Frost 5 - Winter Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Collier nodded.

  'Shall we stop looking?' asked the sergeant.

  'No.' Frost shook his head. 'These bastards tend to use the same hiding place. He could have dumped the girl earlier. Give it a good going-over.' He straightened up and stuffed the envelopes and the bin liner back in the case. 'I'm going back to the station to check these and see if we recognize any of the kids. If Vicky or Jenny are in there, we've got him.'

  The photographs were spread out before him on his desk when Bill Wells came in to report that the search had yielded nothing.

  'Send them all home,' said Frost, pushing his packet of cigarettes over. 'Not a lot of joy with the photographs. No-one I recognize and none of them are our missing kids. We'll circulate them in case other Divisions can come up with something.'

  Wells picked one up and studied it. A naked girl on a bed, legs spread-eagled. She couldn't have been more than nine. 'You reckon Weaver took this?'

  Frost shrugged. 'He took some of them, but these sods share their goodies around. We'll get some fingerprints off them so we can prove he handled them.' He yawned and rubbed his eyes. 'I'm too bloody tired to pull him in for questioning now. First thing tomorrow.' He checked his watch. Twenty past six. 'I mean first thing today . . . we get a search warrant, arrest him, and go over his place brick by brick.' He pushed the photographs back in the envelopes and heaved himself up. I'm off home for some kip.'

  'You've got to be back by eight to brief the search party,' Wells reminded him.

  Frost slumped down again. 'Sod it. Right. I'll kip down in the office. Give us a shout at half past seven -tea, toast, and the full English breakfast.'

  'And what morning papers would you like?' asked Wells sarcastically.

  'The Financial Times and the Beano,' replied Frost.

  Police Superintendent Mullett spun the wheel and coasted his repaired Rover past the lines of vans and cars of the search party and slid neatly into his allotted parking space. He was pleased to note that the overnight mist had cleared considerably, having had visions of a fog-bound search party, sitting in the canteen drinking tea, waiting for the weather to improve while the cost of the exercise mounted and mounted. Many months to go before the end of the financial year and already his overtime budget was getting dangerously close to its permitted figure. Frost was notoriously poor with his paperwork, so Mullett would have to remind him not to round times up to the nearest hour or half-hour just to make the calculations easier. With so many men, even a few minutes would multiply out to quite a large sum.

  He nodded a brisk greeting to Station Sergeant Wells who was bringing the incident books up to date. 'Good morning, Sergeant. Where's the search party?' He had decided he would give the troops a few well-chosen words of encouragement before they went out, dropping very heavy hints that time was money and everything had to be paid for.

  Wells, dead tired, stumbled to his feet. 'Morning, sir. They're in the briefing room.'

  Mullett frowned. The man looked half asleep. He was a disgrace. What sort of an image was this to present to the public? 'You're looking very jaded this morning, Sergeant?'

  'Sorry, sir. I've been on duty all night and I've had to extend my shift - there's no-one to relieve me.' He gave a brave, modest little smile, waiting for a few words of sympathetic praise from his Divisional Commander. He waited in vain.

  'No relief? Then you should organize things better,' Mullett told him. 'And even if you feel tired, try not to show it. The public don't want to know your problems.'

  'Yes, sir . . . sorry, sir,' mumbled Wells, boiling with barely suppressed rage. It was Mullett's fault there was no-one to relieve him. Half the force had been seconded to County for this flaming drugs operation.

  Mullett consulted his wrist-watch. 'Cup of coffee in half an hour,' he called over his shoulder as he made his way up the corridor.

  He strode into the briefing room, pleased at the way all leapt respectfully to their feet. He waved them down, his mouth smiling while his eyes travelled the room working out how much of a dent this little lot would make to his planned budget for the year. There were some faces he didn't recognize - men and women from other Divisions who had been drafted in. He found himself an empty seat near the front and checked his watch. Ten past eight. He frowned. Frost, who should have started the briefing at eight o'clock sharp, had not yet made an appearance and a roomful of people on full pay were just sitting and waiting. He turned his head. 'Does anyone know where Inspector Frost-'

  Before he could finish his sentence the door banged open and Frost, carrying a bacon roll perched on top of a mug of tea, bounced in. Mullett screwed his face up in annoyance. The man was a mess - unshaven, clothes crumpled and he hadn't even bothered to run a comb through his hair. What an example to show other Divisions. As Frost passed Mullett he flicked a hand. 'Don't bother to get up, Super.'

  Mullett, who hadn't the slightest intention of getting to his feet, didn't join in the general laughter, but glowered and pointedly studied his watch.

  Frost dumped his bacon roll on the desk and took a swig at the tea. He beamed at the assembly. 'This bloke is crossing the desert when he sees this naked tart buried up to her neck in the sand . . .'

  Mullett raised his eyes to the ceiling and groaned.

  This was neither the time nor the place for one of Frost's dubious jokes.

  'Stark flaming naked. Just her head showing. She says, "Please help me. I wouldn't submit to the Sultan's sexual demands so he did this to me. Please dig me out." "If I do," says the bloke, "what's in it for me?" She says, "About four pounds of wet sand." ' Frost led the laughter. No-one laughed louder at his jokes than he did himself. Mullett, who didn't understand it, forced a smile to show he was one of the lads.

  When the laughter subsided, Frost took another swig of tea and now looked serious. 'Right, that's probably the last laugh you're going to have today.' He turned to the wall board. 'We're looking for this kid.' He tapped the large photograph. 'Jenny Brewer, seven years old, left school two days ago, hasn't been I seen since. It's bleeding cold out there and if she's still alive, the sooner we find her the better, but my gut feeling is that if we find her, we find a body, so it's not going to be a bag of laughs. The good news is we have a suspect who might be able to save us all a lot of time by telling us what he's done with her.'' He switched his gaze to the window. 'The mist has cleared up quite a bit now, but according to the clever sods in the Met Office, it's going to get thicker and thicker, so unless Mr Mullett wants to hold things up with some encouraging words . . .' He turned, eyebrows raised in query, to the Divisional Commander who flushed, forced a smile, mentally conveying his 'Time is Money' speech to the waste bin, and shook his head. 'OK,' said Frost, 'then off you go, and good luck.'

  Mullett stood up and beckoned him over. 'My office, Frost, now!'

  Mullett repositioned his blotting pad to dead centre, then pulled the in-tray towards him. There seemed to be an awful lot of overtime claim forms for him to sign. He was tugging the cap from his Parker pen when there was a half-hearted knock at the door and in slouched Frost who flopped into a chair before being asked. 'Please sit down,' said Mullett in his witheringly sarcastic tone which was completely lost on Frost.

  'Thanks, Super. You wanted to see me?' He looked at his watch. 'If you could make it snappy, I've got a suspect to pull.'

  'I'll take as long as it takes,' snapped Mullett. He jabbed a finger. 'Look at you! A disgrace. When you walked into that briefing meeting I didn't know where to put my face. Those clothes look as if they've been slept in.'

  'Top marks for observation, Super,' said Frost. 'They have been slept in. I was up until six this morning following a lead on the girl. I had to kip down in the office.'

  'That wouldn't have stopped you from shaving,' barked Mullett.

  Frost rubbed his chin. Damn. He'd forgotten to shave. 'Bloody electric razor conked out. I'll borrow one as soon as I get back to the office.' He began to ease himself out of the chair. 'So if that's all. Supe
r . . . ?'

  Mullett flapped a hand to wave him back. 'That is not all, Inspector.' He began totalling up the hours on the overtime claims when he noticed the thick wad of more overtime forms underneath. His mouth sagged open. 'What are these?' He waved the offending forms at Frost. 'Eight off-duty men called in last night, four hours' overtime each? I authorized ten hours total.'

  'Oh, sorry about that, Super,' began Frost. 'I was going to tell you about that-'

  'You don't tell me about overtime, Frost,' cut in Mullett. 'You ask . . .' His voice tailed off. He had now spotted the indent for the underwater search team. 'What is this? What is this?' His voice had risen an octave. 'Do you know how much they charge per hour . . . ?' he spluttered.

  'No - but it will be on the invoice,' said Frost, trying to be helpful. He filled Mullett in on the events of the night before, dragging a couple of the photographs they had found and passing them over. As he finished, Mullett stared at him in goggle-eyed disbelief, his Parker pen a blur as it sped over his blotter, doing sums to work out the total expenditure then staring aghast at the final figure. 'How am I going to clear this with County? Even I haven't the authority to sanction an operation of this size.' He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I hold you responsible, Frost. I won't accept any of the blame.'

  'Then I'll take all the bloody blame for a change,' snapped Frost. 'You don't count costs when a kid's life is at stake.'

  'But a child's life wasn't at stake, was it? One splash and you jump to conclusions. All you got was some lewd photographs which would still have been there in the morning and could have been retrieved without any overtime . . .'

  'Last night I didn't have the benefit of your flaming hindsight,' said Frost angrily.

  'Don't adopt that tone with me, Frost,' snarled a red-faced Mullett, equally angry. 'The only thing that might get you off the hook is a result.'

  'I'll get you a result,' said Frost, standing up. I'm bringing Weaver in, then I'm getting Forensic to go over his place inch by inch.'

  'And if you find nothing? What have you got? All this unauthorized expenditure for a few pornographic photographs.'

  'We'll nail him,' said Frost, moving to the door and trying to convince himself. 'And if we're lucky we'll nail him for both kids . . . two for the price of one. How's that for a bargain?'

  He closed the door firmly behind him. It was a good exit line, but could he possibly pull it off?

  Chapter 10

  The search warrant was waiting for him on his desk. He stuffed it in his pocket and was giving his chin a quick going-over with the electric razor when the door creaked open and a death-warmed-up DC Morgan staggered in, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, clothing soiled and crumpled and reeking of stale spirits and vomit. 'Good morning, vicar,' said Frost.

  A sickly grin from Morgan. He flopped into a chair, wincing at the pain from his throbbing head.

  'So what happened last night?' Frost asked.

  The act of furrowing his brow in an effort to remember made Morgan wince again. 'It's all a bit vague, guv. There was this young lady and we had a drink . . .'

  'Another bit of crumpet?' said Frost. 'You can't leave them alone, can you?'

  'It's difficult to say no when they waggle it under your nose, guv.' He winced yet again as his fingers touched his forehead and found the gash. 'I remember getting into the car and driving off, but it gets a bit hazy after that.' He listened, looking more and more shamefaced as Frost quickly filled him in.

  'It must have been those painkillers from the dentist . . . they make you drowsy.'

  'Only if you're well pissed to start with,' said Frost, pulling on his mac. 'Get off home and clean yourself up before Mullett sees you. He's already given me a bollocking for looking like a tramp and I'm Beau Brummell compared to you. Stay away from the station. Report to Sergeant Hanlon and join the search for the missing kid.'

  'Right, guv . . . sorry, guv . . . owe you one, guv.' He sidled out as PC Jordan came in.

  'Was that a tramp or Taffy Morgan?' he asked.

  'Both,' grunted Frost. 'SOCO and Forensic ready?'

  'In the van and waiting.'

  'Right,' said Frost. 'Let's pay our respects to Mr Weaver.'

  'A search warrant?' blinked Weaver, staring at the document Frost had thrust into his hand. He had been roused from his bed by their hammerings and was still tying the cord round a grey dressing-gown. 'But this isn't necessary, Inspector. I told you yesterday, you can search where you like.'

  'You are too kind, sir. I wish all citizens were as decent and co-operative as you.' Frost jerked a thumb to his team. 'Start with the upstairs rooms.'

  Weaver watched in dismay as Forensic and Rawlings, the Scenes of Crime Officer, thundered up the stairs. 'It's a mess up there, I'm afraid.'

  'Don't worry yourself,' beamed Frost amiably. 'It'll be a lot more of a bleeding mess when they've finished.' He took Weaver by the arm and led him to the small kitchen where PC Jordan was opening and shutting drawers. 'We can talk in here, sir.' He noticed a bag of boiled sweets on the table. Sherbet limes. He hadn't had sherbet limes since he was a kid. 'Are these yours, sir?'

  'Yes,' snapped Weaver, snatching the bag from him. 'They're mine. I don't use them to lure young children in here, if that's what you're implying.'

  'I wasn't implying any such thing, sir,' said Frost. 'I was hoping you'd offer me one.' He pushed Weaver into a chair then pulled a wad of photographs from his pocket and began to deal them out on the table, like a hand of cards. As each photograph was laid down, Weaver flinched. 'I believe these are yours, sir?'

  Weaver shrank away as if he wanted nothing to do with them. 'Not mine, Inspector - definitely not mine.'

  Frost looked across to Jordan in mock exasperation. 'We've boobed again, Constable. These aren't the gentleman's photographs.' He turned back to Weaver. 'I can't apologize enough, sir, so if you'll just explain why your fingerprints are all over them and how it was you were seen dumping them in the canal last night, we'll say no more about it.' He folded his arms and waited.

  Weaver had gone the colour of chalk. He hung his head and mumbled to the table top. 'All right, Inspector. Yes, they are mine. To my deep shame I get pleasure from studying photographs of children . . .'

  'Naked children,' corrected Frost.

  'Yes. It sounds bad, but it's harmless. I just like to look at photographs, that's all. After you called here yesterday I was concerned you would find them and get the wrong idea, so I decided to get rid of them.'

  'Did you take any of them yourself, sir?'

  A quick shake of the head. 'Oh dear me, no. I bought them.'

  'From a man in a pub you'd never seen before?'

  Weaver gave a thin smile. 'Something like that. I paid cash. I don't know his name.'

  Frost nodded as if he accepted this. 'Fair enough, sir. But something puzzles me. If I liked to dribble over photographs of bare young flesh, like you, I don't think I'd turn away a seven-year-old girl who knocks at my door and begs to be photographed. I'd have her stripped off and my Box Brownie out before you could say "Cheese".'

  Weaver flushed angrily. 'You can believe what you like, Inspector, but I told you exactly what happened. She never came into the house.' The sound of nails wrenched from wood coming from above made him start. 'What is that?'

  'That's the floorboards coming up - in case you forgot to tell us about the body.'

  Weaver smiled. 'You can tear the place apart, Inspector. There is no body here.'

  'It doesn't have to be a body,' Frost told him. 'We'll settle for a single hair, a shred of clothing. DNA can do the rest.'

  The mention of DNA had the same effect on Weaver as it had on Bernie Green. He began twitching in agitation. 'DNA?'

  'One hair, that's all they need, sir - they'll be disappointed if they find a body. They get paid extra for doing DNA tests.'

  Weaver pulled the dressing-gown tighter around him. He was shaking, but not from the cold. 'There's something I should tell you
.'

  'My ear-hole is at your disposal, sir.' Frost sat in the chair opposite him and pulled out a cigarette, but remembering Weaver's asthma, reluctantly shoved it back in the packet.

  'I'm afraid I didn't quite tell you the truth . . .'He paused. Frost said nothing. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Weaver's tongue moistened dry lips. 'I did let her in. It was foolish of me, but she seemed such a sweet little girl. I did take her photograph - fully clothed, of course - and then she left. Even though it was innocent and harmless, when I learnt she was missing, I panicked and threw the photographs away.'

  'And the film?'

  'I threw that away as well.'

  Frost stared hard at him. Weaver wouldn't meet his I gaze. 'And what about the other little girl, Vicky Stuart?'

  'I know nothing about her. I've never seen her. It was just Jenny, I swear it.'

  'Inspector!' PC Simms was calling from the top of I the stairs. 'Would you come up and have a look at this, please.'

  Frost thudded up the stairs. Simms, in Weaver's bedroom, had pulled the wardrobe away from the wall. Sellotaped to the back was a large manila envelope. Frost felt it. There seemed to be photographs inside. He yelled for Weaver to be brought up. 'Any idea what this contains, sir?'

  Weaver collapsed on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Frost removed the envelope and shook out the contents. A series of black and white photographs of a young girl, some semi-clothed, others in the nude. The girl was Jenny Brewer.