A Killing Frost (37 page)

   ‘I’m sure of that,’ said Frost He stood up. ‘Anything else?’

   Mullett waved him back into his chair. ‘There is something else, Frost. I’ve had DCI Skinner on the phone. He’s still tying up loose ends in his old division, but he should be able to return to Denton permanently in a week or two. And when he does he wants to bring his own Detective Inspector with him. So we want you to be ready to move out instantly. What have you done about selling your house?’

   ‘I’ve thought about it,’ said Frost.

   ‘You’ve got to do more than think about it. You’ll need somewhere to live in Lexton. DCI Skinner has kindly given your details to estate agents there, who will be contacting you.’

   ‘DCI Skinner’s kindness overwhelms me at times,’ said Frost. ‘And there was me thinking he was a lousy bastard.’

   ‘I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said Mullett. ‘As time is of the essence, Frost, I suggest you take the rest of the day off and get your house tidied up into a fit condition for estate agents to value it.’

Back in his office, Frost phoned Taffy Morgan at the hospital. ‘How’s Lewis?’ he asked.

   ‘He’s all right, Guv. He was only stunned.’

   ‘Oh dear. Mullett was hoping he’d die so he could boot me out. Are they keeping him in?’

   ‘Only for another twenty-four hours for observation.’

   ‘Right. I’ll get Sergeant Wells to send you a relief. I need you down here.’

   ‘The doctors are worried about his mental state.’

   ‘That’s funny, Taff. I’m worried about yours. What are they going to do about it?’

   ‘They reckon they should get him sectioned.’

   ‘Bloody good idea . . . he’s not going to be fit to plead and it will get him off our backs. I’ll get Bill Wells on to it.’

   He hung up. His head was hurting. His wrist was hurting. It wasn’t time for the next lot of painkillers, but he shook out a double dose and swallowed them dry.
Dangerous to exceed the stated dose
, it said. Well, he’d live dangerously. They weren’t doing any bleeding good anyway. He yawned and scrubbed his face with his hands. Why was he so bloody tired? Was it the tablets? He read the manufacturer’s warnings . . . the tablets could evidently cause everything from exploding eyeballs to heart failure . . .
Should you experience any of these symptoms, stop taking the medication instantly and consult your GP.
And yes, they could cause tiredness -
Do not drive or operate heavy machinery
.

   He yawned again. Of course he was flaming tired. What with all the sodding about with Lewis, he’d barely had half an hour’s sleep. Well, he wasn’t fit for work in this state. He’d obey his thoughtful Divisional Commander and go home for a couple of hours and have a kip.

   As he yawned his way through the lobby, Bill Wells called after him, ‘Mullett wants you again, Jack.’

   ‘He can bloody want,’ said Frost.

The minute his head touched the pillow, thoughts started whirling round his brain - all the things he had to do, all the things he hadn’t done - and he knew there was no chance of sleep. He lit a cigarette and lay there, staring upwards, watching the smoke writhe its way to the nicotine-stained ceiling. What was that song Peggy Lee used to sing - ‘Don’t Smoke In Bed’? There was supposed to be a danger of dropping off to sleep and burning yourself to death when the bedclothes caught fire. The worst thing about smoking in bed as far as he was concerned was that the ash kept falling on his chest. He brushed away the latest deposit, stubbed the cigarette out and shut his eyes, willing sleep to pay him a visit. He was just drifting off when . . .

   The bloody hall phone rang.

   He tried to ignore it, but it rang and rang and rang.

   Cursing softly, he padded downstairs and snatched up the handset. ‘Frost.’

   ‘My name is Richard from Ripley’s estate agent’s. When would it be convenient to call to value your home?’

   ‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Frost sweetly.

   ‘Richard.’

   ‘Then piss off, Richard.’ He slammed the phone down, making the hall table shake. Sod it. Sleep was impossible now. And he’d have to face up to the fact that, like it or not, they were going to boot him out of Denton and he’d have to sell this place. An estate agent would have to call and put a price on it. Prospective buyers would come to have a sniff around, shake their heads and say, ‘We were looking for something bigger, cheaper, less scruffy; and in a better state of repair.’

   As he turned to go back upstairs a package plopped through the letter box. A plastic sack from Oxfam, who were inviting householders to fill it with unwanted clothing.

   If he was going to move into somewhere smaller he would have to chuck away a whole batch of stuff. The wardrobe was jam-packed with his late wife’s clothes. They could all go for a start. He made a detour to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face to chase away the last vestiges of tiredness, rubbed his chin and decided a shave could wait, then went back into the bedroom. There were so many dresses, coats, blouses, skirts, going back years. His wife had never thrown anything away. He shook them off their hangers and started stuffing them into the bag.

   Then he came to the red dress. The red, short- sleeved, low-necked cocktail dress. The dress she had worn that Christmas . . .

  
The first Christmas after they had married. Their very first Christmas together in their own home, and it was all spoilt when the bloody 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 passage 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 cocktail 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. God, 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 super cigarette lighter which he lost after a week and didn’t dare tell her. He had bought her a sexy 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, passionate 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? God, 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. Bloody hell. He was supposed to be a cynical bastard. 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. Damn. 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 apron. ‘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-anticipating 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, it never 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 hell 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. Bloody hell. 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 bastards 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 hell, and he was getting sleepy. He passed 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 nobody. 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 bastard if I were you. Your time will come. You’re bloody 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 bastard 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 bastards 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.

   ‘Hell, 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. God, the kid was a cracker. A stubborn little cow, but a cracker. She reminded him of his wife when she was that age.