Frost 5 - Winter Frost

by R D Wingfield

  'This is the position. We've got witnesses, we've got discrepancies in statements, we've got conclusive forensic evidence. We now know who killed your girlfriend, Mr Lewis. There's only one thing we need to know, and that's where you can help us.'

  'Anything,' said Lewis, eagerly. 'Anything.'

  Frost took a cigarette from his packet and slowly tapped it on the table. This was the moment. This was make or break. He lit up, then smiled his most charming and disingenuous smile. His voice sounded fatherly and full of compassion.

  'Why did you do it, son?'

  He held his breath and waited. Lewis scowled at him, eyes full of hate, his mouth opening and shutting as if his anger was too strong to allow him to speak. Frost's heart plummeted. I've blown it, he thought. I've bloody blown it. He stared down at the table, his mind in overdrive. A strange sound. A sound that, at first, he couldn't place. He looked up. Lewis's shoulders were shaking. He was laughing, laughing away to himself as if at some secret joke, perhaps at the absurdity of the accusation. Frost blinked. It wasn't laughter. Lewis was crying, his body shaking as uncontrollable tears gushed down a face screwed up in agony. He covered his eyes with his hands and his sobbing was almost pitiful to hear. The other two detectives were staring, just dumbstruck.

  Frost got in quickly. 'You killed her, son, didn't you?' His voice was gentle.

  'An accident.' The words were barely audible.

  'Tell us about it. Get it off your chest - you'll feel better afterwards.' Frost sounded like a member of the Spanish Inquisition begging a heretic to confess so the torture could stop and he could be burnt at the stake. But Lewis was now only too willing and the words poured out almost as fast as the tears.

  'Things were getting dodgy between us for some time. I thought she was seeing someone else. There were these mysterious phone calls, stuff locked away in her drawer which I wasn't allowed to see. Coming back from the match that night, some of the boys had a go at the bloke in the off-licence and the cops hauled us into the nick. On the way there we diverted through King Street where all the tarts hang out and everyone in the coach started to yell and whistle and make obscene remarks at this prostitute, all slit skirt and big tits, picking up a drunk. I couldn't believe it. It was her . . . Mary . . . my bleeding girlfriend . . . the so-called bloody nurse . . ."

  He scrubbed his face with his hands as if trying to wipe out the recollection.

  'Go on, son,' prompted Frost.

  'It was now all making sense. A couple of weeks ago I went to get some change from her purse and there was this key tagged "10 Clayton Street". When I asked her about it she said she'd found it in the street and hadn't got round to returning it. I told her that was where all the whores hung out, and she was all wide-eyed and innocent. "I never knew that," she said, all bleeding butter won't melt stuff. The cow. Going with all sorts of trash, and I was sleeping with her!' He raised his head. 'You wouldn't have a cigarette?'

  Frost pushed the packet over and waited as Lewis took deep drags.

  'I couldn't wait to get my hands on her. Your lot had us all in the nick, but there were too many of us. Suddenly the fuzz all sloped off because there was a fight or something, so I nipped down a corridor when no-one was looking and ended up in the car-park. I legged it round to Clayton Street and the first thing I see is my car, my Toyota, smashed to buggery. That was the last straw. I did my nut. I charged up the stairs and crashed into the flat, yelling and screaming at her. She grabbed for a knife to keep me off. We struggled. I got the knife away from her and kicked it under the bed. I don't remember exactly what happened then, but I must have had my hands round her neck as I banged her head against the wall. Suddenly she went all bloody limp and slithered to the ground and I sobered up fast. I thought God, what have I done? I carried her to the bed and tried the mirror trick, but she wasn't breathing. Then the bloody phone rang and I panicked. I snatched the car keys, hoping I could drive away and get home before anyone saw me, but the windscreen was shattered - it was undrivable. I wandered down back streets and I bumped into some of the blokes from the coach, staggering from pub to pub. I tagged on with them and they assumed I'd been with them all the time - they were too drunk to know otherwise. I got a lift home. You know the rest.'

  Frost nodded. 'The clothes you gave us for testing? They weren't the ones you were wearing, were they?'

  'No. I bagged them up and put them out with the rubbish. It was collected this morning.'

  'We'll find it,' Frost told him. 'Searching through rubbish bags at the council tip is what my Welsh colleague was born for. He certainly wasn't born for altering the bleeding calendar . . .'

  'Well done,' said Mullett grudgingly. 'A case tied up quickly with the minimum of manpower. It can be done, you see, if you put your mind to it.' Frost jerked a two-fingered gesture of acknowledgement under the desk, unseen by Mullett who was hurrying back to his office, anxious to let County know that Denton Division, under his leadership, had done it again.

  Frost yawned. Too many nights with insufficient sleep were catching up on him. There was nothing that couldn't wait a couple of hours so he'd nip back home and get his head down before the next crisis.

  But the next crisis was waiting for him in the lobby.

  Bill Wells, filling in his overtime claim form on the front desk, grunted with annoyance at the interruption as a woman in her mid-thirties, uncombed straw-blond hair, a cigarette dangling from her lips, barged through the swing doors and dumped a plastic carrier bag on the floor in front of the desk.

  'Can I help you, madam?'

  'You'd bloody better. My little girl's gone missing.'

  Wells kept his expression fixed. Here was one of those 'I pay my rates so you'd better bloody jump to it' brigade. He pulled the cap from his pen. 'If you could let me have some details.'

  'Details? Sod the bloody details. I want you out there looking for her.'

  Wells sighed. Just his luck to get this loud-mouthed bitch. Collier, who should have been here, was out with DC Morgan scavenging the local rubbish tip on a job for Jack Frost. 'Let's try and keep it calm, shall we, madam?'

  'Calm?' she shrieked. 'Calm? Some bleeding pervert's got my kid and you want me to keep calm.'

  'The quicker I get the details down, the quicker we can start looking for her. Your name please, madam . . . ?' Ever since Vicky Stuart went missing nine weeks ago they had had a stream of agitated mothers panicking because their kids were late back from school. Wells looked up at the wall clock. Ten past five . . . school had been out less than two hours. The mothers were always insistent their kids had never been home late before, but when the kid eventually turned up, they'd been round a friend's house and had done it time and time again . . . and your address, please.'

  'Mary Brewer, 2 Rosebank Road, Denton.'

  'And the little girl - how old is she?' .

  'Jenny. She's only seven.'

  'Is there a Mr Brewer?'

  'No, there flaming well isn't. It's going to be pitch dark soon and you're asking these stupid questions.'

  'And when did you see Jenny last?'

  'When she came home from school for her dinner. I haven't seen her since.'

  'What school?'

  'Denton Junior.'

  Wells stiffened. Denton Junior. The same school Vicky Stuart attended. 'Have you checked with her friends? She might be round one of their houses.'

  'What - all bleeding night? Don't be stupid. She went missing yesterday.'

  Wells blinked in astonishment. 'Yesterday? Your daughter's been missing since yesterday and you've only just got around to reporting it?'

  The woman glowered back at him. 'Don't adopt that attitude to me. I couldn't report it any flaming earlier. I thought she was staying with her Nan, but she wasn't.'

  Frost bustled through the door on the way to his car. He gave a brisk nod to Wells.

  'Inspector!' Wells wasn't going to be stuck with this woman.

  'It will have to wait, Sergeant. I'm off home.' He pushed open th
e swing door.

  'Missing seven-year-old . . . Denton Junior School . . .' barked Wells.

  Frost froze. The door swung back. He slowly turned round and walked back to the desk. 'How long has she been missing?'

  It was the woman who answered. 'All bloody night. Don't tell me I've got to go over it all again.' The cigarette in her mouth quivered with annoyance.

  Frost's shoulders slumped. God, he could have done without this. 'You'd better come with me,' he told her, unbuttoning his mac. 'Send us in a couple of cups of tea,' he called over his shoulder as he pushed through the door to No. 1 interview room and nodded her into the chair so recently vacated by Lewis. This was like seeing the same film over and over again. Lewis's cigarette butts were still piled in the ashtray.

  Mrs Brewer drummed nicotined fingers impatiently on the table, watching Frost settle himself down, arranging his cigarettes and matches in front of him. Who was this scruff they had foisted off on her? They said he was an inspector, but he certainly didn't look like one.

  'Right, Mrs Brewer,' said Frost, ready at last. 'Let's have the details.'

  'How many more flaming times? I've already given them to that silly sod out there.'

  'And now you're going to give them to this silly sod in here so he can tell the other silly sods who'll be out half the night looking for your daughter.' She was getting on his nerves. 'The last time you saw Jenny was yesterday around midday when she came home from school for her dinner?'

  'Yes.' She added her cigarette end to the pile in the ashtray, then rummaged in her handbag for another. Frost didn't feel disposed to offer her one of his so waited until she lit up before opening his own packet.

  'And you haven't seen her since?'

  'If that was the last time I saw her, it's bloody obvious I haven't seen her since.'

  'Call me old-fashioned,' said Frost, boiling over inside, 'but I would have started panicking twenty-four hours ago, not now.'

  'Stuff your holier than thou sneers,' she snarled. Tm a bloody caring mother. That kid wants for nothing. I didn't panic yesterday because I thought I knew where she was. She was supposed to be spending the night round her Nan's.'

  'Why?'

  'My boyfriend was coming round. He doesn't like kids. It was only for one bloody night.'

  'Where does your mother live?'

  '21 Old Street.'

  He scribbled the address down. 'And Jenny never turned up at your mother's?'

  'Would I be bloody here if she had?'

  Frost took a couple of deep breaths to control his rising temper. 'So why didn't her Nan get on to you when Jenny didn't turn up yesterday?'

  'Because I hadn't told her the kid was coming . . . she's not on the phone. Jenny just calls there and her Nan looks after her.'

  'Old Street is right over the other side of town. Are you telling me you'd send a seven-year-old over there without any warning? Supposing your mother was out?'

  'She never goes out . . . and if she did, Jenny would simply come straight back. She's always got coppers for the bus.'

  Frost nodded his thanks as Wells banged down two mugs of tea. He passed one across. 'So how did you know Jenny never turned up at your mother's?'

  'I bumped into her at the supermarket about half an hour ago. As soon as I knew Jenny hadn't been there, I didn't sod about, I came straight round here.'

  Frost stirred his tea with his pencil. 'Has Jenny ever gone missing before?'

  'A couple of times . . . she just wandered off, went to the pictures or something. But never overnight - she knows she'd get a bleeding good hiding if she did.'

  Frost took a sip at the lukewarm tea and shuddered. Bill Wells hadn't brought the Earl Grey out for this woman. He pushed the mug away. 'We'll need a photograph.'

  She opened her handbag and handed over a tiny dog-eared colour print of a solemn-looking child.

  'She looks bloody young for seven,' he said.

  'It's over a year old, but it's the most recent one I've got.'

  Frost regarded it doubtfully. Kids changed a hell of a lot in a year. 'The school takes photographs every term. Haven't you got one of them?'

  She shook her head, showering ash all over the table. 'I didn't bother.'

  'I see,' grunted Frost. 'We'll have to get one from the school. What was she wearing?'

  'Greeny-blue dress, black shoes and a blue anorak.'

  'Right.' He scribbled this down. 'I'll get things moving this end. You go back home and wait, I'll be round to see you later. If Jenny does turn up, let us know right away.'

  She buried her cigarette end under the pile of corpses in the ashtray and heaved up the carrier bag which was full of shopping. 'Any chance of a lift home?'

  'None at all,' said Frost.

  Joan Boscombe, headmistress of Denton Junior School, was slipping on her coat when Taffy Morgan arrived. He'd returned in triumph to Frost's office with the bloodstained clothes Lewis had dumped, and was sent straight out again to find out what he could from the school. The teacher wasn't pleased to see him. It had been a busy day and all she wanted to do now was go home and unwind. 'If this could wait until the morning - ' she began.

  'Sorry, teacher, but it can't,' said Taffy, showing her his warrant card and eyeing her up and down. She looked very young to be a headmistress . . . an air of authority combined with an air of vulnerability. Very sexy, he thought. 'It's about Jenny Brewer.'

  'Jenny?' She dropped down in her chair. 'She wasn't at school today. Nothing's happened to her, I hope?'

  'We hope so too,' said Taffy. 'The thing is, she never returned home after school yesterday.'

  The headmistress went white. 'Oh my God, not another girl.' The memory of Vicky still pained.

  'We don't know it's anything serious yet,' said Taffy. 'When was she last at school?'

  The pages of a register were turned. 'Yesterday afternoon . . . I remember seeing her leave.' She unbuttoned her coat. It was hot in the office. Taffy's eyes bulged. A lovely figure for a teacher. You can smack my bottom any time you like, miss, he thought.

  'We need an up-to-date photograph. The mother doesn't seem to have one.'

  Her lips tightened and she sniffed disapproval. 'The mother!' She swung round to a filing cabinet and pulled out a file. 'This was taken just before Christmas.'

  A postcard-sized colour print showing an older version of Jenny looking serious and pale, and there was what appeared to be a bruise on her right cheek. Taffy jabbed a finger. 'What caused that?'

  'She said she fell.'

  'But you didn't believe her?'

  'Jenny seemed to fall a bit too often for my liking. There had been other bruises on her arms and legs but Jenny always insisted she had fallen. We alerted Social Services. They were supposed to be keeping an eye on the situation, but . . .' She shrugged hopelessly. 'The mother is a fluent liar. They couldn't prove anything.'

  'Who's been hitting her . . . the mother?'

  'I don't know . . . but she seems to go in for violent boyfriends. I've heard some of the other mothers talking.'

  'Do you think the mother cares for Jenny?'

  'I think she tolerates her. Jenny needs love and affection and she certainly doesn't get it in that house. She's a very streetwise child for her age.'

  Streetwise! thought Taffy. It was often best for kids not to be streetwise and think they could handle danger instead of running away from it. 'Did she have any close friends?'

  'None that I know of. I'll ask around and let you know.'

  'Thank you. We'll need to keep the photograph.' He slipped it in his pocket. Then he noticed her perfume. A heavy sexy unscholastic aroma. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. I bet she's a goer, he thought.

  She stood up. 'Should we warn the parents?'

  He shook his head. 'Not at this stage. There could be a simple explanation and we don't want to cause unnecessary panic.' He opened the door for her. 'Oh, one last thing - could you confirm she was wearing a greeny-blue dress and a blue anorak yesterday?'

>   She frowned. 'No. She was in red - a red woollen dress.'

  Morgan's turn to frown. 'Are you sure? We had a different description.'

  'Positive. She usually wears the same old tatty things, this was new. She was flaunting herself in it.'

  Taffy scribbled this down. He couldn't wait to get back to Frost to tell him. He hesitated. The perfume was working him up. 'Could I - er - give you a lift back to your place, miss?'

  She smiled and shook her head. 'No, thank you. My partner will be meeting me.'

  So the partner was to be the beneficiary of that perfume. Lucky bastard, thought Morgan, making for his car.

  The girl's mother had slapped make-up on and done something with her hair. Her eyes, half closed against the smoke from her cigarette, narrowed when she saw it was Frost at the door. 'You found her yet?'

  'Not yet,' said Frost. 'A couple more questions.'

  She led him through to the living-room where an older version of herself, a woman in her late sixties, sat at a table, sipping a cup of tea. 'My mother,' she explained. 'Jenny's Nan.'

  Frost nodded a greeting and sat at the table. 'Jenny never turned up round your place then, Mrs Brewer?'

  'I never knew she was supposed to be coming.' She scowled up at her daughter. 'Why didn't you let me know?'

  Her daughter shrugged dismissively. 'Why should I? I knew you wouldn't mind.'

  'Of course I wouldn't mind. I just want to be told. If you'd told me she was supposed to be coming I'd have been round to the police last night.'

  'So it's all my fault now, is it?'

  'Yes, it flaming is. It certainly isn't mine.'

  'I don't give a sod whose fault it is,' said Frost wearily. 'We just want to find her. It's dark, it's bloody cold and she's been gone too long.' He jabbed a finger at Mary Brewer. 'A couple of questions.'