A Touch Of Frost (16 page)

“Yes, Super, of course,” muttered Frost, wriggling uneasily in his chair and wishing he’d chosen somewhere else to sit.

Allen’s smirk tightened. Now to rub salt into Frost’s raw wound. “By the time I arrived on the scene the ambulance was taking the victim to hospital. Mr. Frost, who’d seen her, told me she was fifteen years old. During her short ambulance ride she must have aged twenty-three years, because when I saw her in hospital she was thirty-eight. I’m not sure how anyone could have made such a mistake, but perhaps the inspector would care to explain.” He moved back, extending an open hand, inviting Frost to take the stage.

Frost’s fixed smile clearly said, “You bastard!” but he kept his face impassive as he ambled up and leaned against the table, his eyes half closed against the smoke of his cigarette.

“As Mr. Allen has told you, I made a real right burke of myself last night—not for the first time, and certainly not the last. We’d just come from a house where a fifteen-year-old kid called Karen Dawson was missing. She hadn’t been seen since she left school yesterday lunch time. The woman in the woods was stark naked. Her face was smashed in and smothered with blood from where the bastard had booted her. Scattered around her were articles of school uniform, so I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I shouldn’t have made such a stupid bloody mistake, but I did.”

He paused, took the butt end from his mouth and used it to light another cigarette. “The scene when we got there? As I’ve said, the poor cow was naked, except for stockings. She was lying on her back, her clothes scattered on the grass around her where they’d been torn off. There was also a carrier bag which contained her non-working clothes and a purse. That’s really all I can tell you.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Allen, moving back to the stage. Frost spotted an empty chair in the front row and sat down. It was the farthest from Mullett he could get.

“Any questions?” asked Allen.

A plainclothes man in the centre row raised his hand. “Any idea why this one wasn’t raped, sir?”

Allen nodded. “I formed a theory about that.” He pointed to the five photographs pinned on the blackboard.

“These are the first five rape victims. Number one, Peggy Leyton, nineteen, a student nurse, raped on April 4th while taking a shortcut across the golf links. Number two, Sarah Finch, eighteen, an office worker, raped on April 5th, also on the golf links. Next we have victims three and four, Genette Scott, unemployed, aged twenty, but looks a lot younger, and Kate Brown, a student, also twenty. Both were attacked and raped in Meads Park, April 20th and 21st. Last, we have Linda Alwood, a shop assistant, aged nineteen, raped May 2nd on a piece of waste ground near the Denton Factory Estate. All these attacks took place some eight miles from Denton Woods, but they each have one thing in common. The victims were all very young and in some cases looked a lot younger than their age. My theory, ladies and gentlemen, is that the Denton ‘Hooded Terror’ likes fresh, young meat. He can only make it with young birds. When he saw Paula Grey prancing through the trees in her schoolgirl clothes, he must have thought he’d hit the jackpot with a nice, tender young virgin, but when he found he’d got an old boiling fowl he did his nut. Old women are a turnoff to him.”

Webster, in his corner seat, nodded. Allen’s theory made a lot of sense. You might hate him as a man, but he was a damn good police officer. He sneaked a look at Frost, lolling in his front row chair, looking as if he’d spent the night in the gutter. There was no comparison between the two men. One was a policeman, the other was rubbish.

Allen bent down and picked up a bundle of clothes which he dumped on the table. “These are the clothes the girl was wearing prior to the attack.” He bent again and added a white plastic carrier bag to the pile. “This is the bag she was carrying. We’ve had photographs taken of a model of similar appearance to Paula Grey, dressed in this clothing and carrying this bag. You’ll each be given a copy. I want every house in the vicinity of Forest View and on the way to the woods to be called on. I want every single resident to be shown the photograph. Did they see a girl wearing these clothes last night? I’m sure a well-developed, thirty-eight-year-old woman wearing school clothes must have caught someone’s eye. Did they see her? Did they see anyone following her or taking an interest in her? Did they see any strangers loitering? Has anyone going through the woods during the past week or so seen a man lurking, acting strangely? Has any woman been assaulted and not told us? A thorough investigation, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out the questions you should ask. All witnesses, even those who only think they
might
have seen something, are to be brought to the station so I can question them personally. Understood?”

A few grunts of confirmation.

“I’m splitting you up into teams. Sergeant Ingram will give you details as you leave. Team A will be knocking at doors, asking questions, Team B will be doing an inch-by-inch search of the area of last night’s attack, and Team C will be locating, and bringing in for questioning, all known sexual offenders in the area—even those who were completely eliminated from our previous inquiries. Any questions?”

He looked around expectantly, but no-one had anything to ask. “Right. Off you go.”

They were shuffling through the door, passing Ingram, who handed them their duty allocation briefing sheets, when Allen suddenly barked, “Hold it, everyone.” They all stopped and turned, except for Frost, who hared it off to his own office. Allen had completely forgotten Mr. Mullett, seated in solitary state in the back row. “Did you want to address the teams, sir?”

Mullett stood and showed his whiter-than-white teeth. “Only to say ‘Good luck everyone’, he boomed, just like a vicar starting off the whist drive.

They all clattered out, clutching their roneoed briefing notes and duty schedules. Methodically, Allen replaced his notes back into the folder and waited as Ingram unpinned the photographs from the wall board. Mullett glided over. “An excellent briefing, Inspector. A model for us all.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Allen, suspicious of the Superintendent’s motives. He took the photographs from Ingram and dismissed the sergeant with a curt nod, then made great play of consulting his watch. “Did you want to see me, sir? I’ve got rather a tight schedule. The press will be screaming blue murder when they hear about last night’s little shindig in the wood—‘Hooded Terror Strikes Again . . . Police have no clues’.”

Mullett nodded sympathetically as if distancing himself from any criticism that might be levelled against the police. “Don’t talk to me about the press, Inspector. My phone’s been ringing nonstop about this wretched hit-and-run business . . . the press, the Chief Constable . . . even Sir Charles Miller himself.” He looked at Allen, hoping that the recital of this all-star cast would impress him.

Allen again looked pointedly at his watch. “What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?”

The Superintendent adjusted his gaze to a spot a few inches above the inspector’s head. “What cases are you working on at the moment?”

Allen’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t intend dumping anything else on my plate, sir. I’ll be working all the hours God sends on this rape investigation and there’s going to be no time for anything else.”

“I fully appreciate that,” said Mullett, twisting his neck to look at the large-scale wall map, avoiding having to look the detective inspector in the eye. “I want you to hand the rape case over to Frost.”

Allen stared at Mullett as if he were mad. “Over my dead body!”

“Only for a few days, Inspector.”

“Not even for a few minutes—and that’s just how long it would take Frost to sod everything up.” In his agitation he began to stride up and down, pounding his palm with his fist. “Why, sir? Please tell me why!”

Mullett raised a placating hand. “I’ve got another case for you—one that requires all your skill, tact, and expertise.”

“Oh yes?” said Allen warily, knowing that it would be a real stinker.

“Do you know anything about this hit-and-run?”

“Only that Roger Miller was involved.”

“That isn’t certain. He claims he wasn’t driving, that his car had been stolen.”

Allen straightened the papers inside the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Balls!” he said bluntly.

Mullett, who could never stomach crudity, winced. “His father, Sir Charles Miller, is convinced of his son’s innocence.”

“I hardly think Sir Charles is that stupid, sir.”

Pulling a chair forward, Mullett sat down after hitching his trousers legs to preserve the lethal edge of their creases. “This is all top-level stuff, Allen. Sir Charles phoned the Chief Constable this morning, and, as a result of that call, the Chief Constable phoned me at my home. If this case goes to court, Sir Charles intends to engage a top-flight QC.”

“Rich man’s privilege,” sniffed Allen.

“Precisely, Inspector. But a good QC would tear a badly prepared case to ribbons, and that would reflect badly on this division. I do not intend for that to happen.”

“If we get a good prosecuting counsel, then it won’t happen,” said Allen.

“All right,” said Mullett, “I’ll put my cards on the table. There’s a slim chance that Roger Miller is telling the truth and that his car was stolen. If we can prove that he’s innocent, it would buy us a lot of goodwill with Sir Charles. He’s always been anti-police—what a feather in our caps if we could turn this man our way.”

“But supposing our investigation proved his son to be guilty?” asked Allen.

“Then at least we’d go to court with a watertight case. In either event the investigating officer would come out of the affair with credit.”

“Would he?” asked Allen shrewdly. “With respect, sir, you’re being naive. This case is a political hot potato. Sir Charles Miller isn’t short of enemies, also in very high places. Feelings are bound to be running high . . . a poor old boy knocked down and killed by a rich man’s son. If we clear Roger, there’ll be screams of ‘Police cover up’, and if we prove him guilty, well, it’s no secret that Sir Charles can be a vindictive swine when he likes. He’d use every dirty trick to get back at the man who nailed his beloved boy. Each way we lose, so I’m having no part of it.”

Mullett sucked in his cheeks. It was time to exert his authority. “What you want, or don’t want, doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. By arrangement with the Chief Constable, Sir Charles Miller is calling here this morning. He has been promised that a senior officer will carry out this investigation, and that means you. I can’t give it to a rank lower than inspector.”

Sir Charles calling here this morning! thought Allen. So that’s why the virgin uniform has come out of mothballs. “You don’t have to give it to a rank lower than inspector. Give it to Frost.”

A scornful laugh. “Frost? On a case as delicate as this?”

Allen moved nearer to the Superintendent and lowered his voice. “Consider this, sir. If there’s got to be a loser, Frost is the ideal man.” He paused, then added significantly, “He’s the one we can spare the most.”

Mullett chewed this over and liked the taste. A chance of getting rid of the troublesome Frost. It was tempting. Very tempting. But how could he possibly introduce that scarecrow to Sir Charles and claim he was the best they had. “No way Inspector. No way at all. I’m sorry. I’m ordering you to do it.”

Allen quietly produced the trump card he had been holding back for such an emergency. “You know, sir, if the story were leaked to the press that a senior officer was taken off a serious rape case in order to try and clear an MP’s spoiled brat of a son, it could be very nasty. Very nasty indeed.”

Mullett looked at Allen. Allen looked at Mullett. Mullett’s look said, “You wouldn’t dare,” Allen’s said, “Just try me.”

The Superintendent was the first to lower his gaze. He stood up and started to stride around the room, scratching his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger. He stopped as if struck by a brilliant thought and turned slowly to the inspector. “Come to think of it, Allen, Frost would be the ideal choice. He’s got bags of local knowledge, he’s got, er . . .” He paused because he had run out of things to say in Frost’s favour.

“He’s got the George Cross,” said Allen.

The George Cross! Incredible but true. The previous year Frost had blundered into a hostage situation at Bennington’s Bank, where an armed robber, high on drugs, was holding a gun on a woman and her baby. Believing the man was bluffing, Frost had tried to take the gun away, getting himself shot in the face for his pains but managing to overpower the robber in the process. For this he was awarded the George Cross, the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross. Frost rarely spoke about it, and the medal was jumbled up with other debris in one of the drawers of his untidy desk. But it would very much impress Sir Charles, thought Mullett . . .  “Yes, Sir Charles, one of my best men—he’s got the George Cross, you know.” He smiled at Allen. “Yes, Frost is definitely the best man for this job.”

Allen took his leave hurriedly before Mullett changed his mind. Mullett dashed back to his office and told Miss Smith to get out the best coffee cups. Only the best was good enough for Sir Charles Miller.

Frost was at his desk, rummaging through mounds of paper like a housewife searching for bargains at a jumble sale. He didn’t find any bargains, only the overtime returns and the crime statistics which should have gone off the previous night. He piled them on top of the other papers in his in tray. Somehow or other he would have to find time to do them. He picked up the latest burglary report, and skimmed through it, ready to lay it to rest with all the others in the filing cabinet.

Householder’s name:
Lil Carey (Mrs)

Address:
26 Sunford Road, Denton

Scene of crime (if different from address above):
As above.

List of goods (not money) taken (with approx. value):
Nil

Value of cash taken:
£79

At first glance it appeared little different from all the others. A quick in-and-out job with seventy-nine pounds in cash being taken. The thieves always took cash—it was instantly negotiable, it couldn’t be traced and it made the task of the police almost impossible. Frost sniffed. He knew Lil Carey. She was an unregistered money lender, lending out small sums of money, usually to housewives, at exorbitant interest rates. She’d never miss seventy-nine pounds. He wished the thieves had got away with more. But then he realized the ‘£’ had been scratched through by the reporting officer and the word ‘sovereigns’ added. Seventy-nine sovereigns! Frost wasn’t sure of the current rate for sovereigns, but that quantity must surely be worth much more than four thousand pounds for the gold content alone; even more if they were Victorian and in mint condition. He stuffed the report in his pocket. They would call on old mother Carey this morning without fail.