Frost 5 - Winter Frost

by R D Wingfield

  'That's right,' nodded Collier. 'Old dear got fined £200 . . . Not her first offence.'

  'I think her name was Maggs, son. Check it for me. It's important.'

  As he waited for Collier, he rummaged through his in-tray, discarding all memos he didn't have time or the patience to deal with - mostly memos from Mullett starting with 'May I remind you . . .' or 'When may I expect . . . ?' That chore done, he stared out of the window. Barely three o'clock and already starting to get dark with a thick mist descending again. The search parties wouldn't be able to work for much longer. Had Hanlon searched the hospital grounds again yet? He looked up as Collier returned. 'You're right, Inspector. Mrs Ruby Maggs.'

  Frost interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, beaming with delight. 'And Maggs is the old boy Daniels plays draughts with at the geriatrics' club. He'd know Daniels' address and he'd have a lovely grudge to bear against Cordwell who owns the mini-mart.'

  'You're not suggesting Maggs was the bloke with the shotgun?' asked Collier. 'The man whose car they pinched said he was a lot younger.'

  'Maggs could have a son, or a grandson, and got them to do it for him.' Once Frost had a theory he was reluctant to let it go. He snatched his scarf from the peg. He was feeling pleased with himself. Great to have this all tied up for Liz Maud when she returned. 'Come on, son, let's go.'

  It took some time for Maggs to open the door. His laboured breathing and cries of 'I'm coming, I'm coming' seemed to go on for ever as he creaked his way up the passage. The front door opened to reveal a man in his late seventies, gasping for breath and leaning heavily on a stick. He was surprised to see Frost. 'I thought you were the District Nurse.'

  'People often mistake me,' said Frost. He showed his warrant card. 'A couple of words, if you don't mind.'

  Mrs Maggs, looking even frailer than her husband, was huddled in a chair by the fire. 'Police?' she gasped in alarm, holding a heavily veined hand to her mouth. 'We're sending the money off for the fine today. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but-'

  'It's nothing to do with that, Mrs Maggs,' cut in Frost. 'It's about that robbery at the mini-mart.'

  Husband and wife looked at each other. 'We read about that, didn't we, dear?' she said.

  'Yes,' agreed Maggs. 'Gave me the biggest laugh I've had for ages. That sod Cordwell deserved to be robbed.' He held his wife's hand and squeezed it tight. 'Pity they didn't take more.'

  'It was a friend of yours who was shot, Mr Maggs,' Frost told him. 'Mr Daniels.'

  Maggs frowned. 'Who's Daniels?'

  'Your draughts-playing friend.'

  'Oh - you mean Bert? I never knew his second name. Oh dear. I never knew it was him.' He shook his head in dismay. 'How is he?'

  'Not too badly hurt.' Frost heaved himself out of the chair. This was a waste of time. Maggs seemed genuine in not knowing Daniels' full name. Another theory flushed down the pan. 'I won't bother you any more, Mr Maggs.' And then he saw it. Behind the clock on the mantelpiece, a large brown envelope, the name and address handwritten in block capitals. He leaned over and pulled it out. Yes, identical to the one received by Daniels. It was empty.

  Grunting with pain, Maggs rose and snatched it from him. 'That's personal!'

  'Where's the money?' asked Frost.

  Mrs Maggs, visibly distressed, was staring open-mouthed at her husband whose hand was shaking vigorously, bidding her to keep quiet. 'What money?'

  'Was there a note with it?'

  'We know nothing about no note. This is private, none of your business.'

  Frost looked at them both. The man defiant, the woman close to tears. No point in bullying them into an admission. It was obvious they too had been sent part of the robbery money and he now had a bloody good idea who had sent it. He buttoned up his mac. 'All right, Mr Maggs. I might need to talk to you again . . . but in the meantime, don't spend any of the money you didn't receive.'

  Collier drove him to the Redwoods' house where Mrs Redwood seemed surprised to see him back so soon. 'A couple of points I should have cleared earlier, Mrs Redwood. Can I come in?'

  Her husband, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas, sat in the living-room, his bandaged leg up on a stool. Frost declined the offer of a cup of tea. He smiled sympathetically. 'How are you feeling, Mr Redwood?'

  His wife answered for him. 'He's still in a lot of pain but he's healing slowly.'

  'Good,' said Frost.

  Redwood eased his leg to a more comfortable position. 'Are you any closer to catching the swines ' that did it?'

  'Very close,' Frost told him. 'In fact, we hope to make an arrest today - which is why I'm here.' He was studying the old man's face and noticed the slight start his words had produced.

  'That's good news, Inspector,' said the wife, putting an arm round the old man's shoulders.

  'How's Mr Daniels?' asked Redwood.

  'Not too bad,' said Frost. 'Good job you had the gun pointing down.'

  The man's head snapped up. 'Me?'

  'Did I say "you"?' said Frost, sounding surprised he could make such a stupid mistake. 'I meant the armed robber.' He shook his head in annoyance with himself. 'I've so many things running through my mind, I get confused. They sent him money, did you know?'

  'You told my wife earlier.'

  'Did they send you any?'

  'No - and if they did I wouldn't have accepted it.'

  'Mr Daniels is not going to accept it either. They also sent a wad of money to a bloke called Maggs. He goes to your Senior Citizens' Club, doesn't he?'

  'The name rings a vague bell.' Redwood was no longer looking up at Frost.

  Frost scratched his chin. 'I wonder why they didn't send you any? You suffered more than Daniels . . . they nicked your car as well.'

  Redwood shrugged and shook his head. 'No idea.'

  Frost dragged a chair over and sat next to the old man, giving him one of his disarming smiles. 'You couldn't post it to yourself, I suppose. What did you do with the rest of the money?'

  Redwood dropped his gaze. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he mumbled.

  But his wife could stand the strain no longer. 'For God's sake tell him . . . he knows anyway.' She broke down and sobbed.

  Redwood took her hand and held it tightly, then raised his eyes to Frost. 'It all went wrong,' he told the inspector. 'Fire the gun up in the ceiling to frighten the life out of them, grab the money and run. It should have been all over in seconds. But Daniels had to act the bloody hero and grabs for the gun. I never meant the damn thing to go off . . . he got half the pellets in his leg, I got the rest in mine.'

  'How did you know the security cameras weren't working that night?'

  Redwood gawped, wide-eyed with dismay. 'Not working? You mean you didn't have our car on video?'

  'We had sod all on video. Are you saying you didn't know it was out of action?'

  'I didn't even know they had security cameras until we were driving away and my wife spotted them.' He gave an apologetic smile. 'I suppose we're not really cut out for this sort of thing.'

  'I've known it done better,' said Frost. 'What have you done with the money?'

  'We sent it anonymously to charities. We didn't want it.'

  Frost frowned. 'Then why the hell did you pinch it in the first place?'

  'That damn man Cordwell who runs the supermarket chain, he's raking in millions and he take people like poor old Mrs Maggs to court for stealing; couple of packets of biscuits. There was another old dear a few months ago. Rather than face the disgrace of going to court, she took an overdose. We were angry. We wanted to make him pay.'

  'Cordwell wouldn't have felt a bloody thing,' said Frost, 'and he would have got all the money bags from his insurance company anyway. Bastards like him always win. What happened after you drove away?'

  'It was all panic. Connie told me we were on that damn security camera . . . paint from the carrier bag all over the seat, shotgun pellets in my leg and I was terrified I might have killed Mr Daniels.' His
face screwed up at the pain of the recollection. 'It was Connie's idea that we made up the story about the car being hijacked and the man shooting at me. She left me in the woods while she went off to hide the car, then she phoned the police.'

  'You say you sent the bulk of the money off to charities?'

  'Yes. Connie parcelled it up and sent it anonymously.'

  Frost pulled out a pen. 'Which charities?'

  They looked at each other. 'Will it make any difference to what sentence we get if I tell you?' asked the man.

  Frost shrugged. 'Probably not.'

  'Then let them keep it. I suppose you'll take the money back from old Maggs?'

  'He denies receiving it,' said Frost, 'and if you deny sending him any, there's not much we can do.'

  'Then I didn't send him any.'

  'Fair enough,' nodded Frost. 'Then the charities got it all.' He stood up. 'I've got to take you in.' He sounded almost apologetic.

  Redwood's arm tightened around his wife, who looked ready to collapse. 'What will happen to us?'

  'You'll give us a statement, then you'll be charged, then you'll probably be released on police bail pending the court hearing.'

  The man blinked in dismay. 'We won't go to prison, will we?'

  'It was armed robbery,' said Frost. 'If only you hadn't used that loaded bleeding gun you might have got off with a caution.'

  'We thought it would make it more realistic.'

  'Well it certainly took me in,' grunted Frost, 'especially when you nearly shot that poor sod's leg off.' His voice softened. 'I don't know what sort of sentence you'll get, but play up your motive and keep limping on that bad leg and wincing. The judge might mink you've suffered enough.' He was helping the man on with his coat when he remembered what he should have asked earlier. 'Where's the shotgun?'

  'Locked away in the cupboard under the stairs,' Redwood told him. 'Shall I go and fetch it?'

  'No,' said Frost hastily. He didn't want the old boy to return with the gun and demand a fast car and a plane. I'll get one of our firearms blokes round to pick it up.'

  Redwood raised his chin so his wife could wind a long woollen scarf round his neck. 'The key's in the bureau with the shotgun licence.'

  'Shotgun licence?' echoed Frost.

  'A police shotgun licence. I suppose that's how you got on to us in the first place?'

  'Yes lied Frost. 'It was the first thing I thought of.'

  'Another case solved then, Jack?' beamed Police Sergeant Wells.

  'I can solve other people's cases, but can't solve my own.' He pulled a face. 'A couple of geriatric Bonnie and Clydes trying to do Cordwell one in the eye. If there was any justice the poor sods should have got away with it.' He scribbled a note and attached it to the case file. 'Liz Maud can have the credit when she comes back. I don't mind solving her cases, but I'm damned if I'm going to do her paperwork.'

  'That cow solves more cases when she's away then when she's here,' sniffed Wells.

  Frost stared out of the window. It was getting dark and the mist was thickening. 'I think I'll go and see how the search parties are doing.'

  Chapter 11

  Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon followed the silent line of men and women as they moved slowly forward, poking and prodding. He checked his watch. It was almost too dark to see the dial. Nearly five o'clock, time to call the search off until the morning. A police whistle shrilled, echoed by other, fainter, whistles in the distance. Wearily, the searchers, miserable and dispirited, straightened up and made for their transport. A long, cold, fruitless search.

  Hanlon nodded as they trudged past him to the parked cars. His back hurt from continually stooping. He was cold, his trouser legs were sodden from wet grass, his clothes clammy where moisture had dripped and trickled from overhanging branches. He ached all over and he was hungry. He looked around. Where was Jack Frost? The inspector had come down to check on progress and had then wandered over to the hospital buildings to join the few men Hanlon had been able to spare to search them yet again. A waste of time, but the inspector was insistent.

  He needed to talk to Frost to find out if he should send the search teams straight out in the morning or wait for a briefing. Mullett was getting very fidgety about overtime being paid to men with cups of tea in their hands, laughing at Frost's dirty jokes, instead of getting down to the nitty-gritty of searching. And had Frost dismissed the men doing the hospital grounds search? Mullett had insisted that no overtime was to be paid for after five o'clock. Hanlon rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation, then climbed in his car and headed for the hospital grounds to find Frost.

  The numbing wind cut right through him, but at least it was driving away the mist. He turned up his coat collar as he plodded over the thick carpet of wet, fallen leaves along the little-used paths at the back of the hospital. There was Frost's car, the radio chattering away aimlessly with no-one to listen to it. Somewhere in the distance someone had lit a bonfire and the wind carried the smell of burning leaves. Then another smell. Cigarette smoke. Frost was near, but he couldn't see him in the dark.

  'Jack?'

  A grunt in reply. Hanlon squeezed through some bushes and there was Frost, cigarette drooping, slumped against the crumbling brick wall of a derelict hospital shed. Hanlon looked around anxiously. No sign of the other men so he hoped Frost had sent them home.

  'I've called off the search for tonight, Jack. We'll meet up again at the station first light tomorrow.'

  Frost took the cigarette from his mouth. 'Cancel it.'

  Hanlon blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. 'Cancel it?' he echoed. He stared at the inspector as the glow from the cigarette lit up his face, a face grey with fatigue, looking older than his years. 'Why, Jack? We can still find her.'

  Frost stared into the distant dark, squinting against the smoke from his cigarette. 'I've found her, Arthur,' he said quietly. He jerked a thumb at the shed.

  Hanlon's face creased into a puzzled frown. 'She can't be there, Jack. We searched it thoroughly this morning, and this afternoon.'

  'Then you couldn't have been thorough enough,' snapped Frost, 'because she's in there.'

  Hanlon moved away to look, but Frost caught his sleeve. 'Don't be in such a bloody hurry to see her, Arthur. She's dead. The bastard has raped and strangled her . . . he's nearly torn her apart.'

  He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it savagely into the darkness, then pulled out the packet and offered it. Hanlon, who rarely smoked, took one. 'We'll need the police surgeon, Forensic - ' he began.

  'I've called them,' said Frost, clicking his cigarette lighter. They lit up and smoked, saying nothing. Car headlights sheared through the darkness. 'That will be them now.'

  Harding, with two of his staff from Forensic, homed in on Frost's shouts. 'Where is she?' Frost led them to the shed door.

  'I thought this had been searched earlier?' said Harding.

  'We must have missed her,' muttered Frost, switching on his torch and pulling back a length of sacking that had once held fertilizer. He moved back so Harding could see.

  Harding bent over the tiny body. The girl, wearing a green dress, lay on her side, the body slightly curved as if she had been carried in someone's arms before being dumped on the floor. In the corner of the shed, apparently just thrown in, was a child's blue anorak. The girl's eyes were open and marks of bruising were evident around her neck.

  Harding briefly lifted the skirt then, with a look of disgust, straightened up. 'She's been raped!'

  'Tell me something I don't know,' grunted Frost.

  'Has the pathologist seen her yet?' Harding asked.

  'No, so try not to move her. You know what a fussy sod he is.'

  Headlights hurled their shadows against the far wall. The rest of the Forensic team had arrived. Frost took Harding's arm and lowered his voice. 'I've got the sod who did this, but not enough proof to make it stick. Find me evidence to nail the bastard, and if you can't find anything, bloody plant it!'r />
  A nervous twitch of a smile from Harding who was never sure when Frost was joking. 'If there's anything here, Inspector, we'll find it, I promise you.' He called the rest of his team over as Frost went outside to wait for the pathologist.

  He was speeding down the Bath Road on his way back to the station, a thousand thoughts swirling, like the mist, round his brain. Then he noticed the speedometer . . . he was doing over eighty. That's right, kill yourself, you silly sod. He slowed down to a fairly respectable sixty. He was nearly at the station when he realized he hadn't broken the news to Jenny's mother. Shit! He slammed on the brakes and squealed into a U turn. This was the part of the job he hated.

  'Dead?' She broke down and he was holding her tight, saying nothing as her body shook and hot, scalding tears splashed down her face. How many times had he held mothers like this, telling them of the death of their kids? Too many times! What a bloody job!

  'I never treated her right,' she sobbed, 'but I loved her. I really loved her.'

  Frost nodded, patting the back of her head soothingly, still saying nothing. Pity you didn't love the poor cow more when she was alive, he thought. Aloud he murmured, as if it would make her feel better: 'We've got the bastard, love . . . we've got the bastard who did it.'

  Ignoring the incessant ringing of the phones, Bill Wells stamped his feet to get the blood flowing, then felt the radiator in the lobby to make sure it was working properly. It was going full blast but didn't seem to be warming the place up very much. He clapped his hands over the papers on his desk to keep them in place as the lobby door crashed open and Frost, maroon scarf streaming behind him, hurtled in. 'Mr Mullett wants to see you, Inspector,' called Wells.

  'Hard luck,' said Frost over his shoulder as he dashed past. 'I want Weaver in the interview room - now!'