A Killing Frost Part 34

The first Christmas after they had married. Their very first Christmas together in their own home, and it was all spoilt when the b.l.o.o.d.y phone rang and he was called back on duty because of the murdered girl - the girl Graham Fielding had raped and strangled.

That stinking row . . . her tears, her threats . . . 'If you leave me on Christmas Day I won't be here when you get back!' Nothing would console her . . . He remembered her tear-stained face . . . but he had been called out on duty. He had to leave her.

It was gone ten at night when he finally got back home, cold, tired, apprehensive and miserable. Their big day together ruined. The house seemed dark and empty. He called out her name. No reply. His heart sank. Had she gone to bed, or worse still, had she carried out her threat and left him?

He walked down the pa.s.sage to the kitchen, clicking on lights as he went. He steeled himself and pushed open the door The warm smell of cooking hit him in the face.

The lights were off. His wife, in the red c.o.c.ktail dress, was at the table, which she had laid with a red cloth, red serviettes and red candles, the reflected flames dancing on her skin. G.o.d, she was beautiful. He could see her now. Absolutely beautiful.

She rushed to meet him. They kissed. They both kept saying, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . .' They exchanged presents. She had bought him a supercigarette lighter which he lost after a week and didn't dare tell her. He had bought her a s.e.xy nightdress and another present. He called it a Marilyn Monroe nightdress as it was all she claimed to wear in bed . . . a bottle of Chanel No. 5, which had cost him a packet. 'That's the nightdress I'm going to wear tonight,' she told him.

The most wondetful Christmas night of his life. What happened? How did things go avalanching downhill? Why did such deep, pa.s.sionate love change to cold, sullen hate? How did his beautiful, loving wife change into the bitter, grim-faced woman who he had to sit and watch die? It was all his fault. She had ambitions. She wanted him to go places, but he knew his limitations.

He realised he was crying. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks. He pressed his face into the red dress. The perfume - the Chanel. Was it his imagination or could he still smell the ghost of that perfume? G.o.d, what a night. they had had . . .

He looked down at the sack, half filled with her clothes. No point in being sentimental. Everything had to go, even the red dress.

But he couldn't do it. He put the dress back on its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. The rest of the clothes he crammed in, forcing them down to make room, then tied the sack.

He sat on the bed and smoked some more, and thought of all the good times. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. He was supposed to be a cynical b.a.s.t.a.r.d. That knock on the head was making him all sentimental and flaming weepy. Chanel No. 5 in the tiniest of bottles. 'For that price I expected a pint at least,' he had told the sales girl when he bought it. It had cost him a packet. But she was worth it, every penny.

He caught sight of the alarm clock. d.a.m.n. If he didn't hurry he'd be late once again for Drysdale's post-mortem.

The pathologist straightened up from the autopsy table and stepped back to allow the photographers to take their photographs of the dismembered body, which had now been cleaned up slightly.

'She received a blow to the head which would have rendered her unconscious,' he told Frost. 'Then her throat was cut - the way animals are slaughtered, I suppose.' He peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them in the disposal bin on top of his discarded plastic ap.r.o.n. 'The dismembering of the body was carried out immediately after death.'

Drysdale moved across to the sink and washed his hands, holding them out for the towel his faithful, ever-antic.i.p.ating secretary had ready. 'Our suspect is a butcher, I believe?'

'Yes,' nodded Frost. 'I don't think he'll ever stand trial. His solicitor has got doctors to say he's unfit to plead and I don't think we're going to argue about that.'

Drysdale pushed his arms into the sleeves of the overcoat his secretary was holding out, then looked back at the body on the table and shook his head. 'In all my years as a pathologist, itnever ceases to disgust me how people can do such things to fellow human beings.'

'His five-year-old son died in Denton Hospital,' said Frost. 'He doted on the kid and cracked up. He blamed the hospital and the nurses for the kid's death.' He rubbed his aching wrist. 'I almost feel sorry for the poor sod.'

Drysdale stared at Frost. 'You amaze me, Inspector.'

As soon as the pathologist had left, Frost tore off the green mortuary gown and hurried out to his car. He was thankful that Drysdale was satisfied they had recovered all the body parts and didn't want the shop searched again for a navel or an ear-hole or something equally obscure. Blood samples and maggots had been sent off to the appropriate experts, but he didn't give a sod about the result. Wherever and whenever she had been killed, the poor cow was dead and they had the killer, and if it didn't come to trial there would be a h.e.l.l of a lot less paperwork.

Back in his office, a memo from Mullett glowered at him from his in-tray. Mullett was concerned at the amount of manpower being used in the search for the missing teenager, Jan O'Brien. When, he asked, would the officers involved be able to return to their normal duties?

'As soon as possible,' scrawled Frost across the neatly typed memo, which he winged across to his out-tray. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. There was no flaming peace in this job. Wouldn't it be lovely if a couple of days went by without bodies turning up, girls going missing and b.a.s.t.a.r.ds blackmailing the supermarket? How was he going to get through everything he had to do with Hornrim Harry screaming about costs and missing paperwork, and half the force out of Denton on special duties?

His phone buzzed. 'Mullett wants to see you now,' said Bill Wells.

'Tell him I'm out,' said Frost, grabbing his mac and making for his car.

He drove around aimlessly; his head was still throbbing and his flaming wrist was hurting like h.e.l.l, and he was getting sleepy. He pa.s.sed the turning leading to the butcher's, and wondered who Wells had given the lousy job of standing on guard outside - or inside, if they had a strong stomach. It was cold, windy and raining and he pitied whichever poor sod had drawn the short straw.

The poor sod in question was WPC Kate Holby, who was huddled up in the shop doorway sheltering from the driving rain. She quickly sprang to attention as Frost's car drew up.

'All right, love,' called Frost, turning up his mac collar as he joined her in the doorway. 'You don't have to impress me, I'm n.o.body. Sold much meat?'

She grinned. For a while they silently watched the rain drumming on the pavement and gurgling down the drain. 'You're looking a lot happier now, love,' said Frost. 'Settling in, are you?'

'It's been a lot better these last few days,' she said.

'That's because Skinner's not here, isn't it?'

She said nothing.

'Look, love. Our mutual friend Skinner is kicking me out to Lexton in a couple of weeks. You really should come with me. You could easily get a transfer. I might be able to get you into CID.' The thought of the kid stuck with Skinner and no one to stick up for her was something he didn't like to contemplate.

She shook her head. 'I'm not letting him drive me out. I'm not running away.'

'If you don't stand a chance of winning, it's often better to run,' said Frost. 'I'd run away from the b.a.s.t.a.r.d if I were you. Your time will come. You're b.l.o.o.d.y good, love, like your dad. You'll zoom up the ranks. You might even be Skinner's boss one day, then you can pay the b.a.s.t.a.r.d back.'

'He's not forcing me out,' she said stubbornly.

Frost shrugged. 'Fair enough. But if you ever change your mind . . .' He looked out into the rain again and noticed Lewis's car was still parked outside. It should have been taken back to the station. Something else he had forgotten about. 'Why aren't you waiting inside, out of the rain?' he asked.

'I haven't got the key,' she told him.

'Didn't the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds let you have the key - ' began Frost, stopping suddenly as he realised the key was in his pocket. He was about to hand it over, but dropped it back into his pocket again.

'h.e.l.l, why are we guarding this place? The autopsy's over, no bits are missing and if anyone wants to break in and pinch any of that meat, they're welcome. Hop in my car, I'll drive you back to the station, then I'm off home to get my head down for a couple of hours.'

As he slowed down and waited for the traffic lights to change, he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was reflecting the red glow of the stop signal . . . red like the dress his wife wore that Christmas. G.o.d, the kid was a cracker. A stubborn little cow, but a cracker. She reminded him of his wife when she was that age.

The lights turned green and the car jerked for ward. You're getting to be a bleeding maudlin old sod, You're getting to be a bleeding maudlin old sod, he told himself. he told himself.

Chapter 15.

Detective Inspector Jack Frost walked into his office to find DS Arthur Hanlon on a chair doing something to the overhead light.

'Don't jump, Arthur - think of your wife and kids. Why make them happy?'

Hanlon clambered down to put a blown light bulb on the desk. 'I've changed the bulb. You couldn't do it with your poor hand.'

Frost grunted his thanks. 'If anyone says you're not a little sweetie, Arthur, send them to me. Now p.i.s.s off. I've got to get my head down for a couple of hours, otherwise I'll be even more bleeding useless than usual.' He riffled through his in-tray: all the usual junk from Mullett - memos marked 'Urgent' with lots of under linings in red ink. They could wait.

Hanlon grinned. 'Manchester CID have been on the blower, Jack. They want to know what progress we've made with the murdered girl.'

'Flaming heck,' snorted Frost. 'We've got enough on our plate with our own unsolved murders without trying to solve theirs.' He plonked down in his chair, dragged the Emily Roberts file from his in-tray and flipped through it. 'It suits them to work on the theory that the girl was picked up in Manchester and brought down here to be killed. Skinner wants her to have been killed in Manchester and the body dumped down here, so it's Manchester's pigeon. Between you and me, I'm inclined to go along with Manchester CID's version. If she was killed there, why dump her here?'

'They say you asked if she had done any modelling, or wanted to be a model. They can't turn anything up that would support this.'

'I was trying to tie her killing in with Debbie Clark. Both bodies on an embankment, both naked. And they both went to the same school in Denton, did you know that?'

Hanlon shook his head. 'So what am I going to tell them, Jack?'

Frost worried away at his scar, deep in thought. 'We've got sod all to go on, Arthur. A dumped body, that's all.' He rested his chin on his palm and chewed his little finger. 'If the killer came from Denton, why would he go to Manchester to pick up a girl? There's plenty of girls in Denton.'

Hanlon shrugged.

Frost held up a finger as a thought struck him. 'Try this out for size, Arthur, as the bishop said to the actress - the killer was going to Manchester anyway. When he was there, he saw his chance and took it.' He leant back in his chair. 'And I'll tell you something else, Arthur. If you weredriving from Denton to Manchester you wouldn't want to go there and back in the same day. You'd stay overnight in a hotel or a B&B, and when you stay somewhere you've got to register - give your name and address. Hotels are required by law to keep the records for six months or so - I can't remember exactly how long. Get Manchester CID to check it out, see if anyone from Denton stayed in the area overnight the day the girl went missing. If we can find the name of anyone who worked for that modelling agency or worked in the office block, then bingo, two d.i.c.ky birds with one stone.'

'There's a h.e.l.l of a lot of hotels and B&Bs in Manchester, Jack. They won't be too pleased.'

'We're not in the business of pleasing them. They know the area where she went missing. They can start from there. If they have more luck than I usually do, it could be the first one they try.'

'Supposing he registered under a false name and address?'

'Many of these places ask for car registration numbers - we could trace him through that. And the odds are he paid by credit card, so he'd have to give his proper name. Do what I say, Arthur, there's a good boy. Get on to Manchester. It'll keep them off our backs for a while.'

As Hanlon left, Frost's phone rang. It was Marcus from the Crown Prosecution Service. 'We're taking Graham Fielding to court on Wednesday, Inspector. We understand his solicitor is going to ask for bail.'

'Bail? On a murder charge? He won't stand a chance.'

'I wouldn't be so sure. The courts sometimes use their discretion. The crime happened a long time ago.'

'That doesn't make the poor cow he killed any less dead, does it?'

'I suppose not,' said Marcus grudgingly. 'Do we oppose bail?'

'Of course we bleeding well oppose it,' said Frost. 'Who's our lawyer?'

'Mr Jefferson.'

'That useless prat! Well let's hope he doesn't sod this one up like he did the last one.' He slammed the phone down and was reaching for his mac when Bill Wells came in.

'Whatever it is, Bill, it will have to wait. I'm off home for a couple of hours.'

'Just received this package,' said Wells, dumping it on the desk. It measured about nine inches by five inches and was wrapped in brown paper and neatly sellotaped.

Frost picked it up and examined it. The typed label was addressed to: THE OFFICER IN CHARGE, DENTON POLICE STATION, DENTON He looked up at Wells. 'So? Why haven't you opened it?'

'I don't like the look of it. It could be a bomb.' Frost stared at him. 'Why should it be a bleeding bomb?'

'It's the same size as that package Flintwell division had the other week. That was a bomb.'

'It wasn't a flaming bomb,' said Frost. 'It was a hoax . . . it was full of talc.u.m powder.'

'This may not be a hoax.'

'Then call the flaming bomb squad, or give it to Mullett. Let him lay his life down for his men.'

Wells hesitated, still trying to get Frost to take the package.

'Oh, give it here.' Frost s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the sergeant, grabbed a paper knife and slit the sealed ends. 'Stand by for the explosion.'

Wells stepped back warily.

Frost held it down with his elbow and tore off the wrapping with his good hand. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' he cried. There was a shattering bang and bits of broken gla.s.s everywhere. Wells flung himself down on the ground.

'Sorry,' said Frost. 'I must have accidentally knocked that dud light bulb on the floor.'

A glowering Wells stood up, brus.h.i.+ng pieces of broken light bulb from his uniform. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Jack. You did that on purpose.'

'That's either slander or libel,' said Frost. 'If I knew which it was I'd sue you.' He stripped the brown paper away. Inside was a video ca.s.sette. There was no covering note. He slid the package over to Wells. 'Get someone to play it. If there's anything I should see, let me know when I get back. If it blows up and kills someone, tell them I'm sorry.'

'Very funny,' sniffed Wells.

There was no way he was going to get the sleep he so desperately craved. As he turned the key in the lock, he could already hear his phone ringing. It was Bill Wells.

'What the h.e.l.l is it now?' snarled Frost.

'You switched your mobile off.'

'I know. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.ds keep trying to phone me. So what is it?'

'That video, Jack. You've got to see it.'

'What's on it?'