Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Prologue

  The man crouching by the window at the back of the house gritted his teeth as he forced the blade of the screwdriver between the wooden frames. Through the glass he could just make out the cot on the far side of the darkened bedroom. He couldn't see the kiddy, but knew he was in there. He had watched in the dark from the end of the garden, hands sweating with excitement, as the mother put the boy to bed.

  The blade was in far enough. He took a deep breath and levered. Wood splintered and he felt the screws tear free. A sudden swish of noise from behind him almost made him drop the screwdriver. He turned in fright, ready to duck low and run zigzagging across the garden. But it was a firework, a rocket soaring up to the night sky where it burst in a cluster of bright green puff-balls.

  His heart hammered and cold sweat trickled. A long, deep breath to calm himself, then, very carefully and very quietly, he eased open the window, heaved himself up on the sill and swung inside. Three careful steps across the room and he was able to reach the blue-painted chair next to the cot and wedge it under the door handle to stop anyone from coming in. At the door he listened. The late night film on television. Just the woman on her own - he'd checked.

  The cot creaked as the child snuffled and wriggled. He froze and held his breath. A tiny yawn, then shallow breathing. He relaxed. The child had settled into a deep sleep . . .

  He took the knife from his pocket. Quietly he tiptoed over to the cot.

  Chapter 1

  Hallowe'en. October 31 - Night

  A lone sky rocket clawed its way up to the night sky, scrabbled feebly as it started to lose height, then burst into a cluster of green puff-balls.

  PC Mike Packer, twenty years old, barely gave it a glance as he turned the corner into Markham Street. This was his first night out on the beat on his own and he had other things on his mind. He patted the radio in his top pocket, reassured he could call for help if he needed it.

  A clatter of footsteps. Two teenage girls, heavily made up and dressed as witches, tottered past on high heels trailing a cloud of musky perfume. They whistled and called to him, blowing wet-lipped kisses. On their way to some Hallowe'en party and already drunk. Someone was going to score tonight. Grinning ruefully, Packer wished it was him! But no such luck. He was on duty on this cold and windy night, pounding his lousy beat until six in the morning. He drew his head tighter into the snug warmth of his greatcoat and watched until the girls turned the corner. The wind snatched away the last whisper of their perfume and he was on his own again.

  He cut through the narrow alley which brought him into Patriot Street, a backwater of small lock-up shops and an empty space that was once a second-hand car site.

  The street was dark, its single street lamp vandalized long ago.

  The hollow echo of his footsteps pattered behind him giving him the uneasy feeling he was being followed. Once he even stopped suddenly and swung round, but there was no-one there. Outside the shops, piled up on the pavement, were plastic bags of rubbish, ready for collection the following morning. Packer weaved his way around them and flashed the rock hard beam of his brand-new torch into shop doorways, rattling the odd handle to make sure all was secure.

  The end shop, long empty and boarded up, was once a butcher's. A faded sign, swaying gently in the wind, said 'This Valuable Property To Let'. The doorway was piled high with rubbish sacks which had obviously been dragged there from outside adjacent shops. Why, wondered Packer, had someone taken the trouble to do that? Again he clicked on his torch, watching the beam crawl slowly over the pile. He half expected to disturb a dosser or perhaps even the boy they had been told to look out for, the seven-year-old who had gone out with his guy and still wasn't home at eleven o'clock at night.

  Packer stiffened. There was someone crouching behind the bags in the corner. Someone keeping very still. "All right I can see you! Come on out." No movement. Keeping the torch handy for use as a weapon if necessary, he started pulling bags out of the way. Then suddenly the figure lunged at him and the face . . . God . . . it wasn't human . . . it was green and malevolent. Dropping the torch he fumbled for his radio. The radio . . . he couldn't find the bloody radio . . .

  "Denton police." Police Sergeant Bill Wells stifled a yawn as he lifted the phone to his ear and muttered into the mouthpiece. He wasn't really concentrating on what the caller was saying as he was still simmering with rage. He had been going through the new duty rosters to the end of the year and was livid to see that Mullett had yet again put him down for duty on Christmas day. Well, Superintendent flaming Mullett had another think coming. Let some of his blue eyed boys do their share of holiday nights for a change because the worm was about to turn. He frowned at the agitated voice buzzing away in his ear. "Try and take it easy, madam . . . just tell me what happened . . . What? . . . Where? How bad is he?" His pen scribbled furiously. "Don't worry. I'll get someone over there right away."

  He snatched up the internal phone and jabbed the button for Wonder Woman's office . . . Detective Sergeant Liz Maud. Let that flaming tart do some work for a change instead of painting her lousy fingernails. He'd noticed from the roster that she had all of the Christmas period off and she'd only been here two bloody weeks.

  "Yes?"

  The impatient edge to her voice always put his back up, so his tone was curt. '17 Crown Street . . . break-in and stabbing - little boy, one year old."

  "I'll need back-up," she said.

  "We haven't got any," said Wells, happy at last.

  Packer was sweating with relief, thankful he hadn't been able to get to his radio. They would never have let him live it down. It was a guy, a child's guy, and the green face was Guy Fawkes. He pulled some of the sacks away to get a better look. Behind the guy a rubbish sack, propped up against the shop door, looked wrong. He touched it and his hand jerked back as if he had received an electric shock. He had never seen a dead body. Part of his training would involve a visit to the mortuary to view a post-mortem, but this had not happened yet. Burton had said that the pathologist always cut a long slit under the corpse's chin so he could peel the face off like a rubber mask. Packer hoped he would be able to see it through without fainting when the time came. But now, before he was ready, he knew he had a dead body. Too small for an adult. A child.

  As he reached out, it toppled over and he thought he heard a grunt. Still alive? Was it still alive?

  He tore off his gloves with his teeth and fumbled at the cord tying the neck of the sack. Then he was staring at a face. A young boy. Brown masking tape bound round the eyes as a blindfold. More masking tape, pulled tightly into the mouth forcing the lips back into a mockery of a grin. Vomit dribbled from the mouth and nose. Packer dropped to his knees and gingerly touched the flesh. Ice cold and no sign of a pulse. The brown dribble of vomit had a naggingly familiar hospital smell which he couldn't quite place. He opened the plastic sack wider, holding it by its extreme edge, and shone his torch inside. The boy, knees bent, was naked.

  He straightened up and pulled his radio from his pocket, then took a few deep breaths and called the station. To his surprise he managed to keep his voice steady. He sounded as if he met death in the street every day. "Packer here, Patriot Street. I think I've found the missing kid . . . and he's dead. Looks like murder."

  "Stay there," ordered Wells. "Whatever happens - stay there!"

  Packer moved out to the street and waited. An eerie silence seemed to hang over the area, and the tiniest sounds were magnified. The rustling of the wind on the exposed plastic sacks. The creaking of the 'For Sale' sign over the butcher's. The hammering of his heart.

  Then, just audible but getting louder, the wailing siren of an area car. Wells wasn't going to send out the murder team until he had checked. No
t on Packer's first night out on his own.

  At the station it was chaos with Bill Wells in near despair. Everything was going wrong. A murder investigation and no senior CID officers available. Detective Inspector Allen, who should have been on call at home, had left a contact number which rang and rang but no-one answered. Jack Frost was on holiday and that sup id cow Liz Maud must have switched her radio off as he had gone near hoarse calling for her. He was now ringing the Divisional Commander's home number, but knew he would get short shrift there. He could hear Mullett's sarcasm now. "Surely you are competent enough to sort this out for yourself, sergeant?" The phone was hot against his ear and the ringing tone went on and on. Then he was aware of a tapping on the desk in front of him. A little tubby man in a camel-hair coat trying to attract his attention. "Be with you in a minute, sir."

  "You'll deal with me now, sergeant. I'm in a hurry."

  Wells groaned. One of those pompous little bastards. Just what he needed tonight . . .

  His attention was snatched back to the phone. Someone had answered. Not Mullett, but his half-asleep, disgruntled, toffee-nosed cow of a wife peevishly demanding to know who it was. "Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Mrs. Mullett, but is the superintendent there? . . . No? Do you have a number where I could contact him? Yes, it is urgent." Of course its urgent, you stupid cow. Would I be phoning if it wasn't? "Thank you." He scribbled on his pad and hung up the phone.

  The man was glaring at him. "I am still waiting, sergeant."

  "Please take a seat, sir. I'll deal with you as quickly as I can." He looked up hopefully as PC Lambert came in from Control.

  "Still no answer from that Inspector Allen number, Sarge."

  "Keep trying. Any luck with Wonder Woman?"

  "Not a dicky bird!"

  "Bloody cow's useless." Wells ripped the sheet from his pad. "Someone else who's useless . . .see if you can get Mr. Mullett on this number."

  Lambert glanced at it and frowned. "This is the same number I'm trying for Mr. Allen, Sarge."

  Wells looked at it again. Lambert was right. "Mullett and Allen, both out together at eleven o'clock at night. I wonder where?"

  "A cut-price knocking shop?" suggested a familiar voice, helpfully.

  Frost! Jack Frost in his crumpled mac and maroon scarf beaming at them.

  "Jack!" cried a delighted Wells. "I thought you were on holiday."

  "I am. I've just nipped in for some fags. Did you get my comic postcard?" He struck a pose and declaimed:

  "I cannot get my winkle out. Now there's a funny thing. The more I try to pull it out. The more I push it in!"

  Wells grinned. "I stuck it on the notice-board, but Mullett made me take it down. He said it was near pornographic'

  "There's nothing pornographic about a man eating winkles," said Frost. "So what's all the panic?"

  "Patriot Street. Body in a dustbin sack."

  Frost grimaced. "Where did people hide bodies before dustbin sacks were invented? We find more bloody bodies than rubbish in them these days."

  "This one's a kid," said Wells, 'a boy, seven years old. We've got a murder investigation, a detective constable in sole charge, the pathologist on his way and Mullett and Allen conveniently unobtainable. A proper sod-up!"

  "Not as good as some of my sod-ups," said Frost, 'but I'm glad I'm on holiday. I'll just nick some of Mullett's fags and go." He disappeared up the corridor.

  Seeing Wells with nothing to do, the man in the camel-hair coat sprang across to the desk.

  "Perhaps you can now spare me some time. I've lost my car - a metallic grey Rover, registration number - '

  "Stolen car, right," said Wells, pulling the forms towards him. The quickest way to get shot of him was to take the details.

  "I didn't say it was stolen. I just don't know where it is. I drove down from Bristol for the firm's function. I parked it down a side street somewhere. I must have got confused - I can't find it. My wallet, credit cards, everything, are inside it."

  "It's probably been pinched by now," said Wells cheerfully.

  "I'm sure it hasn't, sergeant. It's fitted with anti-thief devices."

  "And you've no idea where you left it?"

  "If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

  Wells put his pen down. "So what do you want us to do about it?"

  The man sighed as if explaining to an idiot. "I would have thought that was obvious, sergeant. If one of your men could drive me around the side streets, we could look for it."

  "I've got a better idea." Frost had returned with one of Mullett's best cigarettes dangling from his lips. "Why don't you piss off and go and look for it yourself? We've got more important things to do."

  The little man spun round angrily, jabbing a finger at Frost. "I'll have you," he spluttered. "I've got friends in high places. I want your name."

  "Mullett," said Frost. "Superintendent Mullett."

  "Right," said the man, scribbling this down. "You haven't heard the last of this." He stamped out of the station.

  "You bloody fool, Jack," said Wells.

  "He won't take it any further," said Frost, but now beginning to have doubts himself. "Anyway," he brightened up, "I'm on holiday so Mullett won't suspect me."

  "If you were dead he'd still suspect you," said Wells grimly.

  Lambert slid up the dividing hatch to the Control Room. "Still nothing from that number, Sarge. I got the exchange to trace it for us. It's the Clarendon Arms, that big pub and restaurant over at Felstead."

  Wells's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are they doing there? Those two are up to something, you mark my words. Why isn't anyone answering the phone?"

  Lambert shrugged. "There could be a fault on the line. We'll have to send someone over there to pick Allen up."

  "We can't spare a bleeding car," said Wells. He groaned. Lambert was right - there was no other option. "All right - send Charlie Baker. We want Allen back here. Tell him it's a murder enquiry."

  The hatch slammed shut. Wells spun round quickly, just in time to catch Frost before he sidled out. "Hold it, Jack."

  "I'm on holiday until the end of the week," said Frost.

  "We've got to have a senior officer over there . . . Please, Jack. I only want you to hold the fort until Allen arrives - fifteen minutes, half an hour at the most . . ."

  "All right," sighed Frost reluctantly. "But if he's not there in half an hour, I'm off."

  "You're a diamond," said Wells.

  "I'm a prat," said Frost.

  The door was closing behind him when Lambert slid up the hatch. "I've got hold of Liz Maud, sarge."

  Detective Sergeant Maud was late arriving at the house. She still didn't know her way around Denton and the ancient, well-thumbed street map Sergeant Wells had given her was falling to pieces with lots of the street names unreadable. After twice retracing her route, she pulled up outside the front door just as the doctor was leaving. "Kiddy's not too badly hurt," he told her. "Couple of superficial wounds to the upper arm, which only required a dressing." He glanced back and winced at the hysterical shrieking and sobbing from inside. "That's the mother. She's in a worse state than the kid. I offered her a sedative, but she chucked it at me." He edged past her. "I wish I could stay, but I've got other calls." He plunged out into the street, relieved to get away from the noise.

  Liz switched off her radio. She didn't want her interview with an overwrought mother interrupted by trivial messages. She homed in on the crying which was now accompanied by a banging noise. It led her to the child's bedroom, a small room with a single cot, its walls decorated with nursery wallpaper.

  The banging was caused by a middle-aged man who was hammering nails into the window frame which had been forced open by the intruder. A young woman, the mother, jet black hair, slightly olive skin, was sitting in a blue-painted chair, rocking from side to side, moaning and sobbing continuously. Liz sighed. She obviously wouldn't be much help.

  A plumpish woman in her fifties was standing next to the mother, h
olding the child, wrapped in a blanket. The child, a boy, barely a year old, his face flushed and tear-stained, had cried himself to an exhausted sleep.

  "Detective Sergeant Maud," announced Liz, holding out her warrant card.

  "Took your time getting here," said the man, knocking in one last nail and putting down the hammer. He gave the window frame a testing shake. "That should keep the bugger out."

  "If you could try to avoid touching things," said Liz. "There could be fingerprints."

  "You wouldn't need fingerprints if you got here earlier and caught him," said the man.

  Liz ignored this. "Are you the husband?"

  "I'm her next-door neighbour - George Armitage." He nodded at the woman with the baby. "And that's my wife."

  Liz addressed the mother. "What's your name, love?"

  It was Mrs. Armitage who answered her. "Lily - Lily Turner. She's in a bit of a state, I'm afraid."

  "Is there a husband?"

  "Well - there's a father. Not sure if he's actually her husband, if you follow my meaning." She lowered her voice. "He's inside . . . doing eighteen months - stealing radios from cars."

  Liz gently touched the mother's arm. "Lily, I'm from the police. Can you tell me what happened?"

  The mother's only response was to moan louder.

  Liz turned to the other woman. "Perhaps you can tell me what happened, Mrs. Armitage."

  "Half a mo." She gently laid the boy down in the cot and pulled the bedclothes over him, careful to avoid touching the injured arm with its strip of pink plaster. There were tiny flecks of blood on the sheet. "Lily was in the other room watching- telly when she heard little Tommy crying. When she tried to get to him, she couldn't get the door open."

  "The bastard had jammed that chair under the door handle," said the man, pointing to the chair the mother was sitting on. Liz made a mental note to ensure it was fingerprinted, and nodded for the woman to continue.