Winter Frost (4 page)

   
Frost sat at the table then tugged a folded computer print-out from his pocket. "Bit of advice, sonny. Don't mess about with the police. We can play dirtier than you and there's more of us."

   
"He knocked off my wife."

   
"He was the only man in Denton who hadn't up to then. It was his turn."

   
"She's still my bloody wife."

   
Frost unfolded the print-out. "I've been looking at that electronics warehouse job we pulled you in for—the one where the old night-watchman got beaten up."

   
Leyton leant back, arms folded, and smirked. "You couldn't touch me . . . I had an alibi."

   
"That's right," agreed Frost. "You said you were in bed with your wife and she backed you up. But what if my randy police officer suddenly remembers he was in bed with her at the time and although his mind was on other things, he was pretty certain you weren't in the bed as well? That would kick your alibi right up the arse. And then I could get a search warrant and make sure some of the stolen loot was found in your house. I could probably splash a bit of the night-watchman's blood on it just to make sure."

   
"You bastard . . . You'd plant evidence?"

   
"Well—we both know you did it . . . I'd just be giving the wheels of justice a squirt of oil."

   
Leyton leant across the table. "All right. So what's the deal?"

   
"You made a mistake. You thought it was DC Morgan, but it wasn't. You apologize for hitting him and he graciously accepts your apology."

   
"You bastard!" said Leyton.

   
"Apology accepted," said Frost.

Morgan, suitably shamefaced, sat, lips moving silently, as he transferred figures from a stack of files to the large return that County sent out monthly to waste everyone's time. Opposite him, Frost sat staring again at his car expense claim. Mileage up on last month, but purchase of petrol down by almost half. He must have made a silly mistake on last month's claim but no one in County had spotted it. Tapping the pencil against his teeth, he stared across to the facing wall for inspiration. Pinned up behind Morgan's desk was a poster displaying an enlarged photograph of eight-year-old Vicky Stuart smiling her trusting, gap-toothed smile. MISSING FROM HOME. It had been up nearly nine weeks and in spite of extensive searches and appeals over radio, TV and press, they were no further on in finding her than the day she went missing. The kid was now just another statistic for Taffy's unsolved crime return, the poster a permanent reminder of yet another of his failures. He tore his gaze away and found the bundle of blank petrol receipt forms he had accumulated from various petrol stations in the Division. He passed one over to Morgan. "Make this out for seventeen gallons."

   
Morgan squinted at it. "Your car doesn't hold seventeen gallons, guv."

   
"So I spilt some. Just do it." Useless in many ways, nobody forged a better petrol receipt than Morgan who scribbled off the receipt, then dragged a tall, unsteady stack of files over towards him. Frost closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable to happen . . . A splatter of files falling all over the floor and the muttered "Damn!" from Morgan.

   
"Mind you don't drop them," murmured Frost, carefully changing a 7 to a 9.

   Morgan scooped up the files. A photograph from one of them fluttered to the floor. He retrieved it, tut-tutting and shaking his head in disgust as he looked at it. "The things some of these swine's do to women never fails to shock me, guv."

   
Frost took a look. "Nasty! That's one of Inspector Alien's old cases . . ." The photograph was of a naked woman, on her back in long grass, mouth distorted by a tight gag, eyes open and bulging. Red indentations round the wrists and ankles showed where she had been tied down before being beaten, burnt with a cigarette, raped, then suffocated. "Linda Roberts," said Frost, "a part-time prostitute—twenty-six years old. Allen reckons she picked up a punter who liked a spot of the old sado-masochism but it went too far."

   
Morgan shuddered and stuffed the photograph back in the folder. "Did we get the bloke who did it?"

   
Frost shook his head. "Not a sniff. We were afraid he might have developed a taste for this sort of thing, but so far, poor old Linda is the one and only."

   
The office door opened, letting in a solid blast of noise from the lobby and a perspiring Sergeant Wells. "Where's Wonder Woman? I've got an armed robbery for her."

   
Frost looked up. "Haven't seen her for some time . . . Armed robbery?"

   
"As if we didn't have enough on our bleeding plates. A bloke with a shotgun holds up the all-night filling station and mini-mart near the Eastern Roundabout. This old age pensioner, armed with a shopping bag, decides to do a Clint Eastwood but gets shot in the legs for his trouble . . ." He frowned. "What's this?" He was looking at the petrol receipt Frost had slapped in his hand.

   
"Alter that 5 into an 8."

   
Wells snatched up a pen and made a quick alteration. Frost frowned. "You're a lousy forger, Bill. No wonder you haven't got on in the force." He flashed a sly wink across to Morgan then settled back to listen to the sergeant's knee-jerk reaction.

   
"The reason I haven't got on in the force," replied Wells peevishly, "is because that bastard Mullett blocks my promotion application at every turn." He stopped dead in mid-splutter, his eyes widening in dismay as he stared out of the window into the car-park. "Shit!" he croaked. "What's he doing here at this time of night?"

   
Frost twisted his head round to see what Wells was staring at. A blue Rover was coasting into the carpark towards the Divisional Commander's designated parking space which was now blocked by the football supporters' coach. They watched, dumbstruck, as the car stopped, reversed, and was manoeuvred into a less prestigious position. Mullett got out, glared at the offending coach, then strode purposefully into the station looking for someone to blame.

   
Wells was about to dash off to warn everyone that the Divisional Commander was paying one of his sneaky visits when Liz Maud came in. "I believe you are looking for me, Sergeant?"

   
"Yes, Acting Inspector, I was," replied Wells, bridling because he detected she had over-emphasized the word 'sergeant' to rub his nose in the difference in their ranks.

   
Liz stabbed out an icy stare. "In case you are unaware of it, Sergeant, there is no such rank as acting inspector. The correct address is 'Inspector'. What have you got?"

   
Glowering, Wells filled her in with details of the armed robbery and watched her leave.

   
"Stuck-up bloody cow!" he snarled.

   
"She looks a bit peaky," said Frost.

   
"Too much of the other, if you ask me!" said Wells.

   
A sage nod from Frost. "Affects me the same way, Bill. I'm having to cut it down to five times a night now."

   
Wells grinned and darted off to the lobby.

   
"A tasty bit of stuff that Liz Maud," observed Morgan, head raised from his paperwork. "Not a great looker, but you can sense hidden fires."

   
"You'll feel hidden fires if she kicks you up the arse," said Frost. "She's already spoken for, mate, so don't try anything on." There had been a smouldering affair between Liz and DC Burton which seemed to have cooled off of late. "Stick to ex-cons' wives, Taffy, they're more your mark."

Police Superintendent Mullett, back ramrod straight, sat drumming his fingers on the satin mahogany surface of his desk in his wood-panelled office which Frost called the old log cabin. He could barely contain his annoyance. No parking space, the station like a bear garden and the unsolved crime statistics return he had expected to find in his in-tray so he could take it to County for the meeting in the morning was not there.

   
A tap at the door which opened to let in a blast of hysterical laughter from the lobby and a worried-looking Sergeant Wells. "You wanted me, sir?"

   
Without deigning to look up, Mullett flicked a finger for Wells to close the door. He screwed his face up at the noise. "What's going on out there, Sergeant—a drunken orgy?"

   
"Sorry about that, sir
—
" began Wells, but Mullett's raised hand cut him short.

   
"And my parking space—my clearly marked, plainly designated parking space—blocked! I was forced to park elsewhere."

   
"We didn't think you'd be coming back tonight, sir—"

  
Another curt chop of the hand sliced him short. "You didn't know I was coming, but equally you didn't know I was not coming. That is my parking space whether I am here or not. Do I make myself clear?"

   
"Perfectly clear, sir," mumbled Wells. "Sorry, sir."

   
Mullett leant back in his chair. "I presume there is some sort of explanation?"

   
"It's the coachload of drunks you asked us to detain on behalf of Fenwick Division, sir—inter-Divisional co-operation."

   
"Don't use inter-Divisional co-operation as an excuse for sloppiness, Sergeant. Why are they still here? Surely you realize we were only holding them for collection, not keeping them here all night, blocking your Divisional Commander's personal parking area. I want them out!"

   
"Not quite so simple, sir," protested Wells. "Fenwick seem in no hurry to collect them." He smiled hopefully. "I was wondering if you might have a word with their Divisional Commander on our behalf . . . ?"

   
Mullett gave his superior smile. "That would be an admission of your own failure, Sergeant, and as someone always pressing for promotion, I am sure that is the last thing you would want."

   
"Yes, sir," seethed Wells, moving to the door. "Anything else, sir?"

   
"There is one thing," beamed Mullett. "Do you think you could rustle me up a cup of coffee . . . I'm parched." He frowned as the sergeant's closing of the door seemed a little more vigorous than was necessary, then picked up his internal phone to find out what pathetic excuse Frost had for not providing him with the crime statistics.

"Working on them this very minute, Super," said Frost, hanging up quickly. He returned his attention to Wells who was half-way through telling Frost what a nit-picking bastard Mullett was. "What flaming figures is the silly sod talking about?"

   
"The unsolved crime return," Wells told him. "He's got to take them to County with him in the morning. He sent you a memo."

   
"He knows I don't read bloody memos." Frost called across to Morgan. "Any chance you'll finish them tonight, Taffy?"

   
"As long as they don't have to be accurate, guv."

   
"Statistics don't have to be accurate," said Frost. "Just give me something to keep him quiet." The internal phone rang again. "You'll have them in ten minutes, Super," said Frost. "Just checking them for accuracy. What . . . ? I'll tell him." He put his hand again over the mouthpiece and looked up at Wells. "Mr. Mullett says would you hurry up with his coffee and he'd like some custard creams."

   
Wells exploded. "He can get stuffed. What the hell does he think I'm running here—a bloody cafe?" Frost took his hand from the mouthpiece. "The sergeant suggests you should get stuffed, sir."

   
Wells went as white as a sheet until he realized Frost had long since terminated the call and was speaking into a dead phone. "You bastard, Jack! You frightened the life out of me."

   
Frost beamed and looked over to Morgan. "Hurry up, Taffy. The sooner he gets these figures, the sooner he'll go home and we can take the phones off the hook, flop down in the rest room and watch the big fight you're going to video for us."

   
The outside phone rang. Fenwick division for Sergeant Wells. As Wells listened his face grew redder and redder. "Tomorrow?" he shrieked, scarcely believing what he was hearing. "No damn fear—you pick them up tonight. I haven't got room . . . I . . . And you, too, mate!" He slammed the phone down with such force Frost's paperclip trap leapt in the air and shed its contents all over the desk.

   
"Everything all right?" asked Frost innocently.

   
"No, it flaming well isn't. They haven't got anyone available to pick them up tonight so they want us to hang onto them until the morning." A crashing sound, the shattering of more broken glass and a drunken cheer from the crowded lobby made him grit his teeth. "They're wrecking the place. What am I going to do with them?"

   
"Bung them back in the coach," suggested Frost. "Then they can pee and puke to their hearts' content and Fenwick can have the pleasure of shovelling it out when they collect them tomorrow."

   
Wells' face lit up. "That, Jack, is genius . . . pure genius." He rushed out of the office to make the arrangements as Mullett buzzed again demanding his coffee.

Liz Maud swung her car into the High Street, mentally disembowelling Sergeant Bill Wells for dropping her in it with the alleged rape. The illuminated 'Open' sign outside the all-night chemists flared red in her windscreen as she slowed down and stopped the car on the opposite side of the road. Carefully checking there was no-one to see her, she dashed across and entered the shop. The pregnancy kit, small enough to fit snugly in her handbag, cost £11.90. About to cut back across the road again, she had to jump back hurriedly to avoid a speeding car which was lurching from side to side. Flashing blue lights and the wail of a siren signalled the approach of a pursuing area car, hot on its tail. Jordan and Simms. She ducked back in the shadow until it sped past, then slunk over to her own vehicle and on to the scene of the armed robbery.