A Killing Frost (12 page)

   ‘You can have a lie-in, Taff,’ said Frost. ‘As long as you’re here, excreting Welsh charm, by nine on the dot. I want you to go straight to Fortress and collect their CCTV tapes.’ He looked again at the photo of ponytailed Jan O’Brien. ‘And if Jan hasn’t phoned her mum to say she’s safe and sexually satisfied, we’re going to have to make an early start with that one.’ He screwed up his face and slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘But somehow, Taff, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ve got one of my nasty feelings . . . the same sort of feeling I had when they dumped you on us. “This Welsh git’s going to be a real right prat,” I said, and I was right.’

   Morgan grinned. ‘You know you really love me, Guv.’

   ‘Only because it’s great to have someone who’s a bigger prat than me,’ said Frost. ‘I didn’t think it possible. Anyway, pleasant dreams.’

   ‘Pleasant dreams, Guv,’ echoed Taff, walking over to his car.

   As Frost turned the key in the ignition, his mobile rang. It was Lambert from Control again.

   ‘That call from the drunk - I sent Evans and Howe out in the area car to check. They’ve found Jan O’Brien’s mobile phone.’

   ‘Where?’ asked Frost.

   ‘In the gutter, just outside the car park – where the drunk said he heard someone screaming.’

   ‘Excrement!’ Frost drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and shook his head vigorously to wake himself up. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. A bit flaming late to do much. If the parents hadn’t reported the girl’s return first thing in the morning, he’d make media appeals for the drunk to contact Denton police. At the moment they had sod all to go on. And it was too late to check her girlfriend to find out what time Jan actually left. If the drunk heard her around midnight she either left her friend’s house much later than stated, or she went somewhere else first . . .

   ‘Are you still there, Inspector?’ asked Lambert.

   ‘Yes . . . sorry . . . I was thinking. The mobile phone - it’s probably been mauled about enough already, but don’t let anyone else touch it without gloves. I want it checked for prints. If she was attacked, she might have tried to use the phone and the bloke snatched it from her and chucked it. If our luck’s in for a change, it could have his dabs.’ 

   ‘Right, Inspector. Anything else?’

   There was something else, but what the hell was it? He lit up a cigarette he didn’t want to help him think. ‘Yes. Check with the mobile phone company. I want to know all the calls she made on it tonight.’

   ‘The parents?’ 

   ‘We tell the parents sod all at this stage. If the kid hasn’t turned up by morning, then I’ll speak to them.’

   ‘Right. Is that all, Inspector?’

   Frost yawned. ‘That’s all I can think of.’ He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it out of the car window. ‘I don’t want anymore calls. Not unless it’s a regicide or something funny like Mullett topping himself.’

   ‘OK, Inspector. Good night.’

   ‘Good night,’ said Frost. He fired the engine and headed for home.

The ringing woke him, slowly dragging him by the scruff of his neck out of a deep sleep and shaking him back to semi-consciousness.

   Frost opened his eyes. It was still pitch dark and the ringing was boring into his ears. What bleeding time was it? He fumbled for the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet and succeeded in sending it crashing to the floor. The ringing went on.

   Cursing, he climbed out of bed and snatched up the sodding alarm, bringing it up close to his sleep-fuddled eyes, trying to make out the time. Six flaming past seven on a dark and freezing- cold morning. He’d had barely two hours’ sleep. And why was the flaming thing ringing? He was sure he hadn’t set it before flopping into the unmade bed last night. He tried to switch it off, but the ringing didn’t stop - it was the downstairs phone in the hall. Shit! Phone calls at this hour of the morning were always bad news.

   He padded in his bare feet across the cold lino and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He shivered as he headed downstairs. The central heating hadn’t fired up yet and he was still in his pyjamas and a draught roared under the front door. He picked up the phone and basked for a few seconds in the resulting non-ringing silence.

   ‘Frost,’ he growled.

   ‘Jack,’ said Sergeant Wells. ‘The mother’s been on the blower. Her daughter hasn’t returned home.’

   What mother? What daughter? His sleep wasn’t functioning properly. Then he remembered, and suddenly he was fully awake. Jan O’Brien. The teenager who hadn’t come home. The teenager whose mobile phone was found near the spot where the drunk claimed he heard a girl screaming. He knew this was going to be a bad one. He just knew it. ‘Shit!’ he hissed.

   ‘Sorry?’ asked Wells, not hearing.

   ‘I said I’ll be right over.’

   In fifteen minutes he had washed, dressed and shaved and was on his second cigarette of the day. His hand was turning the front-door latch when he paused, suddenly dreading having to face Mrs O’Brien, telling her about the reported screams the finding of the phone. But sod this bleeding-pity This was one of the joys of the bloody job, just one step down from the joy of having to tell a mother they’d found her child body: a task he’d performed time without number since he joined the force. And it got worse, not easier.

It was as bad as he feared. The mother was hysterical and screaming, the father angry and belligerent, wanting to know why they hadn’t been told all this last night, as if it would have eased their pain one iota.

   ‘You will find her, won’t you?’ pleaded Mrs O’Brien.

   'We’ll find her,’ Frost assured her, the same hollow words he always used. ‘Don’t worry love. We’ll find her.’

   Back in the car, he tuned in to Denton FM, the local radio, as he drove back to the station.

Denton Police are anxious to contact the person who phoned them last night reporting hearing screams in the vicinity of the multi-storey car park . . .

   He hoped the sod hadn’t been too flaming drunk to remember what he had heard.

Jordan was waiting for him as he pushed open the door of his office. ‘We’ve been round to that girl Kathy, Inspector.’

   Frost frowned. ‘Who the hell is Kathy?’

   ‘Jan O’Brien’s friend - the girl she was with last night. She lied to Jan’s mother - didn’t want to get Jan into trouble. Jan was still there when the mother phoned and didn’t leave to go home until nearly midnight.’

   ‘Kathy lives at Moorland Avenue, doesn’t she?’

   ‘That’s right, Inspector.’

   Frost spun round in his chair to check the wall map and jabbed a finger on Moorland Avenue. ‘So that could put her smack in the vicinity of the multi-storey when our friendly neighbourhood drunk heard the screams.’

   Jordan nodded. ‘Yes, Inspector.’

   ‘Right,’ said Frost, ramming a cigarette in his mouth. ‘Then we need that bloody drunk.’ His hand was hovering over the phone, ready to call Bill Wells, when the station sergeant came in and forestalled him.

   ‘That drunk’s been on the blower again, Jack. He heard the radio appeal, but wouldn’t give his name. He says he can’t help. He heard screaming, but saw sod all. He phoned from a call box again.’

   ‘Sod it,’ snarled Frost. ‘I want him. He might have seen a car or something later. Another appeal, Bill. Would the prat who phoned the police phone us again, please. And I’ll need all the men you can spare. We’re going to have to put a search in hand.’ 

   ‘I can’t spare anyone, Jack. Mr Skinner’s got them all looking for Debbie Clark and the boy.’

   ‘Then he’ll have to make it a combined search,’ said Frost. ‘Is he in yet?’

   Wells looked past Frost, out of the office window. ‘His car’s just pulling in now.’ He gritted his teeth and winced at the sound of an anguished squeal of brakes and a rubber-ripping skid. Wells gasped. ‘Bloody hell, Jack. Taffy Morgan’s nearly rammed into the back of Skinner’s car.’

   ‘Stupid Welsh git,’ said Frost. ‘I’ve told him a hundred times: “You’ll never kill Skinner by ramming his car. You’ve got to wait until he gets out, then drive over him.” There was a burble of angry voices outside. ‘Now what?’

   ‘Skinner’s having a quiet word with Taffy,’ grinned Wells.

   Doors slammed and thudding footsteps approached, then the office door crashed open and an angry Detective Chief Inspector Skinner marched in. He jabbed a finger at Wells. ‘I’ve just driven past two of our men on their way to work still in civvies. I made it clear enough yesterday, even for you Denton thickies, that I want them in uniform before they clock on. I want to see them the minute they come in.’

   ‘Right,’ nodded Wells.

   ‘And I want to see you, too,’ snarled Skinner, stabbing a finger at Frost. ‘Five minutes.’ He slammed the door as he left and the windows rattled.

   ‘And good morning to you too, you fat sod,’ said Frost, jerking two fingers at the closed door. To his alarm, the door opened again and he thought Skinner had heard him and was coming back - but it was Taffy Morgan.

   ‘Skinner’s a bit touchy this morning,’ said Taffy flopping down in the chair behind his desk and taking the
Daily Mirror
from his pocket.

   ‘I don’t think he likes people ramming the back of his car,’ said Frost. ‘Now put that flaming paper away, I’ve got jobs for you. I want CCTV footage from the building society cash machine and I want CCTV footage of the area around the multi-storey for around midnight last night. If Jan O’Brien was abducted, let’s see what cars were about at that time of night.’

   ‘Right, Guv.’ With a quick glance at the picture of a half-naked girl on page three, Taffy tucked the morning paper under his arm and left the office.

   Frost’s internal phone rang. It was Skinner.

   ‘OK,’ acknowledged Frost, giving the phone another two-fingered salute as he hung up. He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Is “Get your effing arse in here” the same as saying “Would you kindly come into my office”?’ he asked Bill Wells.

As he approached Skinner’s office after a quick cup of tea in the canteen, Frost could clearly hear the DCI’s angry voice bellowing from behind the closed door, which then opened to allow two sheepish-looking, out-of-uniform, PCs to emerge. ‘And the next time I spot you on the way to work, but out of uniform, I’ll have your flaming guts for garters,’ roared Skinner, speeding them on their way.

   ‘Little tip,’ whispered Frost. ‘He likes you to be wearing your uniform before you start duty - he might have been too shy to have mentioned it. I’m going in for my bollocking now.’ He gave the door a half-hearted tap and entered.

   A smouldering Skinner glowered at him from behind his desk. Much of the office had been stripped bare, ready for complete refurbishment. If Mullett could raid the maintenance budget for a tarted-up, wooden-panelled office, then Skinner was not going to put up with this tatty affair. He slashed a finger at a chair and grunted, ‘Sit!’

   Woof, woof
thought Frost.
Are we going for walkies?
He flopped down in the chair. Skinner didn’t look very well. His skin had a greenish pallor and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

   ‘You look rough,’ said Frost.

   Skinner rubbed his stomach. ‘Superintendent Mullett took me out to dinner at his club last night. I think the oysters were off.’

   ‘I hate oysters,’ said Frost. ‘They taste like salted snot.’

   Skinner looked as if he was going to throw up. ‘Never mind about me. A complete and utter balls-up last night.’

   ‘The meal wasn’t a success then?’ asked Frost.

   ‘You know damn well what I mean. The cashpoint stake-out. All those men. All that bloody overtime and you let the sod get away with a thousand quid.’

   ‘We made an arrest,’ protested Frost. ‘Oh yes,’ sneered Skinner, ‘a flaming handbag- snatcher. All that overtime and a flaming handbag-snatcher. I hear we have another bloody missing girl?’

   Frost filled Skinner in.

   Skinner tapped his teeth with his pencil. ‘Do you think there’s any link with the other two missing kids?’

   ‘Possible, but I doubt it. I think our friendly neighbourhood rapist has got her.’

   A ripple of pain made Skinner wince and rub his stomach. ‘Bleeding oysters. Right. I’m on my way now to brief the search teams. I’ll get them to look for Jan O’Brien as well. If you get any results from the CCTV footage, follow it through, but keep me posted. And if you get near to making an arrest, I take over -
comprende?’

   ‘
Buenas noches
,’ agreed Frost, pushing himself out of the chair and beating a hasty retreat.

Back in his office, he wearily dragged his over flowing in-tray towards him. He skimmed through the memos and forms, then dragged the waste-paper bin over so he could discard all the tricky stuff and deny he had ever received it. Whatever they were, he didn’t have the time to waste on them. He looked round as Morgan came in, a batch of videotapes in his hand.

   ‘Sorry I’ve been so long, Guv,’ said dropping wearily into his chair.

   ‘Don’t apologise, Taff,’ said Frost. ‘Things always seem to go a lot smoother when you’re not here. So you’ve got the cashpoint and CCTV footage?’

   ‘Yes, Guv.’

   ‘Right. Take them into the Incident Room and run them through. Get Collier to help you.’

   ‘Shall I have my breakfast first, Guv?’ asked Morgan hopefully. ‘I’ve already ordered the big fry-up.’

   ‘All you think about is your dick and your flaming stomach,’ snorted Frost. ‘No. Get cracking on those videotapes, they’re more important. Don’t worry about your breakfast - I’ll eat it for you. And stop sulking - put your flaming lower lip in!’

When he returned from the canteen, his phone was ringing. Didn’t the bleeding thing ever stay quiet for a few minutes? He answered it.

   ‘Frost.’

   It was Beazley, the owner of Supersaves. ‘What the hell happened last night? Did you catch him?’

   Shit,
thought Frost. He’d forgotten about Beazley. ‘Ah, Mr Beazley. I was just on my way over to you. We didn’t catch him, but we’ve got some people on video footage you might be able to identify.’ He thought it best not to mention the withdrawn thousand pounds at this stage, and hoped and prayed Morgan would turn something up.