Winter Frost (7 page)

   
Frost beamed happily back. "Funny—people often say that to me, sir. I don't know why. So you have something to tell me?"

   
"I'm not making a statement. I'm just telling you something. I was here two nights ago. As I was getting dressed the phone rang. She answered it, all sort of sexy at first, then her face went white. Whoever was phoning had frightened the shit out of her. She was shaking like a leaf. She said, 'Why don't you leave me alone?'—or something like that—then banged the phone down. I asked what it was about and she said it was nothing."

   
"And you've no idea who the call was from?"

   
"No. Please can I go now?"

   
There was little point in detaining him further. Frost took the man's name and address then let him go. As he bolted thankfully down the stairs and out into the street, a gleaming black Rolls-Royce pulled up outside. The Home Office pathologist, Drysdale, a thin, austere figure, in a long black overcoat, looking like an undertaker. He was followed by his female secretary, a fading blonde who was always at his elbow taking notes, seemingly unfazed by the horrors he would delve into, but nervous of the winks and leers she all too often got from that awful Inspector Frost. She remembered the time she was bending to pick something up when a finger was jabbed in her rear and a raucous voice cackled, "How's that for centre?" She blushed at the memory of it as she scudded up the stairs behind her master. "What have you got for me this time?" sniffed Drysdale.

   
"A nice warm dead tom," Frost told him, opening the door and ushering them both into the packed hothouse of a room.

   
Drysdale's nose wrinkled. "I can't work in these conditions. Get everyone outside, please."

   
Frost ordered everyone, except Liz, who looked as if she intended staying put anyway, to wait outside. Drysdale, staring fixedly at the figure on the bed, removed his overcoat and, without looking, held it out and let it go in the secure knowledge that his secretary would leap forward to catch it and fold it neatly before it had a chance to hit the floor.

   
His initial examination was brief. He bent over, his nose almost touching the blooded stomach as he examined the knife wounds. He then transferred his attention to the face and neck. "She was on the bed when you found her?"

   
Frost nodded.

   
"She wasn't killed on the bed. She was standing when she was stabbed." He pointed. "See how the blood initially flowed downwards . . . but then changes direction as she was laid on her back?"

   
Frost gave a curt nod. He had worked all this out for himself.

   
Drysdale took a pad of cotton wool from his bag and carefully cleaned away a small area of blood from the stomach. "Lots of blood. The wounds are deep, but relatively superficial." He turned his attention to the hands, examining them as Frost had done. "No cuts that would suggest she tried to defend herself. Bruising from manual pressure on the wrists." Lastly he lifted the head from the pillow and moved back the long, black hair, revealing extensive bruising on each side of the neck. He opened the mouth and shone a small torch inside, then nodded. "Death caused by manual strangulation." Behind him, the blonde secretary's pen flew over her shorthand notebook, taking down her master's findings.

   
"You're bang on form tonight, doc," said Frost approvingly. "You haven't missed a thing Dr McKenzie spotted."

   
Drysdale's lips tightened. He and the lowly Dr McKenzie were sworn enemies ever since the doctor disputed, and eventually overturned, part of his evidence at a local coroner's court. "If the good doctor spotted it, it must be screamingly obvious." He studied the face. "Bruising round the eye, probably the result of a blow from a fist." He lifted the head from the pillow again and slipped his hand underneath so he could explore the back of the scalp. "Minor contusions," he murmured to his secretary, "and . . ." he withdrew his hand and looked at his fingertips, ". . . a small amount of bleeding." He looked up at Frost. "Did the good Dr McKenzie spot that?"

   
"No," said Frost, wiping the triumphant smirk from Drysdale's face by adding, "He didn't—but I did!" He showed the pathologist some small red smudges, ringed with Harding's blue chalk on the wall above the splodge of blood on the thin carpeting. "I reckon she was standing here. As he strangled her she jerked her head back and banged it on the wall . . ."

   
Drysdale sniffed his grudging agreement. He liked to be the one with the theories. "Do we know her name?"

   
"Not yet, doc." Frost flashed the green business card. "You don't indulge in naughty lingering fun by any chance?"

   
Drysdale flushed angrily. "No, I don't." He snapped his fingers for his secretary to pass him a mercury thermometer and took the room temperature. A second finger snap produced a clinical thermometer which he slipped under the armpit of the dead girl. He studied the reading and did a mental calculation. "She's been dead about an hour. Ninety minutes at the most."

   
Frost nodded his agreement. "You're probably right, doc . . . The bloke who was enjoying her favours about an hour ago was pretty certain she was still alive."

   
Drysdale signalled his secretary that he wanted his overcoat, holding out his arms as she helped him on with it. "I've finished for now. You can remove the body when you like. I'll perform the autopsy tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock." He stared significantly at Frost who was always rolling up at post-mortems anything up to half an hour late. "It would be a welcome change if you were there on time." With a curt nod to Liz, he took his leave.

   
As he left, the others filed back in. The phone shrilled. Frost held up a hand for silence and again signalled for Liz to answer it. "If it's another punter, get him in. We've got to find out who she is."

   
Liz picked up the phone. "Lolita . . ." As she listened, her expression changed. She frantically beckoned Frost over, holding the receiver away from her ear so he could listen in, but as he reached her the caller hung up, leaving Liz scowling at the buzz of the dialling tone. "Damn." She jiggled the rest so she could dial 1471.

   
"A punter?" asked Frost.

   
She shook her head. "No. A man. He said, 'That was just a taste, Lolita . . . next time it will be something really serious . . .' " The pay phone wouldn't let her dial 1471 until she inserted a pound coin. She obtained the caller's number, then got through to the exchange for the caller's location. "Damn," she said again, hanging up. The call came from a public phone box in King Street.

   
Without much hope, Frost sent a car round in case the caller might still be there. "And I want this line tapped and all incoming calls monitored and recorded." Back to Liz. "Would you recognize the voice again?"

   
She pursed her lips in thought. "I might, I'm not sure. He sounded a nasty piece of work." Now would be a good time to tell Frost she wanted to take over the case before he got too involved. "Could I have a word—in private?"

   
"Sure." They went outside to the landing, pressing against the wall as the two undertaker's men brought a black-painted coffin up the stairs for the removal of the body to the mortuary. "What can I do for you, love?"

   
From inside the room came the crackle of heavy duty plastic being unfolded and then the hiss of the long zip on the body bag. Liz closed the door. "A prostitute killed by a punter . . . could be the same man who killed Linda Roberts, which is one of my cases. I should be leading this investigation."

   
Frost had doubts that the two cases were connected—tonight's tom hadn't been tortured—but if Liz took over, she would have to attend the crack of dawn autopsy and he could have a few hours' lie-in. "It's yours, love," he told her. "I never fight for more work . . ."

   
"Mind your backs, please!" called the big, red-faced undertaker cheerfully. They moved to one side so the coffin could be man-handled down the stairs and out through the front door. As they watched, the uniformed officer on duty at the front door called up to them: "Urgent message for Inspector Maud. Would you contact the station. Something to do with that armed robbery."

PC Lambert in Control had taken the call. A near hysterical woman, almost incoherent, just sobbing and sobbing. He had to squeeze the details out of her drop by drop. "Whatever the trouble we can help you, madam. Can you tell me your name?"

   
"My name? What does my name matter? They shot him. They stole our car. He's bleeding to death."

   
"Shot? Who's been shot?" Lambert clicked his fingers urgently to gain Sergeant Wells' attention.

   
"My husband. There's blood everywhere."

   
"Where are you?" He signalled for Wells to listen in on the other earpiece.

   
"They shot him . . . They stole our car . . ." She again broke down into uncontrollable sobbing.

   
Lambert tried to calm her. "We can help you, madam, but we must know where you are."

   
"The public call box . . . corner of Forest Road . . ."

   
"Is that where your husband is?"

   
"No—but I can take you to him."

   
Wells put down the earpiece and dialled for an ambulance.

   
"Wait there, madam," said Lambert. "Don't leave the phone box . . . an ambulance is on its way." He hung up and radioed the message to Liz Maud.

As Detective Inspector Maud drove towards Denton Woods, an area car, siren blaring, roared past in the opposite direction clearing the way for a following ambulance which had already picked up the victim and his wife. She swore softly. If she hadn't seen them she would have wasted precious time searching for them in the woods. She squealed the car into a tight U turn and tagged on behind the area car. Damn, damn, damn . . . She had played this all wrong. She should have asked Frost to take over the armed robbery so she could concentrate on the murder case. She'd put this in hand as soon as she got back to the station.

   
The grim shape of the Victorian Denton General Hospital loomed up ahead and the ambulance turned off down an 'Ambulances Only' lane, while the area car, Liz following closely, drove to a parking area near the main entrance. She skidded to a stop behind them and confronted them, eyes blazing, before they had a chance to get out of their car. "Next time you damn well let me know you've left the scene with the victim," she snapped.

   
The two men, PCs Baker and Howe, looked at each other in puzzlement. "We told the station," said Howe. "Sergeant Wells said he would let you know."

   
Wells! Bloody Wells, up to his tricks again. Her radio buzzed. This would be him, belatedly passing on the message, hoping that by now she was floundering in the woods. "Yes?" she snapped.

   
"Acting Inspector Maud—" began Wells.

   
She cut him short. "Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant, but it didn't work." She clicked off, still seething. "They'll be in Casualty," Howe told her, leading the way down the long echoing corridor.

   
"Fill me in," she said.

   
"Mr. and Mrs. Redwood—both in their seventies. They were driving back from a friend's house and as they went through Forest Lane they saw a man lying at the side of the road, another man bending over him waving to flag them down. They stopped, thinking the man was injured. Redwood switched off the engine and got out. The next thing he knew there's a shotgun stuck up his nose and they were demanding his car keys. Like a silly sod, Redwood makes a run for it, so this bloke calmly shoots him in the legs, grabs the keys, turfs out the old dear and they both drive off leaving the old boy bleeding and the old girl screaming."

   
"Was this before or after the armed robbery?" asked Liz.

   
"Before. They nicked the car to do the job."

   
Liz frowned. "Why nick it? What happened to their own car?"

   
Howe shrugged. "No idea. Perhaps it broke down." 

   "Then it's got to be in the woods, somewhere near where they ambushed the couple . . . Did you look?"

   
"No—our main concern was getting the old boy to the hospital."

   
"Well, he's here now . . . Get back there and look. I'll take over here."

   
They turned back to the main entrance as she followed the signs to 'Accident and Emergency' where, even at that late hour, there were several people, some the obvious victims of pub fights, waiting for attention. She drought she recognized a couple of them from the coachload of drunken football supporters at the station earlier.

    
"They've taken Mr. Redwood straight up to the theatre," the staff nurse told her. "That's his wife over there." She nodded towards an elderly woman in a thick grey woollen coat who was strangling a handkerchief to death with gloved hands. The old lady looked up anxiously as Liz went over, thinking it might be the nurse with news of her husband, Liz sat on the bench beside her.

   
"Can you tell me what happened?" The story came out a few disjointed words at a time. She had little to add to what she had already told the two policemen.
 
"They shot him—in cold blood—they shot him . . ."

   
Liz nodded in sympathy. "Can you describe them?"

   
"It all happened so quickly . . . They were medium height ... in their mid-twenties, I think . . . dark clothes . . . zip-up jackets. The one with the gun had this black ski mask thing hiding his face and the other one wore a blue baseball cap, the peak pulled down. He had a wispy beard, and he wore an ear-ring, a silver stud thing in his right car. When the other one shot my husband, he laughed, he thought it was a great joke."