Winter Frost (44 page)

He woke with a start. Where the hell was he? The car. He was in the car. He brought his watch up to his eyes. 1.36. Flaming Taffy Morgan was supposed to wake him at 1.30. He stretched and looked round. Morgan, head back, eyes closed, was snoring softly. Frost snorted annoyance. Couldn't the silly sod do anything right? He jabbed the DC sharply in the ribs with his elbow. Morgan shot bolt upright. "What's that?"

   
"Your early morning call," began Frost and then his eyes widened and he swore violently.

   
The street lamp shone down on an empty parking space. The Honda had gone.

   
Morgan was rubbing his eyes. "I nearly dropped off then, guv," he murmured apologetically. He stared through the windscreen. "Where's the Honda?"

   
"He must have driven it away when you nearly dropped off," snarled Frost as he radioed through to Burton who was watching the rear of the house from a side street. "You didn't spot Ashby driving off by any chance?" he asked hopefully.

   
"No," replied Burton. "You haven't lost him, have you?"

   
"Yes," said Frost grimly. "The lousy sod didn't have the decency to wake Morgan up as he left. Get over to his house and wait there. Let me know the minute he returns." He radioed for all units to keep an eye out for the Honda, hoping and praying that Mullett wasn't listening in.

   
"I'm sorry, guv," said Morgan again. Frost ignored him, his brain whirling. What had Ashby been doing in that house? Was some poor cow even now tied to the bed, or had he sneaked a body out while Morgan was snoring his flaming head off? Frost gritted his teeth and stiffened to stop himself screaming out loud as, for the hundredth time, Morgan asked, "What now, guv?"

   
"We've got to take a look inside that house." He opened the car door. "Let's see if we can find a way in."

   
A forlorn hope but he tried the front door, just in case Ashby hadn't closed it properly. No joy. Another look through the letter box, this time shining his torch inside. Nothing. What did he expect to find—a dead tom swinging from the coat rack? He straightened up. "Let's try the back way."

   
An unlocked gate from the back alley led to the rear of the premises. A small garden with a tiny lean-to greenhouse. The back door was locked and the downstairs window catch stubbornly resisted the efforts of Frost's penknife to open it.

   
Morgan stepped back and pointed to an upstairs sash window which wasn't quite closed. "I reckon I could get in through there, guv."

   
With visions of Morgan slipping, smashing every pane in the greenhouse and waking up the entire street, Frost firmly shook his head. "I'll do it." He dragged the dustbin over and climbed on top, but even on tiptoe, the sill was just beyond his reach. Reluctantly, very much against his better judgement, he let the slightly taller Morgan try. The DC hauled himself up, full of confidence, just managing to hook his fingers over the edge of the sill. With a foreboding of disaster, Frost turned his head away. "I'm there, guv," called Morgan triumphantly just before he fell, his feet kicking, trying to get a foothold in the brickwork as he crashed down, sending the dustbin flying and the lid rolling and clanging. "Sorry, guv," muttered Morgan, picking himself up.

   
"That's your bleeding theme tune," hissed Frost. For a moment, by some miracle, he thought no-one had heard the racket, then a light suddenly cut across the garden from the house next door. "Let's get the hell out of here."

   
Back in the car they stared at the house while Morgan sucked his bleeding fingertips and rubbed his grazed knees. "I nearly made it, guv."

   
"And Captain Scott nearly made it to the South flaming Pole." Frost couldn't see any lights coming on in the house and wondered if it was empty. "Sod it . . . let's take a chance. I'm going to smash a window and get in that way."

   
Out of the car again. He was bending to pick up an empty milk bottle from the doorstep when headlights blinded him. A squeal of brakes and running footsteps. "Hold it, you two." He spun round, almost dropping the bottle. Two uniformed men, Jordan and Simms, were racing towards them, the flashing blue light of the area car in the road behind them. Frost gaped. "What are you doing here?"

   
"Householder reports two men in her back garden trying to break in," Jordan told him, wondering what Frost was doing here.

   
"Two men?" said Morgan. "That was . . . Oow!" He hopped with pain as his ankle was kicked.

   
"We thought we heard something," said Frost, "so we stopped to take a look. You two go round the back, we'll go in the front way." He hammered on the door. A light came on in the hall. "Police!" he called. The door inched open on a chain and a hand took his warrant card. The door opened. They stared. Wearing a powder blue dressing-gown over a flimsy nightdress, the red-headed receptionist from the dental surgery was looking equally surprised at Frost. "Thank goodness you've come. My husband's away and I'm in the house on my own. There were two of them."

   
"We'll come in and look round," said Frost. "If they got into the house we'll flush them out. We've got two uniformed men round the back."

   
They quickly went through every room, Frost lingering in the bedroom which held the unmistakable aroma of the dentist's aftershave. A heap of cigarette ends in the ashtray, but no shackles, no blood, no-one else in the house.

   
"No sign of them," he told the woman. "Probably miles away by now. We had a report of a man driving off in a Honda. Would he have been your husband?"

   
She looked confused and blushed. "Er, no . . . a friend."

   
"I see," nodded Frost. "Can you tell me exactly what time he left you?"

   
"Just before half-past one."

   
About five minutes before Frost woke up to find the Honda had gone. "Are you sure?"

   
"I checked the clock as I got back . . . er, got into bed. Why—is it important?"

   
"No," said Frost, shaking his head. Bloody Morgan! They'd missed Ashby by seconds. "It's not important."

He sat in his office, moping. What a flaming night. There would be hell to pay in the morning when Mullett learned that after nights of fruitless surveillance, their target was actually on the move but they had lost him. He looked across at Morgan who was in a reverie of erotic recollection.

   
"I couldn't half have given her one, guv," said Morgan, settling himself down at his desk. "Red hair drives me mad. Did you see the love bites round her neck?"

   
"Is that what they were?" muttered Frost. "I thought she had fleas." He radioed Burton who was still stationed outside the dentist's house. Ashby still hadn't come back home and no patrol had spotted the Honda. "What can the sod be doing?" asked Frost. The phone rang. Control. Urgent message for Inspector Frost. The body of a woman had been found on the outskirts of the Denton Golf Course.

She was lying on her back, fully dressed, the unbuttoned ginger-tinged fur coat spread, out beneath her, the low-cut dress pulled down, exposing her breasts. Sarah had looked old when Frost had seen her earlier. In death she looked very old.

   
He stared down at her, moodily smoking, getting in the way of SOCO and the Forensic team who were methodically searching the immediate area. She had been dumped in rough grass on the outskirts of the municipal golf course, no more than a couple of feet from a small cut-through road so her killer wouldn't have had far to move the body before driving off. He wouldn't have had to leave the road, just stop the car, dump her, then drive off within seconds. Forensic and SOCO were wasting their time looking for clues in the grass.

   
No attempt seemed to have been made to conceal the body, which had been spotted by an emergency plumber on his way to attend to a burst pipe at one of the local factories.

   
He realized Morgan was alongside him, also studying the body. "I could have saved her life, Taffy," he said. "She asked me to lend her the money for a cab, I said no, so she went off to earn enough for her fare and this bastard picked her up."

   
"It's a wonder anyone would want lo pick her up," said Morgan. "I wouldn't fancy her myself."

   
Frost expelled smoke. "When I was a young copper, Just joined the force, years ago—hansom cabs and Jack the Ripper—I often used to see Sarah plying her trade. She was a bloody cracker then." He took another drag at the cigarette which was tasting hot and bitter. "So where is our flaming dentist?"

   
"You reckon it's him, guv?"

   
"I hope and pray it is, Taffy. He's all we've got." He moved back to let SOCO take photographs. Another look at the body. "She's fully clothed. Why didn't he take her to his lair and strip her off like the others?"

   
"Probably picked her up in the dark and didn't fancy her when he saw her in the light?" offered Morgan. He nudged Frost. "The doctor's here."

   
Slomon, the duty police surgeon, annoyed at being dragged out of a warm bed at three o'clock on a cold, frosty morning, scowled a greeting at Frost, then knelt by the body and touched the flesh. "Hasn't been dead long, a couple of hours at the most."

   
Frost nodded. "That fits in, doc. I was talking to her a couple of hours ago. She offered to show me her titties." Want to see the twins undressed, love? Twenty pounds as it's cold. It was even colder now and everyone could see the twins for free.

   
Slomon made a brief examination, then studied the face. "No sign of injuries. I think she had a heart attack."

   
Frost frowned. "Heart attack? All the others were suffocated."

   
"Not this one." Slomon stood up. "She probably had a wonky heart to start with and when she realized what he meant to do with her, the shock killed her."

   
Frost crouched and lifted the dress so he could study her stomach. No sign of cigarette burns. He checked the wrists and ankles. No rope burns.

   
"Could it be a different killer?" asked Morgan.

   
"I don't think so," said Frost. Sod it . . . he had enough unsolved cases without a different bleeding killer being involved. "He gets his kicks out of seeing women suffer and there's not many giggles if she's dead and can't feel anything. That's why he dumped her so quickly."

   
Slomon was scribbling out his expense claim. "You anywhere near catching him?"

   
"Not so near that you'd notice," sighed Frost. If only Morgan hadn't fallen asleep. If only he'd given the poor cow her cab fare. If only he was a better flaming detective. If, if, if . . .

   
One of the men from Forensic was examining the fur coat. "This has seen better days, Inspector."

  
"Better decades more like," muttered Frost. He bent and rubbed the coat with his thumb. As he did so, wisps of fur floated off. "It's moulting," he told Forensic. "If she got into anyone's car, or sat close to them, we'd find traces of rabbit's fur or whatever it is—right?"

   
"Without a doubt."

   
Frost nodded his satisfaction. His radio called him. Burton reporting that Ashby had just returned home. Frost checked the time. 3.32 a.m. "Where's his car now?"

   
"In the drive."

   
"Right—stay there. If he attempts to leave the house again, arrest him on suspicion of murder. SOCO and Sergeant Hanlon will be with you in around fifteen minutes." He clicked off and yelled to Detective Sergeant Hanlon: "Arthur. The dentist has just returned home. I want his clothes, his car, and his house examined for traces of moulting fur—take SOCO with you. Then get Ashby down to the station, arrest him if necessary, but don't tell him about Sarah, tell him it's about his late receptionist."

   
"Aren't you coming?" asked Hanlon

   
"No. I've got to wait for Drysdale. Just stick Ashby in an interview room with a warm cup of tea and let him sweat it out until I get there."

   
No sooner had Hanlon and SOCO driven away than the lights of Drysdale's Rolls-Royce cut across the golf course.

   
"Another one?" sniffed the pathologist, peeling off his gloves and handing them to his secretary.

   
"Kill one, get one free," said Frost. "Dr Slomon reckons she died of heart failure."

   
"Brilliant," said Drysdale coldly. "Everyone dies from heart failure. It's what causes the heart to fail that matters." His examination didn't take long. With much reluctance he agreed with Dr Slomon. "A heart attack, probably brought on by shock. I don't suppose it will reveal much more than that, but the autopsy will be at two tomorrow afternoon."

   
Frost sighed. "I'll be there, doc." He seemed to be spending half his flaming life at Drysdale's elbow in that miserable autopsy room. He left Jordan to oversee the removal of the body and let Morgan drive him back to the station. The aroma of Sarah's cheap perfume still clung to the interior of the car and there were bits of her tatty fur on the seat . . .

"You can't talk to Ashby yet, Jack," Bill Wells told him. "He's sent for his solicitor."

   
"People are too flaming aware of their rights," moaned Frost. The canteen was closed at that hour of the morning so he sent Morgan off to make some tea, then sat in his office to wait and draw doodles on one of Mullett's memos.