Frost 5 - Winter Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost rammed the photographs in Weaver's face. 'You couldn't bear to part with them, could you? All| right, you bastard, where is she? What have you done to her?'

  Weaver flinched and sniffed back tears. 'I've done nothing with her. She was alive when she left I here.'

  'You're lying,' snarled Frost. 'You lie until you're found out, and then you lie some more to cover up your lies. Where is she?'

  Weaver shook his head, knuckling his eyes.

  'Charles Edward Weaver,' intoned Frost, I'm arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the disappearance of Jenny Brewer . . .' He tailed off. He I never could remember the words of the new caution and had to step back so Simms could finish it off for him.

  'This is a nightmare,' blubbed Weaver. 'I'm innocent.'

  'Take the innocent bastard away,' said Frost.

  The cleaners had given the interview room a flick over. Its permanent smell of sweat, old socks and stale cigarette smoke was now tinged with pine disinfectant. Frost squeaked a chair across the brown lino and plonked himself down opposite Weaver. As he waited while Simms set up the cassette recorder, he rammed a cigarette in his mouth and lit up without thinking. One puff before Weaver was coughing, spluttering and flapping his hand to clear away the smoke. 'Please, Inspector - my asthma.'

  Frost pinched out the cigarette and dropped it back in the packet. 'Sorry. Tell me about Jenny.'

  'She saw me in the street with my camera and wanted her photograph taken . . .'

  'When was this?'

  'A few weeks ago. I told her no, but she kept knocking at my door. In the end, I let her in.'

  'Why?'

  'She looked so pitiful. I felt sorry for her. I didn't intend taking those photographs. It just happened.'

  'She just happened to strip off and you just happened to have your camera handy?'

  Weaver bowed his head and didn't answer.

  'Did she do it for free?'

  'I gave her sweets. I bought her little gifts, annuals, toys . . .'

  'Clothes?'

  'A red dress. She kept it at my place.'

  'Why?'

  'Jenny didn't want her mother to know.'

  'And you didn't want her mother to know what you were doing with her daughter. So you paid the kid? You bought her presents to entice her to come?'

  Weaver stared at the wall behind Frost and shrugged. 'If you want to put it that way.'

  'Where is the red dress?'

  'I burnt it.'

  'What time did Jenny arrive on the day she disappeared?'

  'A little after four. She came straight from school.'

  'What time did she leave?'

  'About a quarter to five. She said she had to get round to her grandmother's house. It was raining, so if gave her a pound for the bus fare.'

  'How did she leave - the front way . . . the back way?'

  'The back way. She said she didn't want any of her school friends to see her.'

  'And you didn't want the neighbours to see her either.'

  Weaver gave a wry smile. 'You know how neighbours talk.'

  'With good bloody reason in this case. Let's pretend you're telling the truth. What do you reckon happened to her after she left you?'

  Weaver spread his hands. 'I don't know, but if I were you, I'd start questioning her mother's boyfriend. Jenny told me he used to hit her. I saw bruises.'

  Frost brought out the photo of the first missing girl. 'I'm showing the suspect a photograph of Vicky Stuart,' he told the tape. 'Tell me about Vicky.'

  Weaver sighed. 'How many more times . . . I have never, ever in my life seen or spoken to that child. Jenny was the only one and I never so much as laid a finger on her.'

  'Call me a sentimental old fool, if you like,' said Frost, 'but I think you're a bleeding liar. I think know damn well where they are.'

  Weaver shook his head as if in sorrow. 'I'm sorry you don't believe me, Inspector. I can only tell the truth and the truth is I don't know anything about them other than what I have told you.'

  Frost's lip curled contemptuously. 'Are they dead? Is that why you won't tell us where they are?' He jerked his head round angrily as someone knocked at the door of the interview room. The red light was on and he was interviewing a murder suspect. He flicked a finger for Simms to see who it was.

  It was Sergeant Bill Wells who waved Simms aside and beckoned urgently to Frost to come outside. 'The hospital phoned, Jack. Weaver's mother has taken a turn for the worse. They think he should get over there right away.'

  Frost found a dog-end in his pocket and took a couple of quick drags before grinding it underfoot. 'The bleeding woman picks her moments to go critical.' He went back in. 'Bit of bad news for you, Mr Weaver, I'm afraid.'

  No other cars were available, so Frost had to drive him to the hospital, deliberately taking a route which led past Denton Woods, slowing down as they passed lines of men and women painstakingly searching for the missing Jenny Brewer. 'Tell us where she is,' he pleaded.

  Weaver, staring out of the window, sighed. 'If I could, I would. I just don't know.'

  'Her mother is desperate.'

  'Her mother is a cow and the boyfriend used to beat her up. You should be questioning them, not wasting your time with me.'

  The car crawled past another group, breaths smoking in the cold air, as they pushed through waist-high grass and bramble.

  'There was a funeral in our street last week,' said Frost. 'Little boy of three, run over by a bus. The wreath from his mum and dad was in the shape of a kiddy's scooter - his favourite toy. It broke my heart.'

  'It would have broken mine as well,' said Weaver, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. 'I'm terribly sentimental about things like that.'

  Crocodile tears, thought Frost gloomily. How the hell do I get through to the sod? Weaver lay back in his seat, looking relaxed, but as they approached the hospital Frost sensed the man was tightening up, looking slightly uneasy. 'Anything wrong, Mr Weaver?'

  'Wrong? No, of course not. Just worried about my mother.'

  The denial was a little too strong. Weaver was uneasy about the hospital. The kid was somewhere in the hospital's sprawling grounds. He'd tell Hanlon to make the search of the grounds a priority.

  Once through the main entrance Frost had a job keeping up with Weaver as he hurried to his mother's ward. They climbed stairs, passed ward after ward, then a sharp turn to the right. 'This is it,' Weaver announced. He trotted in, only to stop abruptly and turn to Frost in dismay. A complete stranger, another woman, was in his mother's bed. The old girl's croaked, thought Frost gloomily, but a nurse tripped across to explain that the old lady had been moved to a side ward where she would be more comfortable.

  The nurse took them to a small, single-bedded room where an old woman, her face as white as the hospital sheets, lay with her eyes closed, mumbling to herself. 'Visitors for you, Mrs Weaver,' said the nurse breezily. The old woman made no sign that she had heard. 'Stay as long as you like,' smiled the nurse to Weaver. Frost stiffened. Deja vu! Those words . This room . . . It was the same bloody room. He knew every inch of it: that same zigzag crack in the ceiling over the bed, the peeling white paint on the skirting board. This was the room where they had put his wife so her dying wouldn't disturb the rest of the ward and where she could be quickly wheeled across the corridor to the big lift down to the mortuary without upsetting the other patients. 'Stay as long as you like, Mr Frost.' This was the room where he had sat, staring at the blank walls day after day, night after night, waiting for her to die. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He felt suffocated and wanted to get out.

  Weaver, seated in the chair by the bed, was talking quietly to his mother whose eyes had fluttered open. He took her hand, the parchment skin showing a map of thin blue veins, and gently stroked it. 'It's me, mother - Charles.' If she knew he was there she gave no sign. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as if she was trying to say something, then the eyes fluttered shut . . . just the way Frost's wife's eyes would
flutter shut.

  Frost backed away to the door. I'll leave you to it for a while,' he whispered, almost feeling sorry for the poor sod. Outside he sucked in fresh air, then wandered off to a side passage where he could smoke without the nurses seeing him, staring, eyes half closed against the smoke, through the fourth-floor window to the surrounding countryside. At this height he was above the mist and could see clumps of it in the hollows clinging to the ground and then, suddenly emerging from it, a line of searchers looking for the girl. He switched his gaze down to the hospital grounds. To his left stood the old nurses' home, now empty, ready to be demolished. Lots of sheds and outbuildings, plenty of places to hide a seven-year-old girl's body. Weaver would often visit the hospital when it was dark.

  He pulled out his phone to call Hanlon, remembering in time that mobiles weren't allowed within the hospital as they could interfere with medical equipment. He took the lift to the ground floor, then walked outside, dialling Hanlon's number.

  'We've already done the hospital grounds, Jack,'' Hanlon told him.

  'I want them done thoroughly.'

  'They were done thoroughly,' protested Hanlon.

  'Do them again,' Frost ordered. 'This is where the kid is . . . I know it.'

  'I don't want to pull men off other areas at this stage, Jack, areas we haven't searched yet.'

  'All right.' He pinched out the cigarette and dropped it back in his pocket. 'But as soon as you've got a team free, I want them here. Pander my whim, Arthur, I've got one of my nasty feelings.'

  Back again to the fourth floor where he peeked in on Weaver who was still sitting by the bed talking to her in a low, gentle tone. 'I've got your room waiting ; all ready for when you come home, mother . . . and Aunt Maisie sends her love . . .' The old woman's eyes remained closed and she wasn't hearing him.

  Frost looked at his watch, surprised to see they had only been here for ten minutes. Time was crawling, just as it did when he visited his wife. He went out for another cigarette, then remembered he was supposed to be covering the armed robbery case for Liz Maud while she was away so wandered up to the fifth floor to talk to the old boy who had tackled the robber and got shot in the legs for his trouble.

  'He left this morning,' the nurse told him. 'Discharged himself.' Frost made a mental note to find time to see him at his home. A slight chance he might remember a bit more about the gunman.

  He gave Weaver another half-hour, then drove him back to the station. The man seemed withdrawn, but looked up and pushed a smile. 'I think my mother looked a bit better today. Now they've moved her to that private room she'll get better in leaps and bounds, I know she will.'

  Frost gave a non-committal grunt. 'We're going to search the hospital grounds,' he announced. 'We reckon that's where you've put the girl.' He pretended to be looking straight ahead, but watched Weaver out of the corner of his eye. The man didn't seem at all worried.

  'I hope you find her, Inspector. And I hope you find her alive and well, then you can stop wasting your time on me and get after the real culprit.'

  Frost felt the slightest flicker of doubt as to Weaver's guilt, but his gut feeling shook this off. The sod was as guilty as sin. He drove through the red light area, realizing that until they found the girl, they didn't have the resources to do much, if anything, about the serial killer. Sod Mullett and his generosity in giving away half the bloody station staff to County.

  Sergeant Bill Wells slammed shut the door to Weaver's cell then chalked the time on the small blackboard outside. 'You can't hold him much longer without charging him, Jack,' he told Frost.

  Frost nodded gloomily. 'We need a body. I can't charge him with murder unless we find the kid.' He followed Wells back to the front desk where the internal phone was ringing. Wells answered it. 'Mr Mullett is getting edgy at the build-up of overtime, Jack. Wants an itemized breakdown of the possible total sum involved on a day by day basis.'

  'I'll have a bleeding breakdown if he doesn't get off my back,' said Frost, edging towards the door. 'Tell him I've just gone out, and I may be some little time.' The outside phone rang. He waited as Wells answered it in case it was one of the search teams.

  'It's that old boy who was injured in the armed raid, Jack. Says he's received some money in the post . . . reckons it's from the bloke who shot him.'

  'Right,' said Frost, glad of a legitimate excuse to go out. 'I might not be back until after Mr Mullett's gone home . . .'

  The old boy, Herbert Daniels, his leg heavily bandaged and reeking of hospital antiseptic, opened the front door as far as the security chain would permit and stared at Frost's warrant card. 'You're not the woman policeman.'

  'You're too bleeding observant,' said Frost. 'Can I come in?'

  He followed Daniels into a tiny living-room where a huge coal fire roared away. The room was like a tropical greenhouse and Frost was soon unwinding his scarf and shucking off his mac. He pulled a chair further away from the fire and sat down. 'Understand you've had some money, Mr Daniels?'

  Daniels handed Frost a padded envelope. 'Came yesterday morning.' Inside was a wad of used banknotes, some speckled with white paint. 'Five hundred quid in there,' Daniels told him. 'I counted it - and there's a message.'

  A folded sheet of paper with handwritten block capitals read: 'SORRY. WE DIDN'T MEAN ANYONE TO GET HURT.'

  'Sorry!' snorted Daniels. 'They shoot your bloody leg off and say sorry . . . hanging and bleeding flogging, that's what they want.'

  'But preferably not in that order,' murmured Frost. He was studying the address on the envelope, also handwritten in capitals, 'HERBERT GEORGE DANIELS, 2 CLOSE COURT, DENTON'. He looked across at the old boy who was carefully arranging his injured leg on a stool. 'How long have you lived in Denton, Mr Daniels?'

  'Just over a month. Came here from Leeds when my wife died. I wish I hadn't now - nutcases with bloody guns. Wouldn't have happened in my day - we had the death penalty then.'

  'Do you have any friends in Denton?'

  'Years ago, but they're all dead now.'

  'Relatives?'

  'My son's in Australia, there's no-one else.'

  'I see.' Frost chewed on his knuckle. 'Have you joined any organizations or clubs since you've been in Denton?'

  'The Denton Senior Citizens' Club. I go there a couple of days a week for a game of draughts and me dinner.'

  'Do you know anyone there?'

  'An old boy called Maggs, that's all. I play draughts with him . . . Why?'

  Frost tapped the envelope. 'Whoever sent this money knew your middle name and your address. You're not yet in the phone book or on the voting register, so how did they get it?'

  Daniels shrugged. 'I expect they got it from somewhere.'

  'Yes, I expect they did,' said Frost. 'I hadn't thought of that.' His trouser legs were scorching from the heat of the fire so he moved the chair even further back, then fumbled for a cigarette, but decided against it. Only two left in the packet and the old sod might expect to be offered one. 'You haven't joined any other clubs, have you - clubs you'd rather not talk about?'

  The old man scowled at him angrily. 'What the hell do you mean?'

  'Strip clubs . . . blue film clubs?'

  'That's a flaming insult.'

  'Whoever sent the money must have got your full name and address from somewhere, Mr Daniels, and a strip club would be the sort of place they might frequent.'

  'Well, it ain't the bloody place I frequent.' Daniels couldn't tell Frost any more about the gunman than the brief description he had already given, so the inspector took his leave.

  After the sauna bath atmosphere of the old man's room, the freezing cold air outside hit him like a plunge in icy water. He hurried to the car and tried unsuccessfully to get the heater to work. The interior still held the smell of stale spirits and vomit after his previous night's escapade with Morgan but there was no way he was going to open the window to let fresh air in. He wound his scarf tighter and was half-way back to the station when he stopped. A tho
ught had struck him. He wondered if the other old boy - the one who was shot and had his car pinched -had also received money from the robbers. He was keeping quiet about it if he had. He radioed the station for the name and address. 'And get someone to check the membership lists of all the strip clubs and so on to see if Daniels is on them.' The old boy may have denied it, but best to make certain. He swung the car round and made for the other shotgun victim's house.

  Mrs Redwood, thin and frail and in her seventies, peered nervously at the warrant card.

  'Inspector Frost? Where's that nice young lady?'

  'She's off sick. Just a quickie. Have you had any money sent to you in the post?'

  She blinked. 'Money? No - why?'

  'The gentleman who was shot had some money sent to him by the gunman.'

  'Well, they didn't send us any and we wouldn't have kept it if they did. It wasn't their money, it was stolen.'

  'If you do receive anything, please let us know.

  'How's your husband?'

  'In pain, but recovering. Did you want to see him?' 'No thanks,' said Frost hurriedly. He'd had enough of old boys with their legs bandaged for one day.

  PC Collier was waiting for him in his office. He had drawn a blank with the various Denton clubs he had phoned. Frost plonked in the chair and scratched his chin. 'So where did they get his name and address from?'

  'The milkman? The newsagent?' suggested Collier. A firm headshake from Frost. 'The milkman or the newsagent don't bother taking down your middle name.' He drummed his fingers on the desk then pulled the note sent to Daniels from his pocket and read it aloud. ' "We didn't mean anyone to get hurt." It doesn't add up.'

  'I don't follow,' said Collier.

  'They say they didn't mean anyone to get hurt, yet they shoot the other old sod in the legs and pinch his car. They meant to hurt him all right, but didn't send him any money.'

  'Probably don't know his address,' said Collier. 'If they found Daniels' address, they could find his bloody address.' Frost stared up at the ceiling. Something was nagging away at the back of his brain . . . He dug deeply into his memory, then snapped his fingers. 'Cordwell - the bloke who owns the mini-mart, didn't he prosecute some old age pensioner recently - caught her shoplifting? There was a stink about it in the paper.'