Winter Frost (37 page)

   
Frost took a long, slow drag on his cigarette to give himself time to think. It looked as if another promising suspect was about to bite the dust. "The night Jenny went missing, where were you?"

   
"I was out with Mary—her mother—you know that. That's why we both thought she was round her Nan's."

   
Frost passed the two photographs back to Hadleigh after prising the one of Samantha from Morgan who was staring at it goggle-eyed. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Hadleigh. You can go now."

   
Hadleigh replaced the photographs in his wallet. "That's all?"

   
"For the time being. We might want to talk to you again." If only to have another look at the photograph, he thought. Frost opened the interview room door and yelled for Collier to show the gentleman out.

   
He sat down again and finished his cigarette. "I reckon he's in the clear."

   
Morgan's eyes glazed. Still lost in erotic thought, he muttered, "I'd happily go to prison for an hour with that Samantha, guv."

   
"I wouldn't," said Frost. "I'd make certain I locked the door first and wedged a chair under the handle."

"Yet another false lead?" said Mullett, as if it was Frost's idea to bring in Hadleigh in the first place.

   
"I reckon so," replied Frost. "We'll keep an eye on him though."

   
Mullett held up the return Frost had given him. "This is not my idea of a progress report. I want facts. Where do we stand with the prostitute killings?"

   
"We're following up leads," said Frost vaguely. What few leads there were had proved worthless, but let Mullett think the inquiries were ongoing.

   
"And the skeleton? Have you found out who he is yet?"

   
"He's the least of my worries," said Frost. "He can wait."

   
"No murder inquiry can wait," snapped Mullett. "I've been approached by the solicitor acting for the couple who own the property where the bones were found. Our delay in bringing this to a conclusion, plus all our paraphernalia in the garden, is stopping them from selling the house."

   
"Tough," said Frost.

   
Mullett waved away the interruption. "He demands immediate action or they will sue for damages."

   
"I hope you told him to get stuffed," said Frost.

   
A scowl from Mullett. "I did no such thing. He's a personal friend of mine. As you have done absolutely nothing, I have circulated details of the skeleton to all forces asking them to check their missing person files of some thirty or forty years ago."

   
"Brilliant," said Frost. "They'll dump all their old missing person files going back to the year dot . . . We'll have files on Glenn Miller and Amelia flaming Earhart. How are we supposed to cope with that?"

   
"County are releasing four men back to us," said Mullett, "including DC Burton, and Inspector Allen should be back next week so you won't be able to use shortage of manpower as an excuse any more." He tossed the progress report over to Frost. "Do this properly and let me have it back tonight."

   
"Sure," said Frost. He chucked it in Mullett's secretary's waste-paper bin on his way out.

He was right about the missing person reports. He peeked into the incident room on his way up to the canteen. The fax machine, screeching like a fingernail scratched down a blackboard, was spewing out yard after yard of paper. Next to it, looking fed up, PC Collier was sorting the faxes out.

   
Frost gave them a desultory thumb through. "Flaming hell," he croaked. "They've emptied all their rubbish on us, missing men, women, kids and dogs." He lifted one up. "And here's a bloke who only went missing last week. That stupid git Mullett!" He dropped the fax back on the desk. "We haven't got time to sod about with these," he told Collier. "Bung them in a box file, hide them away somewhere and forget where you put them. I'm off to the canteen for a chip butty."

   
He didn't make it to the canteen. As he passed through the lobby he was called over by Bill Wells. "Lady to see you, inspector." Frost froze. Not Doreen Beatty claiming to be raped again? Wells jerked his head to indicate a young woman in her mid-twenties with a three-year-old boy in a pushchair. Frost's heart plummeted. Please God, not another missing child! "Thinks she might know who your skeleton might be," said Wells.

   
"Bully for her," grunted Frost, without much enthusiasm. He led her to the interview room. "I'm probably wasting your time," she said, manoeuvring the pushchair through the door.

   
He pointedly studied his watch and frowned, indicating he was pushed for time.

   
"I'll be as quick as I can." She slipped off her thick coat under which she wore a tight, knitted blue woollen dress. To Frost's delight, beneath the figure-hugging dress there was an awful lot of quivering breast and nipple fighting to get out.

   
"Take as long as you like, love," he croaked, as she bent over to tighten the straps round the child and a pert little bottom waggled under his nose.

   
She smiled and sat down opposite him. He tore his eyes away and winked at the little boy. "So what can you tell me?"

   
"My name's Mrs. Vivian Tailor." She waggled a finger to show him the wedding ring which looked a lot newer than the child. "It's about that skeleton they found in Nelson Road. This may not have anything to do with it . . ."

   "I'm sure it has," he said. She was leaning over, her breasts supported by the table top, and his hand brushed them as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Don't rush it."

  
"Well, my mum used to have a friend in Nelson Road when she was a girl. I'm going back some years, of course. Anyway, there was this woman she used to chat to over the garden fence. She was a bit older than my mum and she had a son, a great lolloping boy." She lowered her voice. "Mum said he was a bit simple, but he couldn't help that, could he?"

   "No," agreed Frost. "His name wasn't Mullett, was it?"

   
She frowned. "No—Aldridge. His mother was Nelly Aldridge. Mum said she was a bit fast. She used to sunbathe topless in the garden—very flighty for those days."

   
Frost nodded happily. This was getting interesting.

   
She leant further across the table, nearly pushing the pen from his hand. Her voice was even softer. "Mum reckoned she was over-sexed."

   
Me and her both, thought Frost. Cor, he could feel their warmth seeping into his knuckles.

   
"Anyway," she continued, "the whole point of this, according to my mum, was that one day the son wasn't there any more. Whenever Mum asked about him, Nelly Aldridge would say, 'He's in the house, not feeling well,' that sort of thing. Then later she told my mum the boy had gone off to live with relatives, but she'd previously said she was all alone in the world without any relatives living."

   
"And the boy was never seen again?"

   
She shook her head firmly. "No, and she got all uptight whenever Mum mentioned him. Mum always reckoned she'd done away with him and I reckon that's his skeleton you've dug up."

   
"She could have had him put away in a home?" Frost suggested, not entirely convinced there was any point in this.

   
"Then why not say so? Why all the mystery?"

   
"Is your mother still alive?"

   
She gave a sad smile. "She died last year."

   
"What about Nelly Aldridge?"

   
"No idea. She moved away long before I was born. One minute she was there, Mum said, the next the house was empty . . . not a word to a soul. She disappeared off the face of the earth."

   
Well, at least it was a lead of sorts, something to waste the minimum of time on and keep Hornrim Harry quiet. He scribbled down the details, thanked her and accompanied her to the main door, watching her wiggling bottom as she pushed the child across the road. "I wouldn't say no to a slice of that," he told Wells.

   
"Bit young for you, isn't she, Jack?"

   
"I don't know, give me a week's notice and a fire in the bedroom and I think I could manage." He hurried off to the incident room and dragged Morgan away from the racing page of the Daily Mirror, He quickly filled him in. "So go and find out everything you can about Little Nell."

   
Morgan didn't seem too keen. "What number Nelson Road did she live, guv?"

   
"You want flaming jam on it!" snorted Frost. "Knock on doors. She liked to sun her bristols in the back garden. Someone must remember. So find her, arrest her for the murder of her idiot son, then do all the paperwork and I'll buy you a beer in the pub tonight."

   
"I was going to have my tooth out," protested Morgan.

   
"Business comes before pleasure, Taffy," reproved Frost. "Find her first, then have your tooth out afterwards . . ."

   
He hurried Morgan on his way, then trotted upstairs to the canteen. "All the bacon butties have gone," said the canteen lady. "Do you a nice cheese salad—much more healthy."

   
He had the salad with double chips.

The scribbled message on his desk informed him forensic had found no traces of dog hairs on Jenny Brewer's clothing. He had forgotten he had asked to test for this and stuffed the note in the case file.

   
He smoked and studied the cracks in the ceiling; nothing was going well. A full stop on the murdered girls, a complete blank on the serial killer of the toms. He considered phoning Belton Division to see if they had any luck with Big Bertha, but decided would have contacted him if they had. The antique skeleton was simmering, but he doubted if; they would get anywhere after all this time. He hated inactivity. He wanted to dash out and do something, even if it was pointless.

   
A tagged key was by his blotter. Puzzled, he checked the label. Of course, the key to Weaver's house, returned to him after they had tried to find damned toilet rolls. He shuddered. The thought he might have driven an innocent man to suicide him go cold. He hooked the key on to his key ring to make sure he didn't lose it.

   
The internal phone buzzed. Somehow he knew it was Mullett and wasn't in the mood for him. Snatching his scarf from the coat peg he padded out to the car-park. He drove around aimlessly before realizing he was turning into the side street that led to Weaver's house. He sighed. This was no coincidence. Something was making him come here.

   
Turning the key silently in the lock he let himself in and stepped into the darkness of the hall. The house had a cold, empty, desolate feel. For a while he stood still, wondering what he was supposed to be doing here. Forensic had been over every inch of the place and had found nothing.

   
A tiny sound broke the silence. He stiffened, ears straining. There it was again, the creaking of a floorboard . . . someone moving about upstairs. Some bastard who knew the house was empty had broken in. He dug into his mac pocket for his torch. The battery was flat, but it was heavy and could be used as a cosh if necessary. Slowly and noiselessly he made his way up the stairs.

   
Light leaked from under a bedroom door—the mother's room. Holding his breath, he listened. Silence, then a rustling. Carefully he inched the door open. Someone was bending over the chest of drawers, rifling through its contents. He tightened his grip on the torch and raised it above his head. "Hold it—you're nicked!" The intruder spun round. Frost gawped. It was a woman, grey-haired, in her early seventies. For a split second they just stared at each other, then she suddenly leapt at him, nails clawing for his face, screaming, "Police. Help. Police."

   
He dropped the torch so he could have both hands free and managed to hold off her talons, then hissed with pain as she kicked him sharply in the ankle. "I am the bleeding police," he yelled, pushing her roughly aside and fumbling for his warrant card. As she charged forward again he shoved the card in her face. "Look at it, you silly cow!"

   
She blinked at the warrant card in disbelief, then at him, keeping her distance. "You don't look like a policeman."

   
"And you don't look like a flaming mule, missus, but you've got the kick of one." He rubbed his ankle. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"

   
"I'm Mrs. Maisie White . . . Ada's sister."

   
"Ada? Who's Ada?"

   
"Little Charlie's mother. I'm his Aunt Maisie."

   
Frost dug in his pocket for his cigarettes. "You've lost me," he said, proffering the packet.

   
She waved it away. "None of the family smoke—it used to affect Charlie's chest."

   
Of course, thought Frost. Why am I being so thick? "Little Charlie. You mean Charles Weaver, the bloke who lives here?"

   
"Lived here," she corrected, dabbing her eye with a tiny lace-edged handkerchief. "I can't believe it. First little Charlie, then Ada."

   
"Ada? His mother? She's dead?"

   
The woman nodded. "Early this morning. The nurse said she kept asking for him, but they didn't tell her . . . she never knew."

   
"I'm sorry," said Frost. He sat down, but realized he was on the commode chair, so quickly moved to the bed.

   
"A merciful release," she said. Her expression changed. "Are you the policeman who drove little Charlie to suicide?"