Winter Frost (42 page)

   
He sucked smoke, half listening to the dribble of messages over the radio as he turned over events in his mind. His theory that the killer had phoned Helen and given too much away was getting stronger and stronger. But how did he pick her up? The toms would willingly climb in a strange car, but nervous, cautious Helen Stokes, at 1.30 in the morning? She would have to be forcibly dragged with a knife to the throat. Make a sound and you're dead. But wait a minute. If the killer had only heard her voice over the phone, how could he recognize her when she came out?

   
The tow truck pulled up and he watched them remove the Mini. If she was recognized, the killer must have known her, perhaps from where she worked? He hadn't asked the dentist to account for his movements the night his receptionist was killed. Sod it! Why did he always forget the important things? He reversed out of the street and back to the dental surgery.

The surgery didn't seem to be open. The brass plate by the entrance confirmed it was closed for lunch between 1.00 and 2.30 p.m. He checked his watch. 1.45. Damn! He gave a half-hearted push and, to his delight, the entrance door swung back. The reception area was empty. From force of habit he went to the desk and had a nose through the papers. All boring dental stuff, letters, appointments, forms, but what the hell did he expect to find—a signed confession?

   
He was about to leave when he heard a sound, a, faint sound, someone moaning. A woman, and it wasn't a moan of pain. The sound came from behind the closed doors of the surgery.

   
Tiptoeing over, he gently turned the door handle and peeped inside. The dental chair was in a reclining position, above it, a pair of pink buttocks pumped up and down and the long legs of the red-headed receptionist, whose bust Morgan had so recently admired, were wrapped tightly round a bare back.

   
He watched for a while, then cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but could I have a word?"

   
A, gasp, a squeal and the buttocks quivered to an abrupt halt.

   
"Who the hell is that?" The dentist was in no position to turn round and see.

   
Frost retreated to the reception area and waited. From the surgery came the sound of angry recriminations. "I thought I told you to lock the door." "I thought I had locked it." "Well, you bloody well didn't, did you?"

   
After a few minutes a red-faced dentist emerged shrugging on a white dental gown, followed by an even redder-faced receptionist who, eyes averted, clattered past Frost to the ladies' toilet. "I must apologize, Inspector," began Ashby. "Most embarrassing . . ."

   
"Never saw a thing," lied Frost. "A couple of questions I should have asked earlier. Where were you Friday night from the time Miss Stokes left the surgery?"

   
"I locked up and went straight home. I was dead tired. Then a meal, some television, and early bed."

   
"Could this be confirmed, sir? Just routine, of course."

   
"My wife will confirm it."

   
Frost couldn't be sure, but he thought the dentist was looking a little uneasy. "And where were you last night, from around midnight onwards?"

   
The dentist frowned. "Last night?"

   
"That was when the body was dumped. As I say, just routine."

   
"We had some friends in for dinner. They stayed quite late."

   
"How late, sir?"

   
"It was gone midnight by the time they left. I then went to bed."

   
"Your friends' names sir?" Frost scribbled details on the back of his cigarette packet. If the alibis checked he could wipe the dentist off his list of suspects. His list! That was a joke. The dentist was the only name on it. Please, he silently pleaded, please don't let his alibi check out otherwise I'm right up the creek. "That's all for the moment, sir," he nodded. "I'll leave you to enjoy what's left of your lunch before it gets too cold."

"Having it away in the dentist's chair?" croaked Morgan, spooning up his soup. "Flaming heck!" They were in the canteen for a late lunch.

   
"He not only does extractions, he does insertions as well," said Frost.

   
"I've done it in some strange places," said Morgan in wonderment, "but never in a dentist's chair." He wrinkled his nose. "A bit off-putting though, guv. All those pliers and drills and the spit suction machine gurgling away. Not very romantic."

   
"Those spit pumps frighten the life out of me," said Frost with a shudder. "I'm terrified they're suddenly going to go in reverse and pump the last hundred patients' spit back into me." He took another bite at his ham sandwich. "Which reminds me, did I ever tell you the joke about the bloke who drunk the spittoon for a bet?"

   
Morgan's face went the colour of the spoonful of pea soup he was about to sip. He pushed the plate hurriedly away. "Yes, you did, guv." He had been warned to tell Frost he had heard it if ever he was asked, but curiosity had got the better of him and both he, and his stomach, had regretted it ever since.

   
"Right," said Frost, disappointed. "Go and see the dentist's wife and his friends, check his alibis, and run his name through the computer in case he's got form for murdering his receptionists." As he washed down the ham sandwich with tea, the tannoy called him to the phone. The Scenes of Crime Officer, Ron Rawlings, was anxious to show Frost what he had learnt from Helen Stokes's car. Frost beckoned for Arthur Hanlon to join him and they both went downstairs to the car-park.

The grey Mini, doors wide open, was in the covered area to the side of the station car-park. Rawlings beaming all over his face, came forward to greet them. "Found a few things that might interest you, Inspector."

   
"Dirty postcards?" asked Frost hopefully.

   
Rawlings grinned. "Not as interesting as that. We checked it for prints. She must have cleaned and polished it every day. The only dabs on it were hers."

   
Frost yawned. "I hope it gets better?"

   
With a 'wait and see' smile, Rawlings continued. "The car was locked and the alarm was set."

   
"Wow!" said Frost. "You'd have thought she would have left the doors open and the engine running in case anyone wanted to pinch it."

   
Rawlings gave a patronizing smirk as he produced his trump card. "We found this in the dash compartment." He handed Frost a sheet of duplicated typescript which he had enclosed in a polythene cover. It was Helen Stokes's next week's duty rota for the Samaritans. Frost stared at it. "This was locked inside the car?" he asked incredulously.

   
Rawlings nodded.

   
"But she wasn't given this until just before she left the place Friday night."

   
"Precisely," said Rawlings.

   
Arthur Hanlon, looking from one to the other, was puzzled. "I don't see the significance, Jack."

   
"We've been assuming she was waylaid before she reached her car, Arthur," explained Frost. "But we were wrong. She goes to her car, unlocks it, puts the rota inside, then locks it and sets the alarm. So why the hell didn't she just get in and drive off?" He noticed that Rawlings was grinning all over his face. "You've got something up your sleeve, you smug bastard, haven't you?"

   
Still grinning, Rawlings nodded. "I checked the engine, inspector. The fan belt had snapped. The battery was as flat as arse-holes."

   
"And you can't get much flatter than that," said Frost. He shivered. It was cold out in the open and he only had his jacket on. He thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and walked round the car, kicking the tyres from time to time for inspiration. "Half-past one in the morning. Freezing cold, the bloody car won't start, no buses. So what do you do?"

   
"You go back to the Samaritans to see if anyone knows anything about cars and can fix it, or can give you a lift back home?" offered Hanlon.

   
"That's what I would have done, Arthur, but she never reached there. So either some bastard forces her into his car, or she gets in willingly. You'd have to know someone bloody well to accept a lift from them at half-past one in the morning, especially if you were a nervous cow like poor Helen Stokes. So let's say she was forced into her killer's car. Why her? What was he doing there at that godforsaken hour? Those roads lead nowhere, so he'd have to be lurking for a specific purpose. Was he waiting for anyone, or just for her?"

   
"If he was waiting for her," asked Hanlon, "why did he let her get to her car in the first place? How was he to know her battery would be flat?"

   
"Don't start getting logical with me, Arthur," snapped Frost. "You're sodding up my theories." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "We're back to our dentist. He phones the Samaritans boasting about how he killed those toms . . . Helen Stokes takes the call and he is terrified she could have recognized his voice, so drives round pronto and waits for her to come out."

   
"Possible," said Hanlon doubtfully.

   
"Come up with something better, Arthur, and I'll give you a jelly baby." Back to Rawlings. "Anything else you haven't told us about, like a set of false choppers that could have fallen from the dentist's pocket?"

   
"That's the lot," Rawlings told him.

   
"You're bleeding useless," said Frost. He jerked his head to Hanlon. "Come on, Arthur, back to the office. Let's see what Morgan's found out about our prime suspect's alibi."

They didn't have to wait long. "Wow," exclaimed Morgan, bounding in and warming his hands on the radiator. "You should see his wife, a real cracker boobs like melons . . ."

   
"I hope she didn't waggle it under your nose," said Frost.

   
"No such luck, guv." Morgan sat himself at his desk and went into a reverie of recollection.

   
"Well, now we know about his wife's bra size, perhaps you'd tell us if she confirms his alibi—assuming you tore your eyes away from her dugs long enough to ask?"

   
Morgan leant back in his chair. "I think you're going to like this, guv. He never went out Friday night—they watched telly and went up to bed. Last night they had friends round, like he said, and they stayed until gone midnight, then up to bed."

   
"I'm not liking it much up to now," said Frost.

   
Morgan wagged a finger. "Because I haven't told you the good bit. Some nights he can't get off to sleep, so he gets out of bed and goes out for a drive to make himself tired."

   
"If his wife's the cracker you say, surely there were other ways of making him tired?"

   
"I think he does that as well, guv. But the point is, he got up and went out on both those nights."

   
"How long for?"

   
"That we don't know. She always drifts off to sleep, but he was there by her side when she woke up in the morning."

   
"He wasn't covered in blood by any chance?"

   
Morgan grinned. "Didn't ask her, guv, but I'm sure she would have mentioned it if he was."

   
"We're getting somewhere," said Frost happily. "At last we're bloody getting somewhere."

   
"There's even more good news, guv," said Morgan, holding up a computer print-out. "You asked me to check to see if he had form. He's never been charged, but he's received two cautions for kerb-crawling."

   
With a yell of triumph Frost leapt up and punched the air. He jabbed a finger at Hanlon. "What did I tell you, Arthur? We've got the bastard!"

   
"Shall I bring him in, guv?" asked Morgan eagerly.

   
"Not yet," said Frost. "We've got suspicion, opportunity and a possible motive, but no solid proof. If he picks up these toms, where does he take them? He can't take them back home. His busty wife is sure to wonder why there's another woman tied up in the bed. He must have another place somewhere, somewhere remote where nosy neighbours wouldn't see or hear anything suspicious." He spun round to Hanlon. "Arthur, check on all local estate agents, find out if he's bought or rented anywhere near here."

   
"Supposing he used a false name?" queried Morgan.

   
"No, son. Respectable estate agents always want references, a bank or something, and they'd want an address to write to. If letters with a false name dropped through his letter box, his busty wife would start getting suspicious, tongues would wag and dugs would quiver." He dragged an empty cigarette packet from his pocket and shook it pointedly. "Ah, thanks, son." He took one from Morgan. "Next, I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance put on him, at least a double team. He mustn't be out of our sight for a single second."

   
"That means more overtime," said Hanlon. "Mr. Mullett won't like that."

   
"Mr. Mullett will have to bloody well lump it," said Frost.

"More overtime?" Mullett shook his head firmly. "I'm sorry, Frost, it just isn't on. We're way over budget now." He held up the sheet of figures, then saw that Frost was not paying attention and was trying to read upside down the confidential memo from County in the in-tray. Mullett tugged the in-tray towards him and pushed it to the rear of the desk.

   
"Sorry, Super—I was miles away." Frost blinked at the overtime figures Mullett was dangling and puffed out a stream of smoke to obscure them. "If we're already over budget, a few quid more won't hurt." His brain was whirling. He hadn't been able to read all the memo, but it was saying that, in answer to Mullett's request, County would be sending Chief Superintendent Bailey to Denton. What was that fat sod coming here for?