Frost 5 - Winter Frost

by R D Wingfield

Wells jerked a thumb to the constantly ringing phones. 'The press won't leave us alone. They're screaming for a statement.'

  'They can bloody scream. Get Weaver.' And the swing doors slammed shut behind him.

  Wells returned to the desk. Ignoring the outside lines, he picked up the internal phone. It was Mullett. 'Yes, sir, he's just this minute come back. Yes, I did tell him. I'm sure he will be with you soon.' He held the phone away from his ear as Mullett bleated his annoyance. 'Yes, sir, I'll tell him.' He banged the phone down and yelled for Collier to fetch Weaver from the cell, then turned his attention to the other phones. 'Yes. I can confirm we have found a body of a young girl. Sorry . . . no further comment at this stage . . .'

  Weaver blinked at the light as Collier ushered him into the interview room, smoothing back his hair and rubbing his face as if he had just been wakened from a sound sleep. He gave Frost his 'always willing to help' smile. Frost stared at him, nose wrinkled with contempt as he flicked a finger to the chair. 'Sit!'

  Weaver sat, looking hurt at the inspector's tone.

  'You're interested in photographs, aren't you?' asked Frost, snatching a photograph from the file on the table and thrusting it in Weaver's face. It was the Forensic coloured Polaroid photograph of the dead Jenny Brewer, eyes bulging, blood trickling from her nose and mouth.

  Weaver flinched and pushed Frost's hands away. He closed his eyes and refused to look.

  'Recognize her?' demanded Frost, barely in control of himself. 'That's how we found her. Were her eyes open in terror like that when you raped the poor little cow? Seven years old, you bastard - seven years old.'

  The colour seeped from Weaver's face. He slid his chair back from the table as if trying to get as far from the photograph as possible. 'You're trying to incriminate me,' he shrilled. 'You want a suspect, so you're framing me.'

  'Did you give her one of your green sweets first? "Here little girl, have a sweetie while nice Uncle Charlie rapes you then chokes the bloody life out of you"?'

  Weaver started sobbing, then leapt to his feet, sending the chair crashing back to the wall. 'You framed me. You planted the body . . . you . . ." Then his eyes opened wide and his hand went to his throat, tearing open his collar. He was making deep wheezing noises as he desperately tried to suck in air. Frost sprang up and flung the door open. 'Bill! Get his bloody inhaler.' He looked helplessly at Collier, hoping the constable would know what to do as Weaver sank to his knees, fighting for breath. After what seemed ages, Wells returned with the inhaler. 'Get him a doctor,' said Frost, 'and bloody quick.' He snapped a glance at Collier. 'Interview terminated at 8.20.'

  '8.24,' corrected Collier.

  'What bloody difference?' snarled Frost as he stamped out.

  Mullett waylaid him as he slouched back to the office. He was not going to let Frost get away this time. 'You've found Jenny Brewer? Why am I always the last to know?'

  'Sorry,' mumbled Frost. 'I was on my way to see you now.'

  'And she was found in a place that was supposed to have been thoroughly searched earlier?'

  'Yes.' He was in no mood for a bollocking and had to suppress the urge to barge Mullett out of the way and get back to his office.

  'So most of today's search, which involved sixty men and women, many on overtime, was a complete and utter waste of time?'

  'No. We found her.'

  'But if she had been found the first time that shed was searched we could have called off the teams hours ago. Have you any idea what this little lot has cost?'

  'No,' answered Frost. 'Funnily enough, that was the last thing on my mind. All I was stupidly thinking of was trying to find the poor little cow.'

  Mullett glowered. 'Don't try to be clever with me, Frost. We all wanted that, but everything has to be paid for. Who was supposed to have searched that shed?'

  'No idea,' replied Frost, 'but I'm going to find out.' He did know, but wanted to talk to the man before dropping him in it with Mullett.

  'I want his name the minute you find out. I'm throwing the book at him, Frost.' He spun on his heels, then realized he hadn't involved Frost in this foul-up. He jabbed an accusing finger. 'You were in charge, Frost. It was your responsibility to check and double-check. Your usual sloppiness had no place here.'

  He turned and stamped back to his office, sped on his way by a two-fingered gesture.

  Frost slumped in his chair and stared at his in-tray which was stacked high with reports from the officers interviewing prostitutes in connection with the serial killings. As he flipped through them, WPC Polly Fletcher, sandy hair, freckles and a snub nose, came in with another wad of paper. She had been manning the phones in the murder incident room and had taken messages from toms reporting clients who liked to indulge in rough sex play. Frost smiled at her. She looked so flaming desirable. Flipping heck, he thought, if I was twenty years younger and not so bloody tired, I'd show her what rough sex play means. He took the reports and glanced through them. 'Anything helpful here, Polly?'

  She shook her head. 'Descriptions are all pretty vague and none of them seem really violent. A couple of possibles which I've marked.' She bent over to show him where she had circled some details. As she did so a wisp of sandy hair brushed his cheek and he could smell the perfumed soap she had been using on that freckled skin. Suddenly he didn't feel tired any more. 'Ta, Polly.' He watched as she walked out, her little bottom wiggling delightfully. Thank God Morgan wasn't here . . . he'd be chewing up the furniture. And that reminded him. Where the hell was Morgan? A quick cigarette as he waited for the doctor to see Weaver so he could continue the questioning. Fortunately, one was already on the premises attending to a drunk with a cut head, so it shouldn't take long.

  Bill Wells came in. 'The doctor's seen him, Jack. Only a mild attack, nothing to worry about.'

  Frost gathered up the files. 'Wheel him into the interview room.'

  Wells shook his head. 'He's refusing to say another word until he sees his solicitor.'

  Frost hurled the files down on his desk in disgust. 'How long will that take?'

  'We're trying to track him down. His office is closed and we're getting no reply from his home number.'

  'Get on to his staff. He might be on a flaming round the world cruise for all we know. Tell them it's urgent. I need to find out what Weaver's done with the other kid.'

  'All in hand,' Wells assured him. He paused at the door. 'Is it true Taffy Morgan was supposed to have searched that shed where the kid's body was found?'

  Frost nodded.

  'He should be chucked out of the force . . . He's rubbish.'

  'So am I,' grunted Frost, 'but I'm still here.' He pretended to busy himself with papers until the sergeant had left. He didn't want to talk about Taffy until the man had had a chance to defend himself.

  The phone gave a little cough. He snatched it up on the first ring. Harding from Forensic. 'Preliminary findings on the shed and the girl, Inspector.'

  Frost cradled the phone on his shoulder as he reached for a pen. 'Let's have it.'

  'Still more tests to carry out, but things don't look too hopeful. Fibres and odds and ends on the kid's clothing and hair. I expect we can prove some of these came from Weaver's house, but I understand he admits she's been there?'

  'She was raped. The DNA should put the finger on him.'

  'It looks as if he used a condom, Inspector.'

  Frost sighed a stream of smoke. 'Safe bleeding sex has got a lot to answer for. It can't be all bad, you must have some good news?'

  'We might have. Does your suspect smoke?'

  'No - he's a paragon of bleeding virtues: doesn't drink, doesn't smoke and always uses a condom when he rapes seven-year-old kids.'

  'Then forget the good news - we found a fairly fresh cigarette end near the body.'

  'Send it down. I'll smoke it later. Anything else to brighten up my day?'

  'No, but we'll keep trying.'

  Frost banged down the phone. If Forensic couldn't help, he'd have to try to wring a con
fession out of Weaver. He rang Wells. 'Found that solicitor yet?'

  'Give us a chance, Jack. It's only a couple of minutes since we last spoke.'

  As he put the phone down, the outside line rang. The pathologist's secretary. 'Mr Drysdale could do the autopsy on the girl now, Inspector, if you could get over here.'

  'On my way,' said Frost.

  Frost stood well back from the pool of light that splashed down on to the autopsy table. He didn't want to see what Drysdale was doing to the poor kid, he just wanted to know the result, hoping the pathologist would find something that would link the crime positively to Weaver. Every now and then Drysdale would move back so the man from Forensic could take photographs.

  'Extensive tearing and bruising around the vaginal area,' Drysdale intoned flatly. He lifted one of the child's arms and examined the wrist. 'Traces of adhesive . . . probably from sticky tape of some kind.'

  Frost nodded. That was one of the first things he had spotted. The wrists would have been bound together to stop the kid struggling during the assault. He felt a surge of despair. This bloody mortuary was becoming a second home - so many nasty murder cases, so many days and nights watching Drysdale methodically cutting and slicing.

  'Fading bruises on the arms, legs and buttocks,' continued Drysdale. 'Made at least a week before death.'

  'Yes,' Frost told him. 'When the poor cow wasn't being raped, the mother's boyfriend used to hit her.' Drysdale grunted. That sort of background was of no interest to him. 'More signs of adhesive around the mouth . . . Hello!' Frost's head snapped up. Drysdale was teasing something from the child's mouth, something sodden and grey, which he dropped into a kidney bowl, then prodded with the tweezers. 'Bathroom tissue of some kind. Looks as if he used a ball of it as a gag.'

  Frost joined him to examine the mess in the stainless steel bowl. 'Toilet paper! He used toilet paper!' He tugged out his mobile phone and, watched by a frowning Drysdale, got through to Control. 'Send someone over to Weaver's house right away. I want the toilet roll from his bog bagged and sent over to Forensic . . . and search the place for condoms. If they find any, let me know right away.' He turned back to Drysdale who was again teasing away at the mouth, extracting more tissue. 'Get it all out, doc - every piece. Try not to tear it.'

  Drysdale glowered. 'I don't need you to tell me how to do my job, Inspector.' He dumped another sodden wad into the kidney bowl. 'She could have choked on this.'

  'Did she?' asked Frost.

  'No. She died of manual strangulation.'

  'She was a feisty little kid, doc. She'd have put up one hell of a fight. Could she have scratched him? Anything under her nails?'

  In answer Drysdale lifted a waxen arm and pointed to the fingers. The nails were bitten down to the quick. 'She couldn't have scratched him if she wanted to.'

  'I bet the poor little cow wanted to,' said Frost bitterly. Nothing at all yet to link Weaver to the crime. 'I need something, doc, I really do.' He turned his head away as Drysdale's scalpel slashed across the tiny stomach.

  'She ate two boiled sweets about half an hour before she died.' The pathologist held up a small glass jar in which little bits of green floated. 'Lime drops, or something.'

  'He admits to giving her sweets,' Frost told him.

  'Nevertheless, it might be an entirely different brand. Someone else might have abducted her after she left your suspect's house.'

  'She left his house in a bloody bin liner,' said Frost. 'I'm not out to prove the bastard innocent. I want proof of his guilt.'

  'Dead some forty-eight to sixty hours,' said Drysdale.

  'Last seen alive two days ago, doc.'

  'Nearer forty-eight hours, then. Ample evidence of sexual penetration, but no trace of semen, suggesting a condom was used or ejaculation did not take place.'

  Frost switched off. He didn't want to hear this part. Poor little cow, mouth stuffed with toilet tissue to stifle her pleading screams, hands taped behind her back so she couldn't fight off dear old Uncle Charlie who had given her the nice green sweets. He tore himself away from his thoughts and found himself staring at the pale face. 'She was a pretty little kid,' he said.

  Drysdale looked up from his cutting and gave the face a quick glance. 'Yes. I suppose she was . . .'

  As soon as the autopsy was over, Frost hurried out to his car and radioed through to the station to fine out if Weaver's solicitor had been traced yet. 'He's on his way, Inspector. Be about an hour.'

  'And Morgan?'

  'Hasn't turned up yet. By the way, toilet paper from Weaver's house has been sent over to Forensic. No sign of any condoms.'

  'Right.' He clicked off. An hour to kill. He didn't feel like going back to the station with Mullett lurking about so he detoured to the Forensic lab to find out if they had any joy matching up the toilet paper.

  'It will be another twenty-four hours,' protested Harding, who was overseeing the work of one of his white-coated assistants.

  'I haven't got twenty-four hours. I want to know now.' He knew he was being unreasonable.

  Harding showed him the toilet roll taken from Weaver's bathroom. 'All we can say at the moment is that this, and the substance taken from the girl's mouth, appear to be of the same type and colour and from the same manufacturer.'

  Frost sighed with relief. 'Well, that's something. I'd be up the flaming creek if they were different.'

  'The trouble is, Inspector, this is one of the top-selling brands . . . millions are sold every week. You've probably got the same type in your bathroom.'

  Frost shook his head. 'I use Mullett's memos . . . they give me more satisfaction.'

  A technician, who was squinting down a microscope in the far corner, beckoned Harding over. They held a murmured conversation and, from the look on Harding's face when he returned, Frost knew he wasn't going to like this.

  'I'm afraid the probability is that the samples are from two entirely different rolls.'

  'It doesn't take twenty-four hours when it's bad bleeding news, does it?' moaned Frost bitterly. 'How can you be so sure?'

  'We were trying a long shot. If the sheets in the girl's mouth had been torn from the roll in Weaver's bathroom, there was a faint chance we could match up the perforations. We'd have to be damn lucky, of course.'

  'And he'd have to be bloody constipated. She went missing two days ago.'

  'I said it was a long shot. Anyway, no joy. The paper in the girl's mouth came from a brand new roll.'

  'How the hell do you know that?'

  'The manufacturers always seal down the end of the roll to stop it flapping open.' He held up a new roll. 'You can see the ridge on this one here.'

  Frost nodded gloomily. 'Everything you wanted to know about bog paper, but were afraid to ask. And the roll from Weaver's house?'

  'At least three-quarters used. Either Weaver got through a hell of a lot of toilet paper in a very short time, or he had a brand new roll handy and he used that. Find the brand new roll and there's a good chance we can match the perforations.'

  Out with the mobile to call Control. 'Get another team over to Weaver's place. Go through drawers, cupboards, cases, the lot. We've looking for another toilet roll. If they have no luck, forage his rubbish bins. Use as many men as you like, but find it.' Back to Harding. 'Anything else?'

  'Nothing that helps. We can prove she was in Weaver's house, but he's admitted that already, so it doesn't help much.'

  He sat and smoked and fidgeted, watching Harding's slow, methodical examination of the clothing. He couldn't stand people being methodical, it was so Alien to his own method of working. Sod it. He couldn't sit around doing nothing. He pinched out the cigarette that was annoying Harding and decided he would look in on Weaver's place to see how the search for the elusive toilet roll was progressing.

  Two police cars were parked outside and lights blazed from every window. Frost thumbed the doorbell. 'Could you spare a few moments to discuss the meaning of the scriptures?' he asked Jordan who opened the door to him. Grinning,
the PC led him into the house. 'We've found it,' he announced triumphantly.

  Through to the kitchen where a twelve-pack of supermarket toilet rolls lay on the table. 'Ta-ra!' fanfared Jordan.

  Frost's face fell. He did a quick check, just in case, then shook his head. 'Sorry, son, these are no good. I'm after an almost new roll with just a couple of sheets torn from it.' He explained briefly, annoyed with himself that he hadn't made it clear earlier.

  He wandered from room to room, watching as drawers were wrenched open and the contents tipped out, cupboard doors opened and slammed shut. Lots of noise, much activity, but achieving nothing. He went back to the kitchen and took a peek in the bread bin. The half-used loaf inside was growing thick green mould like a decomposing body. He shut the lid quickly.

  Jordan joined him. 'We've looked in all possible places, Inspector. Shall we try the loft?'

  'He wouldn't be such a twat as to hide it,' answered Frost. 'If he realized it might be important, he'd have destroyed it, but look anyway.'

  He was beginning to feel depressed again. They had practically nothing on Weaver that would stand up in court. The last-minute stroke of luck that at times came to his rescue was having one of its many off-days. He jabbed a finger at Jordan. 'Have we searched the dustbin?'

  'Yes, but the council emptied them yesterday - it was almost empty.'

  Simms returned, brushing dust and cobwebs from his uniform. 'Nothing in the loft,' he reported.

  The other two PCs, Evans and Howe, joined them. They too had found nothing. Frost sent his cigarettes on the rounds and they all sat and smoked as he chewed things over in his mind.

  'If it's that important,' suggested Simms, 'I suppose we could do a search of the rubbish sacks down at the council depot?'

  'If he realized how important it was,' said Frost, 'he'd have destroyed the damn thing. If he didn't realize, then he wouldn't have binned an almost new bog roll with plenty of wiping space left.' He stood up. 'Finish your fags. Don't rush, you're on overtime - then call it a day.'

  Back to the car and a radio call to the station. 'Is Perry Mason there yet?'