Winter Frost (63 page)

   
"Assuming she was here in the first place," muttered Burton, voicing the unspoken opinion of most of the team. Like so many of Frost's hunches this was going to prove a disastrous waste of time.

   
The rain showed no signs of easing up. Frost's scarf, a sodden mass around his neck, added to his mood of misery and depression. He screwed his eyes against the stinging rain and took one last look around. Then he smiled. "We've been too flaming clever. The skinny bitch wouldn't have had the strength, nor the time, to hump her up to those bins. She'd just drag Liz out of the boot and dump her." He pointed to the long wet straggling grass just beyond the low, chain link fence forming the perimeter of the car-park. "She's over there."

   
No-one had any confidence in him any more. They slouched across and did a half-hearted search. It was Jordan, yelling and waving frantically, who found her. "Over here!" He was shuffling off his greatcoat to cover her as they reached him.

   
She was naked, rain-soaked, blue with cold and not moving. Her wrists and ankles were bound with wire and a gag bit deeply into her mouth. There were angry red marks on her stomach—cigarette burns. Next to her was a plastic carrier bag. A quick look inside revealed Liz's clothing and other objects. Frost dropped to his knees in the muddy ground and felt for a pulse. He could have cried with relief. She was still alive. His penknife sawed through the wire and cut the binding to the gag as Jordan swaddled her in his greatcoat.

   
"Get her in the car," ordered Frost. "We'll take her straight to the hospital."

   
They went in Burton's car, their clothes steaming with the heating turned up full and Polly Fletcher vigorously massaging ice cold limbs to try and restore the circulation. The sudden jolt of the car hitting a pot-hole made Liz's eyes snap open. She looked from side to side in terror. "It's all right, love," soothed Frost. "You're safe. We're taking you to hospital." She stared at him, then shook her head violently, muttering something he had to bend his head closer to hear. "What was that, love?"

   
Her teeth were chattering as she forced the words out. "I don't want to go to hospital."

   
The WPG patted her arm. "We want the doctor to examine you."

   
"No." She struggled to sit up. "I don't want to go to hospital. I don't want to be examined." Near hysterical, she leant over and tried to reach the door handle. Her voice was shrill and insistent. "Stop the car. I'm not going to the hospital."

   
"All right, all right," murmured Frost, gently restraining her. "What do you want to do?"

   
"I want to get back home. I want a shower. I want to get clean . . ."

   
"All right," nodded Frost. "If that's what you want." To Burton he said: "Take her home, son, take her home."

From the canteen above the murder incident room came sounds of drunken singing, thuds and the glass shattering, almost a replay of the night the coachload of drunken football supporters had been brought in. The teams were celebrating the successful outcome of the search and the solving of the serial murders. Frost had looked in briefly just to show willing, but was in no mood to celebrate.

   
He put the plastic carrier bag on a desk and took out the tom's clothes Liz had been wearing, then removed the other items. A coil of wire identical to that used to bind all the victims, a roll of adhesive tape, a thin cane still wet with blood, and at the bottom of the bag, a large dildo. "Bloody hell," muttered Frost. "No wonder we thought a man was involved."

   
He was disturbed by Mullett, who frowned at the noise from above. "They're not still on overtime, are they?"

   
"No," lied Frost. Sod it, he had completely forgotten to book them out. Trust this to be the first thing Hornrim Harry would think of.

   
Mullett gaped at the dildo. "What on earth is that?"

   
"Don't touch it, Super," warned Frost. "You don't know where it's been."

   
He quickly explained as Mullett, the puritan, went scarlet and backed away in disgust. "Nasty business. What's the position with the prisoners?"

   
"They won't say a word until their solicitor gets here, but Forensic are digging up so much evidence from that cellar, we won't need a confession."

   
Mullett remembered what should have been his first query. "And how is Detective Sergeant Maud?"

   
"Bearing up, but badly shaken," said Frost.

   
"What did they do to her?"

   
Frost looked at the contents of the carrier bag and shuddered. "She won't say."

   
Mullett frowned. "Won't say? Don't be ridiculous. We need her statement."

   
"We can get a conviction without it."

   
"We need to tell the court how we got on to the two women, why we arrested them. She will have to give evidence."

   
Frost rubbed his chin and yawned. God, he was tired. "I'll try and persuade her."

   
"Tell her it's an order," barked Mullett.

   
Frost reached for his wet scarf. "Like I said, Super, I'll try and persuade her."

It was Burton who opened the door to Frost's knock. "She's showering," he said.

   
Frost followed him into the tiny living-room with the electric fire glowing. He flopped into an armchair. "How is she?"

   
Burton shrugged. "Very uptight. She doesn't want to talk about it."

   
"Did she say what happened in the cab?"

   
"The skinny one was driving. The fat tart was sitting in the back. Skinny says, 'You don't mind sharing, do you, love?' Liz smelt a rat, but she knew Morgan was tailing her, so she didn't worry. Next thing she knows, Fatty has a knife to her throat and Morgan is nowhere to be seen. Later she tried to get to her handbag and the phone, but they chucked it out."

   
"Mullett says we need Liz's evidence."

  
A door clicked open and Liz, in a white bathrobe, glowing from the hot shower, came in, damp hair flowing down her back. Frost gave her a sympathetic nod as she pulled a chair nearer to the fire and sat down. "We're going to need a statement."

   
She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

   
"What did they do to you, love?"

   
Her eyes spat fire. "I don't want to talk about it, subject closed." She hissed the words through clenched teeth.

   
"We need your evidence."

   
"If you think I'm standing up in court and saying what those bitches did to me, then having to face the sniggers back at the station . . ." She stared down at the carpet. She was shaking violently. "I'm not returning to duty. I'm leaving the force."

   
"No," said Frost, firmly. "We need you. You're a bloody good cop."

   
"And look where it's got me." She was on the verge of tears.

   
"I know," said Frost gently. "It's not been a ball of laughs, has it?" He tugged out his cigarettes. She took one and sucked the smoke down hungrily. "I'm the one who sodded it up, love. I'm the one who should be leaving. The only thing stopping me resigning is the joy I know it will bring to Mr. Mullett."

   
She forced a smile and knuckled her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I am not going into the box to tell the world what those bitches did to me."

   
Frost dribbled smoke through his nose. "Tell you what, let's bend the facts a little. They pick you up, they bundle you into the house, but before they could do anything, we arrive so they bung you back in the boot and dump you off behind the vet's. You weren't examined medically so no-one can dispute it and those two cows are going to keep their mouths shut."

   
She studied the glowing end of her cigarette. "I'll think about it."

   
"I'll get a statement typed out. All you need do is come in tomorrow and sign it."

   
"I'll think about it," she repeated.

   
Frost grinned happily. He knew she would do it.

Frost stared out of the window. Snow, driven by a blustery wind, had coated the car-park in white and from the state of the sky there was a lot more to come down. He didn't want to venture outside in such weather but he and Morgan had been ordered to attend the coroner's inquest and he had been warned that the solicitor for Weaver's family was after his blood. Also, he had been tipped off that the London press would be there in force to witness the humiliation of an officer who had hounded an innocent man to his death.

   
He went back to his desk and yet again studied the transcript of the last interview he had with Weaver, the one they were going to read out in court.

   FROST (Showing photograph): Recognize her? That's how we found her. Were her eyes open like that when you raped the poor little cow? Seven years old, you bastard—seven years old.

   
WEAVER: You're trying to incriminate me. You want a suspect, so you're framing me.

   
FROST: Did you give her one of your green sweets first? 'Here little girl, have a sweetie while nice Uncle Charlie rapes you then chokes the bloody life out of you'?

   
WEAVER (Sound of sobbing): You framed me. You planted that body . . . you . . . (Sounds of choking: asthma attack brought on by questioning)

   
He was aware of Morgan's chin digging into his shoulder as the DC read the transcript with him. "Doesn't read too good, does it, guv?" said Morgan. "Perhaps you did push him that bit too hard?"

   
"Thanks, Taff," grunted Frost, pushing the transcript back in its folder. "You've cheered me up no end." He was missing something, but what the hell was it?

   
"I'll still change my evidence if you like, guv," Morgan offered. "I owe you more than one. I'll say I never searched that shed in the first place."

   
"No thanks," muttered Frost. He was thumbing through the file and had come across Mrs. Weaver's death certificate with brief details of her illness, which had been requested from the hospital by the Police Federation's lawyer in case the family's solicitor tried to suggest that the mother's death was hastened by Weaver's suicide. Something on the death certificate screamed at him. He pulled it out to study it more closely, then leant back in his chair and smiled. "Who's a silly sod?"

   
"Me?" answered Morgan, cheerfully.

   
"Apart from you, Taff. Me! I'm the silly sod." He tossed the death certificate over. "Look at the address." 

   "Danes Cottage, Fern Lane, Denton," read Morgan. He frowned. "They've got it wrong, guv. She lived with Weaver in Argylle Street."

   
"She only moved in with him when she was taken ill, Taff. She had her own place. I should have bloody realized."

   
"I don't see the point," said Morgan.

   
"I'll tell you the point," said Frost. "When I told Weaver we'd found Jenny's body, he didn't ask where. He just started screaming and shouting that we'd planted her body to frame him."

   
"Perhaps I'm a bit thick, guv . . . ?"

   
"There's no 'perhaps' about it, Taff. Weaver didn't ask where we found it, because he assumed we'd found it where he'd left it. He accused us of planting it because he had left it in a place that would point the finger straight back at him."

   
Morgan's eyes widened as the light dawned. "You mean his mother's place?"

   
"Yes. No wonder we found no evidence in Argylle Street."

   
"Then who moved it?"

   
"I'm not sure," said Frost, "but I've got a bloody good idea . . ."

His windscreen wipers had cleared a hole through the snow-plastered glass. It was still snowing heavily and everything was blanketed in white. Danes Cottage with its lop-sided 'For Sale' sign was the only property in Fern Lane. A brown estate car was parked outside.

   
He scrunched over thick snow to the front door and knocked. He hadn't expected anyone to be inside, and had been prepared to smash a window if necessary.

   
The door was opened by an old woman. Mrs. Maisie White, little Charlie boy's Aunt Maisie. At first she appeared disconcerted, then resigned, to see the inspector. She knew why he had come. "You've left it too late," she told him.

   
He stepped inside. The place had been stripped bare. Furniture removed, carpeting taken up, floorboards swept and scrubbed clean. She followed him as he wandered from empty room to empty room, no lampshades, no curtains, nothing. In the kitchen a large chest freezer stood alone and forlorn. He lifted the lid and looked inside. It had been defrosted and it, too, was empty.

   
"You've done a bloody good job of removing all the evidence," he told the woman. "Where did you find the kid's body?"

   
It took a long time for her to reply. "Upstairs," she said at last, leading him up the stairs to a curtainless room. "In here." She stood by the door. "This was his mother's bedroom. If she knew what her darling son had been doing . . ." She shook her head. "Charlie was her little angel, he could do no wrong." She walked into the room and shivered. "That poor little mite." She closed her eyes and screwed up her face. "The terrible things he had done to her!"