'The solicitor phoned, Jack,' said Wells. 'He's stuck on the motorway behind a lorry that's shed its load. He'll be at least a couple of hours.'
'Another couple of hours?' echoed Frost. 'Sod it, we can't wait. Tell Weaver he's got to come up with a brief who can turn up in fifteen minutes, otherwise he'll have to make do with the duty solicitor.'
'We can't force him to do that, Jack.'
'But he might not know that. Try it on.' Frost waited patiently for Wells to radio back.
'He won't wear it, Jack.'
'Then sod him . . . burn his bloody toast for breakfast.' He had no sooner replaced the handset when his mobile phone rang and a voice he didn't recognize asked, 'Inspector Frost?'
'That depends who's calling,' he replied guardedly.
'We haven't met - Detective Chief Inspector Preston, Belton Division.' Belton was the neighbouring Division to Denton.
'What can I do for you?' asked Frost, hoping there was nothing.
'It's what I can do for you, Inspector. You reported Bertha Jenkins, a big fat tom, missing. I think we've found her.'
George Owen, Station Sergeant, Belton Division, clicked on his polite smile. 'Can I help you, sir?'
'Chief Inspector Preston, please.'
'Oh - you'll be Inspector Frost. Mr Preston told me to expect you.' Preston had said: If a scruffy bastard in a dirty mac turns up, it'll be Jack Frost from Denton. 'Mr Preston is at the incident site. I'll try to contact him.' He popped into the Control room leaving Frost to mooch around the lobby, reading the tattered police notices about the Colorado Beetle and Foot and Mouth Disease. Suddenly he was staring at a familiar face. Vicky Stuart, smiling her gapped-tooth grin . . . 'Missing Girl'. He turned away. What had that bastard Weaver done with this poor little cow? He looked at his watch, anxious to get back to Denton before Weaver's brief arrived.
The station sergeant returned. 'Mr Preston says can you make your own way to the site? He's got no-one available to bring you.' He gave Frost directions, adding, 'You can't miss it.'
He missed it, finding himself floundering down country lanes that led nowhere and the fog thickening. Eventually he managed to get back to the main road and spotted the turn-off guarded by a young constable who seemed glad to have a car to stop. 'You can't go down here, sir.' He wouldn't believe Frost was an inspector until he had studied the dogeared warrant card. 'Just round the bend, sir,' he directed, fumbling for his radio to let the chief inspector know.
It was a dark, bumpy, rutted dirt road, overhung with dripping trees, but as he turned the bend everything sprang into life with floodlights, cars double parked, radios chattering, men crawling over the grass verge and a small tent-like structure glowing orange from the lights within.
Heads turned as he approached the taped-off area to the tent which was well back from the road. One or two of the old hands recognized him and waved. The younger men wondered who the scruff was.
Detective Chief Inspector Preston, thin, balding and unsmiling, greeted him with a curt nod. 'We could have done without this. It's your damn crime with the victim dumped in our Division.'
'Stick her in the car and I'll take her back to Denton,' grunted Frost, hating the man on sight. 'Where is she?'
'Where do you think? We didn't put the tent up to go camping.' He ducked through the flapped entrance and Frost followed.
She lay on her back, eyes open, like the others. Naked, her heavy sagging breasts sprawled over the rolls of fat on her stomach, a stomach disfigured with weals, bruises and burns. Dyed red hair, now blackened by wet grass, cushioned the head. Frost stared down at her. 'That's her,' he said. 'That's Big Bertha.' He knelt on the polythene sheeting spread alongside the body and lifted a cold, heavy, wet hand. Deep marks were grooved into the raw blooded wrist. 'The poor bitch has had a right going-over,' he muttered.
'Suffocated, probably with a pillow,' said Preston. 'The doctor reckons she's been dead a couple of days at least.'
Frost straightened up and rubbed his hands together to get the chill of death out of them. 'Who found her?'
'A motorist cut through to relieve himself and spotted her.'
'Our last one was found by a motorist having a pee,' said Frost. 'He wouldn't give his name.'
'Ours ditto,' said Preston.
Frost consulted his watch. The solicitor should be well on his way by now. He lifted the flap and measured the distance to the road with his eyes. 'If she was lugged all this way, whoever dumped her must have been a strong bastard.'
'She was probably dragged,' said Preston.
Frost dropped down on his knees again and lifted the body slightly, ignoring Preston's alarmed protests that Drysdale wouldn't like it. 'If he'd dragged her there would be abrasions.' He pointed. There weren't any.
'Needn't have been one strong man - could have been two men,' suggested Preston, annoyed that he hadn't spotted the absence of abrasions.
'Or the seven bleeding dwarfs,' snapped Frost. 'We've got to get this bastard and bloody quick - he's got the taste for it.'
A slamming of car doors and the murmur of voices sent Preston dashing over to the tent flap. He peeked out and signalled urgently to Frost. 'It's Drysdale,' he hissed. 'If he thinks we've moved the body . . .'
'Don't panic,' said Frost, lowering the body back to its original position. 'All we've got to do is look innocent and lie.'
Drysdale, followed by his blonde secretary, pushed through the tent flap, his warm smile of greeting to Preston freezing when he saw Frost standing behind him. 'Twice in one day, Inspector,' he sniffed.
'Some days you can't believe your luck,' said Frost. He checked his watch again. 'Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I must love you and leave you. I've a suspect to interview back at Denton.'
Preston took Frost to one side. 'We need to cooperate on this - pool our resources, share our information.'
'I'll send over what we've got,' said Frost. 'It amounts to sod all: no descriptions, no leads, nothing, but it might help. I'm pinning my hopes on catching the sod in the act.' With a brief nod he ducked through the flap on his way back to his car.
Bill Wells looked up as Frost marched over. 'Solicitor's here. I've put him in No. 2 interview room. He doesn't like being kept waiting.'
'He kept me waiting long enough,' said Frost. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. 'Any sign of the flaming Welsh wizard?'
Wells shook his head. 'He never came back here, Jack. I even sent someone round to his digs, but no-one in. I reckon he's on the nest somewhere.'
'He probably thinks having it away is more fun than having his goolies chewed off by me,' said Frost. 'If he does condescend to make an appearance, I want him.' He pushed through the swing doors and made his way to the interview room.
Fosswick, the solicitor, had been to an official function and was still wearing evening dress under his thick black overcoat. He was annoyed at being dragged away and even more annoyed, after hurrying through that damned fog, to be dumped in a drab, cold interview room and told to wait. A scruffy little man who matched the scruffy little room came in and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Frost.
The solicitor acknowledged him mournfully. He was hoping for someone far more senior and impressive to make his evening less of a waste of time. 'I don't know why you've dragged me down here, Inspector. We rarely do criminal work and I hardly know the man. We dealt with the purchase of his house about three years ago, and that's about it.'
'It's not me dragging you down here, sir, it's your client. We're holding him for questioning in connection with the abduction, rape and murder of a seven-year-old girl.'
The solicitor's face was expressionless. 'I see. And what makes you think my client is involved in this?'
Fosswick listened intently as Frost outlined the details, a growing expression of concern and distaste on his face. This was not the sort of case he wanted to be involved in. He pulled out a gold fountain pen and made a few notes, telling himself that he would pass the details on to someone
else first thing in the morning, someone more used to dealing with such sordidness. 'You haven't actually charged him yet?'
'No, sir, but it is our intention to do so.'
Fosswick replaced the cap on his pen. 'I'd now like a few words with my client.'
'I'll go and get him for you.' Frost opened the door, then closed it again. 'The other little girl might still be alive, sir.' He held up a photograph of Vicky. 'If you could persuade your client to tell us where she is . . .'
Fosswick scowled. 'I am not here to do your job for you, Inspector. My first duty is to Mr Weaver.' He looked at the photograph and his expression softened. 'However, I'll see what I can do.'
Not such a bad old bastard after all, thought Frost as he made his way to the cell area.
The shrill, urgent ringing of a bell sliced through his thoughts. The alarm from the cell area, usually rung when an officer was being assaulted or a prisoner was taken sick. At first he took no notice. Probably the drunk causing trouble. The uniformed boys were quite capable of handling crises like that. He was aware of the sound of running feet and voices raised in panic and the other prisoners banging their cell doors and shouting. Over it all Bill Wells calling, 'Cut him down, quick . . .' then, yelling up the corridor, 'Get an ambulance.'
Frost raced down to the holding area. The door to Weaver's cell was wide open. Two uniformed men were bending over a figure on the floor, one pummelling the chest, the other giving the kiss of life with Wells looking anxiously on.
Frost stared down at Weaver, skin blue, neck strangely elongated. 'Bloody hell! What happened?'
'He's topped himself,' said Wells, sounding furious | as if this was personally directed against him. 'The silly sod has hanged himself.' He pushed past Frost and yelled again down the corridor. 'Where's that bloody ambulance?'
One of the PCs stood up. 'No hurry for the ambulance, Sarge. He's dead.'
Chapter 12
'No-one can blame me for this,' bleated Wells, making his case to anyone who would listen. 'I checked him a few minutes ago and he was all right.' The banging and kicking of doors from the other cells reached a crescendo. 'Shut up!' he yelled, to little effect.
'How could he hang himself?' asked Frost, kneeling by the body and feeling yet again for a pulse, hoping against hope that Weaver was still alive. Wells pointed. On the floor lay a coil of white nylon cord, the knotted noose at the end cut where they had removed it from Weaver's neck.
'Where the hell did he get the rope from?' Wells demanded. 'I searched him when you brought him in this morning, Jack - you can testify to that?'
'Yes,' grunted Frost, bending and picking up the cord which had a beige plastic tassel at the end. It looked familiar. He frowned. Where had he seen it before? Then he remembered. Shit! The hospital. The cord on the Venetian blind in the mother's room. When he left Weaver alone, the sod must have cut off a length - there were scissors on the trolley by the bed. Bloody hell! Mullett's going to have a field day over this.
Frost ordered the uniformed men out of the cell and sat down on the bunk bed. 'What a bloody mess!'
Wells sank down beside him and stared down at the body, shaking his head in disbelief. 'It's all bloody Mullett's fault, sending half our manpower away to help other Divisions. We should have a proper custody officer. I'm having to do two jobs. I haven't got time to do them both properly.' He looked imploringly at Frost. 'There's going to be an investigation, Jack. They'll be looking for scapegoats so let's get our stories straight. I searched him - you saw me.'
Frost lit up a cigarette. 'Don't worry, Bill. If there's any blame going, I'll cop the lot.' He expelled a lungful of smoke. 'When did you last look in on him?'
'About a quarter of an hour ago.'
'He's been dead more than a flaming quarter of an hour.'
'Half an hour ago then,' snapped Wells, hysterically. 'All the jobs I have to do, I can't be expected to remember exactly when.'
'You entered it in the log?'
'I haven't had time. Those flaming phones have been ring, ring, ringing non-stop.'
'Then do it now.' He flicked ash on the floor, just missing the body.
'He left a note,' said Wells. 'He says he didn't do it.'
'A note?' Frost's head snapped up. This was the first he had heard of a suicide note. 'Where?'
Wells pointed. 'Taped to the inside of the cell door.'
Frost slammed the door shut and there it was, stuck to the door with a strip of surgical tape, scrawled on the back of one of Weaver's mother's old hospital charts. Weaver had planned this all out in advance as he sat in that room, squeezing the hand of his dying mother. Leaving it stuck on the door, Frost leant over to read it:
Dearest Mother:
I didn't do it. They are making me out to be some kind of perverted monster. That Inspector Frost is framing me. He's bullying me to confess to something I didn't do. I am innocent, but I can't stand the shame.
Goodbye mum. See you in heaven.
Charlie
'In heaven!' snorted Frost. 'In bloody hell more like it. He'll be able to complain to Mullett personally when the time comes.'
'I don't think anyone else has seen it,' confided Wells. 'We could get rid of it.'
'I might fake evidence,' said Frost, 'but I don't throw it away. Leave it.' He stood up and wearily wiped his face with his hands. 'Let's break the sad news to Hornrim Harry.'
Mullett, lips tight with anger, stared coldly at Frost. 'You left him, unattended, in a room with scissors and cord, a man you suspected of being a child killer? You left him?'
'Yes,' said Frost.
'Surely, even anyone with the minimum of common sense-'
'Yes,' snapped Frost, biting off the end of Mullett's pointless reprimand. 'I was wrong. I know I was wrong. I felt sorry for the poor sod. His mother was dying.'
'He claims he is innocent.'
'So did Crippen. Every murderer I've arrested has claimed to be innocent, it's par for the course.'
Mullett waved this to one side. 'I've listened to the tapes of your last interview. As he says, you bullied him. He was weeping.'
'I bet that poor kid was weeping when he raped her.'
Mullett glared. This was not how he expected people to accept reprimands. 'A bungled, incompetent, mishandled investigation, with tragic consequences.'
'Nothing was bungled,' snapped Frost. 'If the silly bastard hadn't topped himself it would have been an ongoing investigation. If we found he didn't do it - and it's a bloody big "if" - we would have let him go.'
'If, if, if!' countered Mullett. 'A death in custody and an innocent man. The press will be down on us like a ton of bricks.'
'Innocent my arse!' exploded Frost. 'He killed that kid and dumped the body.'
Mullett flushed angrily. 'I've said all I intend to say for the moment, Frost. There will be an investigation of this death in custody and I am going to put in a strong recommendation that you be suspended from duty.'
'Thank you very much,' said Frost, scraping the chair across the carpet as he stood up. 'For a moment I was terrified you'd be on my side.'
He left Mullett glowering at the slammed door.
Police Sergeant Wells wriggled uncomfortably and ran a finger round the tight collar of the brand new shirt which was chewing into his neck. His new shoes were pinching his feet, but the scuffed, old ones would have looked incongruous against his best, newly pressed, uniform.
Barely half-past eight the next morning, but already Mullett had arrived with Chief Superintendent Bailey and Chief Inspector Hopley, the two senior officers from County. They had swept past the front desk and straight into Mullett's office, not bothering to acknowledge his presence. A grim-looking lot of bastards, he thought, like the prison governor and the hangman on their way to wake some poor sod up on his final morning.
The internal phone buzzed and he was ordered to bring in three coffees. Pre-warned by Mullett not to use chipped enamel mugs - as if he flaming well would - he put the china cups on their matching sa
ucers and carried them into the old log cabin. The conversation stopped dead and all eyes followed him as he lifted the tray over and set it on the desk at the precise spot indicated by Mullett's finger.
He backed out as if leaving royalty.
'You are Sergeant Wells?' barked Chief Superintendent Bailey, thickset and beetle-browed, breaking the silence. 'The custody sergeant?'
'Yes, sir,' replied Wells eagerly, glad of the chance to get his story in early. 'I checked him regularly. I went by the book - '
Bailey's hand chopped him short. 'Later, Sergeant, later - we're having coffee.'
Mullett, deeming a glower was called for, glowered Wells out of the room. He beat a hasty retreat and dashed down the corridor to Frost's office to make his report.
Frost leant back in his chair and surveyed the new uniform in amazement. 'Very smart, Bill . . . are you on a promise tonight?' He, himself, had made no effort to dress up for the inquiry, the same shiny suit and greasy tie.
'The inquiry, Jack. I'd have thought you might have tarted yourself up.'
Frost brushed ash from the front of his jacket. 'If they're going to hang you, they don't give a toss if you're wearing a smart suit or not.'
Wells moved some files and sat in the spare chair. 'Bailey and Hopley are here. They look a right pair of bastards.'
'Everyone from County are bastards,' murmured Frost.
'We've got to get our stories straight, Jack,' said Wells for the hundredth time. 'I searched him - you saw me - and I checked that cell regularly.'
'Every other second,' nodded Frost. 'Don't worry, it's my blood they're after, not yours. Just tell them the truth - it'll throw them off their guard.'
Both heads turned as the office door creaked open and Morgan, looking much the worse for wear, lumbered in, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
'Look what the cat's sicked up!' said Frost.
A sheepish grin from Morgan. 'Sorry I'm late, guv.' A painful nod to Wells as he tottered over to his desk and shook a couple of paracetamol tablets into his hand. He swallowed them dry.
Frost 5 - Winter Frost Page 22