the slamming of the door and a clatter of running footsteps behind him. He spun round and dashed to the top of the stairs. Hughes had gone.

  Chapter 3

  There were too many people packed into too small a space. The single bar electric fire screwed on the wall, the dials of its prepayment meter spinning madly, belted out its one kilowatt of heat making the room a sweat-smelling oven.

  'Turn that bloody thing off before we all cook,' ordered Frost. He opened the window, but the blast of cold night air that was sucked in immediately turned the room into a fridge. He slammed it shut and looked again at the still figure off the bed.

  Dr McKenzie, the police surgeon, overtired and overworked, had paid his flying visit on his way to a terminally ill patient and had officially pronounced her dead, probably within the hour. Confirming death was all he was paid to do - let Drysdale, the snotty-nosed Home Office pathologist, who was paid ten times as much for far less work, determine the cause of death. There was little love lost between Dr McKenzie and Drysdale.

  It was a tiny cubicle of a room. The original rooms had been subdivided with plasterboard partitions to pack in as many short-stay tenants as possible. There was just room for the bare essentials: a single divan, a plastic-coated chipboard bedside cabinet supporting a phone, also with a prepayment meter, and a narrow simulated pine wardrobe.

  Morgan, whose shamefaced, mumbled apologies had been cut short by Frost, had been sent off with a couple of uniforms to look for the runaway Hughes.

  And as if there weren't enough people in the tiny room, Liz flaming Maud had put in an appearance. Frost forced a smile, but could have done without her. She smiled back, but inwardly she was seething. No-one had bothered to tell her about the murdered prostitute. She had only found out by accident when she realized everyone else was missing. She was looking after Inspector Allen's cases, one of which was Linda Roberts, the tortured and murdered prostitute. This new killing could well be by the same man, so this should be her investigation, not Frost's, and as soon as she could drag him away to have a word in private she would demand he hand it over to her. In the meantime she was full of contempt for DC Morgan. 'It's beyond belief! A key witness - probably a prime suspect - and he just lets him run off.'

  Frost wasn't too concerned. 'Hughes can't get far. We've got his car and we know his address. He's probably just round the corner spewing his guts up.'

  'That's not the damn point!' snapped Liz. 'The man's bloody useless.'

  'He's better than nothing,' said Frost, who had suddenly found an unexpected soft spot for Morgan now that the DC had finished the long and tiresome outstanding crime statistical return for him. Let Morgan do all the paperwork and he could be as bloody inefficient as he liked.

  Frost gave a grunt of annoyance as he was jostled to one side by Harding from Forensic who was chalking around some splashes of blood on the floor by the bedside cabinet. No sooner had he moved than he was jostled again as the photographer moved in to do his stuff. There were too many people in too small a space and he could have done without Liz Maud breathing down his neck.

  He squeezed against the wall and again looked through the red and black plastic handbag from the bedside cabinet. It contained close on £300 in crumpled five and ten pound notes, a lipstick, a powder compact, and three packs of condoms. He kept diving his fingers down the various compartments hoping to find some kind of identification but there was nothing. They had no idea who the dead girl was. He shuffled past Harding and bent over the bed to stare down at the pale face. 'Who are you, love?' he asked as his eyes travelled from the blood round her swollen nose and mouth, down to the gouts and thin snail trails of blood which patterned her bare stomach and stained the white panties.

  Once again he checked her hands which were just starting to feel cold to the touch. No cuts or marks which would indicate she had tried to defend herself against her attacker's knife. Her long, scarlet-painted nails were unbroken, but -her wrists showed bruising where she had been gripped tightly by her assailant. He needed the bloody knife and a team was out searching for it in rubbish bins, drains, gutters, hedges . . . Her killer would not want to be found with it on him, and would have dumped it at the first opportunity. Frost had also radioed through to the station asking them to give Hughes's car a thorough going-over. A bloodstained knife in the glove compartment would do wonders to narrow the field of suspects!

  He looked up hopefully as Jordan and Simms came back. They had been sent knocking on doors in the building to ask if anyone had seen or heard anything, or perhaps knew the name of the dead woman. 'No joy,' reported Simms. 'Too late for most toms and the rest must have scarpered when they heard us arrive.'

  'With all this activity you'll probably find most of the girls will steer clear of the place until it dies down,' added Jordan. 'They only rent these rooms by the week and they're not going to get much trade with the fuzz crawling all over the place.'

  I'm sure the landlords keep meticulous records,' said Frost. 'I want names and addresses of all their tenants. We must know who this poor cow is.' His radio paged him.

  'Wells calling Inspector Frost.'

  'Yes?'

  'That drunk - Harry Hughes. I sent a car round to the addres
s he gave us. They've never heard of him.'

  Frost hissed annoyance. 'The bastard! Get ownership details for his motor.'

  'I've already checked. The registered owner sold it for cash last week . . . never took the buyer's name and the car hasn't been re-registered.'

  'Shit!' hissed Frost. 'Let's hope we can pick him up before he makes it home.' He dropped the radio back in his pocket and revised his good opinion of Taffy bloody Morgan.

  The phone on the bedside cabinet suddenly rang. No-one moved, then Harding reached out for it, but was stopped by Frost who crooked a finger to Liz. 'You answer it. You're Lolita. If it's a client, get him round here. He might know her name.'

  Liz picked up the phone. 'Lolita,' she announced in what she hoped was a sexy voice. 'Yes, I'm free at the moment. Why not come over . . . we could take our time . . . Good, I'll be waiting.' She replaced the receiver and nodded. 'He's a regular. He'll be here in five minutes.'

  Frost ordered all police cars to be moved from the street in case they scared the man off. They waited. Frost, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, lolled against the bedside cabinet, looking down at the dead girl on the bed. 'How old do you reckon she is?' he mused. 'Twenty - twenty-one? Three hundred quid in her handbag for one night's work and I've been slogging my guts out for three hours trying to fiddle a fiver on my car expenses. I'm in the wrong profession.'

  Liz Maud, at the window, was staring down into the windswept street. The punter should have been here by now. 'I'm not sure that I fooled him.'

  'You fooled him,' Frost assured her. 'After hearing that sexy voice he won't be able to get his dick out fast enough - it made me feel the same.'

  She twitched a polite smile. A room with a blooded corpse on the bed wasn't the place for tasteless jokes. The street was silent and deserted. No sound of footsteps or a car. Then she stiffened. A shadow crept from around the corner. A man, walking briskly, making for the door of the flats. 'It's him!' Frost joined her at the window. 'What did I tell you . . . Look at the dirty sod, he's nearly running. Blimey, it's Mullett! Everyone hide!'