Winter Frost (2 page)

Acting Detective Inspector Liz Maud, twenty-six years old, dark hair scragged back, stared at the man on the other side of the table who was lolling back in his chair, a look of amused contempt on his face. "Let's go over it again from when you picked the woman up from the railway station . . ."

   
The man gave a resigned shrug. "All right, but this is the last time. The old crow phones for a cab. I picked her up, took her to where she wanted to go, dropped her off and I drove away."

   
"The woman tells a different story," said Liz Maud. "She claims you drove round to a side street and you raped her."

   
"Do me a favour," protested the man. "I'm bleeding fussy who I rape." He gave her a smirk. "Now if it was you, darling—"

   
"If it was me," Liz snapped, "you wouldn't have anything left to rape with." He mimed a mocking grimace of pain as she tugged a form sheet from its folder. "You make a habit of assaulting female passengers, don't you?"

   
He expelled breath in exasperation. "If you're referring to that slag of a prostitute, then we're talking ancient bloody history."

   
"Nine months ago," said Liz. "Recent bloody history! If you ask me." She looked up in annoyance as the door creaked open and, without knocking, Frost walked in. What the hell did he want? She turned to the microphone. "For the benefit of the tape, Detective Inspector Frost has entered the interview room." She wiped a wisp of straggling hair from her forehead and glowered at him. "Yes, Inspector?"

   He beckoned her over to the door. "A quick word."

   
Her lips tightened. "Later—I'm in the middle of an interview."

   
"Now," said Frost, stepping back into the corridor.

   Eyes smouldering, she followed him out, closing the door firmly behind her. He had no business interfering in the middle of an interview. "I very much resent—"

   
He held up a hand. "Hear me out." He lowered his voice. "I don't think you're going to make this one stick, love."

   
"No?" She gave him a superior smile. "I've checked his form. He was convicted of assaulting two women in his cab. They couldn't pay the fare, so he beat them up—put one of them in hospital."

   
Frost nodded. He knew all about that. "But did you check the victim's form?"

   
She frowned. What was the fool on about? "The victim?"

   
"Old mother Beatty. According to her, her drawers have been up and down more times than TowerBridge. She's alleged rape and assault at least twelve times over the past two years, all of which have proved wishful thinking. She also reckons she gets heavy breathing phone calls, peeping Toms when she strips off in the scullery, and is being stalked." He offered her the long computer print-out.

   
Liz flicked through it, lips tightening angrily. "She sounded so genuine! I believed her."

   
"She believes herself half the time," said Frost.

   
Liz glowered at the interview room door. "I could wring her bloody neck!"

   
"Don't be too hard on the poor cow. She's never had it . . . she's probably never going to get it so she has to imagine she's had it."

   
"Never had it? Are you telling me she's a virgin?"

   
"So the doctor said the last three times she was raped."

   
Liz handed back the print-out. "So what do we do? If she insists, we've got to go ahead."

   
"I'll go and sweet talk the old cow," said Frost. "You do a bit of back-pedalling with the cabbie; we don't want him suing for wrongful arrest." It was then he noticed how tired and drawn she looked. "Are you all right, love?"

   
She glared at him. "Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?"

   
"You look a bit peaky." He was sorry he had started this.

   
"Just tired . . . and fed up at having to waste my time on phoney rape charges." Her eyes shot daggers down the corridor in the direction of the lobby where Sergeant Bill Wells, chin cupped in hand, was reading the evening paper. "You'd have thought our Station Sergeant would have had the common decency to have told me." She spun on her heels and went back into the interview room.

Doreen Beatty stared stone-faced at him as he entered the other interview room. He gave her a smile and got a sour grimace in return. "I want nothing to do with you, Inspector Frost, thank you very much. I'm definitely pressing charges and there is no way you are going to talk me out of it."

Frost tossed the withdrawal form over to Bill Wells. "She's dropped the charges."

   
Wells gawped at the form. "How the hell did you get her to do that?"

   
Frost gave a modest smile. "I told her he couldn't have raped her as he got his dick shot off in the Gulf War—friendly fire." 

   "And she believed you?"

   
"Not at first, but I offered to show her the bit that was left and she gave me the benefit of the doubt." He switched off the grin. "Why didn't you tell Liz Maud the old biddy was in the
Guinness Book of Records
for multiple virgin rapes?"

   
Wells sniffed disdainfully. "Not my place to tell my superior officer what to do."

   
Running footsteps from the stairs to the canteen and Frost's temporary assistant, DC 'Taffy' Morgan, burst through die doors into the lobby. Morgan, a stocky,dark,curly-haired little Welshman in his late thirties, had sorrowful eyes and a heart-melting whipped puppy expression he could turn on at the drop of a hat which Frost found irritating, but women seemed to find irresistible. Morgan started when he saw Frost glowering at him. "Just popped up for a quick cup of tea, guv," he said in his 'oozing with sincerity', sing-song Welsh voice. "I've nearly finished those figures." Morgan was the only officer in the station who called Frost 'guv'. Frost reckoned he'd picked it up from the police series on the telly.

   
"Nearly finished?" said Brest, "You haven't touched the bloody things since I went out. Let's get one thing straight, Taffy. There's only room for one lazy bastard in this station and that's going to be me. Understand?"

  
Morgan hung his head sheepishly. "Sorry, guv. I'll get on to it right away, guv."

   
The desk phone rang. Morgan paused while Wells answered it. Like Frost he hated figure work and hoped this might be a call that would take him away from it.

   
"I'll get someone over there right away," said Wells, scribbling an address down on his pad as he hung up.

   
"Another pillow case burglary, Jack. Shall I give it to Morgan?"

   
"No. He's got his heart set on doing the crime figures. I'll take it." He jerked a thumb to Taffy. "On your way, Lloyd George."

   "Yes, guv," said Morgan, making his disappointment very apparent.

   
Wells watched him go and sniffed disdainfully. "How the hell do we get all the rubbish foisted on us? First Wonder Woman, now him."

   
"I've known worse," grunted Frost. "What's the address of this burglary?" He had a quick look at his watch. If it didn't take too long he would have plenty of time to fiddle his expenses and see the videoed title fight with the rest of the shift. Life was a joy when your Divisional Commander was away.

Police Superintendent Mullett tapped his fingers happily on the steering wheel of his Rover as he drove back from County Headquarters. An excellent meeting under the chairmanship of the Chief Constable in which Denton Division came out very well, he thought.It wasa meeting for all Divisional Commanders to discuss ways of maintaining an efficient force in the face of the draconian budget cuts that had been forced upon them. The Chief Constable—quite brilliantly, thought toadying Mullett—had suggested that more work with less manpower could be achieved by increased inter-Divisional co-operation with men being seconded from Division to Division as and when required. Some of the other officers had expressed their disquiet feeling this could only reduce the efficiency of the supplying Divisions, but Mullett, not quite understanding what was involved, although sensing that nods of approval and not constructive criticism were required, had nodded until his head ached and had committed ten of his own officers to a joint drugs operation. He was now basking in the euphoria of the Chief Constable's comments: "It is the Denton spirit that's wanted throughout the County, gentlemen—an example to you all." The sour glances fired at him by the rest of the meeting made it clear he was in a minority, but it was not the rest of the meeting he wanted to impress.

   
He pulled back the sleeve of his grey pin-stripe jacket to consult his Rolex. 9.58. The others would still be in the pub, drinking, drowning their sorrows, shaking their heads doubtfully over their beers and telling each other that it might look good on paper, but it just wouldn't work in practice. However, thought Mullett, if it did fail, it would be the Doubting Thomases who got the blame, not the wholeheartedly approving Denton Divisional Commander, determined to make a go of it.

   As he spun the wheel to turn into the main road he had to brake sharply to avoid a mud-splattered Ford Sierra which had anticipated the traffic lights and roared across his path. He frowned. No mistaking the car or the driver. Frost! He'd have a word with him about careless driving when he got back to the office. As the Chief Constable had so rightly said at the meeting, supported by Mullett's unstinting noddings of approval, the police should always be setting an example, not bending the rules.

   He took the short cut through the red light district as he wanted to check the current position. A deputation of some of the local residents, led by the vicar, had called on him demanding that the police clean up the streets. He had delegated the task to Frost who had insolently pretended that cleaning up the streets involved picking up empty crisp packets and cleaning away dogs' mess. Mullett's lips tightened. Frost might think that funny, but he wouldn't be laughing when Mullett got back to him.

   The 'girls' were out in force, grinning, wiggling and beckoning as he drove past. They had disappeared from their beats in a panic some two months ago when one of their number had been found beaten up and murdered, but had gradually drifted back.

   He clicked on his radio for the local news. ". . .
Denton police have released without charge a man they had been questioning in connection with the disappearance some nine weeks ago of schoolgirl Vicky Stuart
. . ." Another frown. Frost hadn't had the common courtesy to contact him at County and tell him they had arrested a suspect. He had felt a proper fool at the meeting when the Chief questioned him about it and he had to phone the station to find out what it was about. He slowed down and stopped at the traffic lights. Someone tapped on the driver's window. A woman with dyed blond hair and a ridiculously low-cut dress. "Want to be naughty, mister?"

   "No I do not, madam," he snapped, hastily jumping the lights and narrowly missing a collision to get away from her. Ignoring the angry hootings from other drivers, he turned into the Market Square. As he did so his mobile phone rang. Superintendent Harry Conley from Fenwick Division . . . probably still in the pub with the others, judging from the raucous laughter he could hear in the background.

   "A spot of inter-Divisional co-operation wanted, Stan," said Conley. "Hope you can help?"

   Mullett smirked happily. A chance to show what Denton could do. "Certainly, Harry . . . fire away . . ."

A police car was parked outside the entrance to the apartment building and Frost slid his Sierra behind it. The burglary was at Flat 305 on the third floor. He thumbed the lift button, but nothing happened. A couple of swift kicks to the door hurt his foot, but failed to produce the lift, so it was the damn, stairs, when he reached the third floor he saw that the lift doors had been wedged open with a piece of wood, preventing the lift from operating. On to Flat 305 where an angry-looking woman opened the door to his ring and beckoned him in. "The more the bloody merrier," she said bitterly. "No-one here when he robs us, can't move for bleeding police when it's all over." Frost grunted his sympathy. Two uniformed men, Jordan and Simms, were already in the flat, Simms questioning an irate man who was slumped in an armchair. "First bleeding night we go out together for ages," he was moaning, "and this flaming well happens."

   PC Jordan briefed Frost. "Mr. and Mrs. Plummer. Went out just before eight o'clock to see the film at the Premier, got back quarter of an hour ago to find they'd been burgled."

   "The whole bloody evening was a wash-out," wailed Mrs. Plummer. "Moan, moan, moan from him because he was missing the match on the telly. When we get back the stinking lift is out of order so we have to walk up three flaming flights of stairs to find we've been robbed, and on top of that it was a lousy bleeding film."

   "If we'd stayed in to watch the match like I wanted," said her husband, "this wouldn't have happened."

   She turned on him angrily. "Oh—so it's all my bleeding fault now, is it? Just because, for once in my life, I wanted to go out."

   Frost shut his ears to the row. "Any sign of forced entry?"

   "No." Jordan took him over to the front door. "The letter box is in line with the latch. He probably hooked a piece of wire through and opened it that way."

   Frost nodded his grudging admiration. "He's a clever bastard. Did you see how he wedged open the lift doors to make sure they didn't come back too soon? Let's have a look at the conjugal nest."

   He followed Jordan into the bedroom and saw exactly what he expected. One of the pillows, taken from near the double bed's headboard, had been dumped half-way down in the centre of the powder blue quilt.