A Killing Frost (23 page)

   Wells looked relieved. ‘Well, at least it’s stopped you from doing something stupid.’

   ‘Yes,’ agreed Frost sadly, ramming a cigarette in his mouth. He puffed smoke. ‘Tell you what though. I could get myself a can of petrol and burn his hotel down.’

   ‘At last you’re being sensible,’ said Wells.

Frost sat slumped in his office chair, making paper darts from the contents of his in-tray and hurling them in the general direction of the waste-paper bin. His aim was poor and the floor was littered with crashed aircraft. Someone tapped at the door.

   ‘Come in.’

   Harding from Forensic entered, carrying a polythene evidence bag which he dumped on Frost’s desk. It contained the various pieces of severed foot and leg so far recovered.

   'I’ve had my lunch, thanks,’ said Frost, giving it hardly a glance. Body parts were the least of his troubles.

   There was a token smile from Harding, who was not a fan of Frost’s tired humour. ‘I thought you would be interested in our findings.’

   ‘If it’s from a medical student’s dissecting room, I’m interested. Anything else, I’m bored stiff.’

   Harding shook his head. ‘If it had been smuggled out of a medical school we’d have expected evidence of preservatives. We found none.’

   ‘Shit,’ said Frost. ‘Are you saying we’re talking murder?’

   ‘Not necessarily. It could have come from an amputation and a student took it away for a joke.’

   ‘Terrific joke,’ moaned Frost. ‘I’m pissing myself. We don’t know for sure, so we’ve got to assume it’s murder and start looking for the rest of the bits.’

   ‘I can tell you this,’ Harding said. ‘It’s from a female, aged around thirty-five to forty perhaps a bit older, and whoever sawed it off had some degree of medical knowledge. The way it’s gone through the metatarsal suggests a proper bone-saw was probably used.’

   ‘And how long would the owner have been dead,’ asked Frost, ‘assuming she isn’t still walking around with half her foot missing, but hasn’t bothered to report it because she knows the police are bleeding useless?’

   ‘You’d better get the pathologist to answer that. At least a couple of weeks - possibly much more.’

   Frost scratched his cheek. ‘Give it to Skinner. I’m off all murder cases from now on.’

When Harding had left, Frost resumed his half hearted paper-dart-throwing. He was dispirited and miserable - he could see no way of wriggling out of this. Lexton! A shit hole! He’d spent all his working life in Denton; he knew it like the back of his hand. He knew the people - the scumbags, the villains, everyone. He didn’t want to start from scratch in a new division and, worst of all, he hated the thought that Skinner and Mullett had put one over on him. Why had he got so smug and bloody careless with the petrol claims? He hurled a paper dart savagely at the door, narrowly missing Taffy Morgan, who had burst in waving a sheet of A4.

   ‘What’s all this about, Guv?’ Taffy thrust the page under Frost’s nose. It was a circular from Mullett that Morgan had prised from the notice-board. It read:

Transfer of Detective Inspector Frost

  
As many of you may know, Detective Inspector Frost will be transferred to Lexton division from the first of next month. It is expected that his colleagues may wish to be associated with a suitable leaving present and your donations are invited.

   The donation list was headed by the entry:
Supt. Mullett
. . . £25.

   ‘Twenty-five lousy quid?’ spluttered Frost. ‘Is that all the lousy four-eyed git thinks I’m worth?’ He snatched up his ballpoint pen and carefully altered the amount to read £125. ‘Let the bastard try and wriggle out of that.’

   Morgan took the sheet and read it again in disbelief.

   ‘But you haven’t applied for a transfer, Guv?’

   ‘I didn’t have to, Taffy. The bastards have kindly applied for me, and they’re jumping the flaming gun.’ He pushed himself up from his chair and unhooked his scarf and mac from the coat rack. ‘I’m going out to get pissed. If anyone wants me, tell them to get stuffed.’

   ‘But Guv - ’ pleaded Taffy to a slammed door.

   Frost had gone.

Frost stared blearily at the ashtray overflowing with squashed cigarette ends, then moved his hand ever so carefully towards the glass in front of him, which seemed to be moving in and out of focus on the table. What was the point in getting pissed? It did no bleeding good and made him feel lousy. His head was throbbing and his mouth tasted foul. Pulling an unlit cigarette from his mouth, he laid it on the beer-wet pub table, then swallowed a shot of whisky in one gulp, shuddering as the raw spirit clawed its way down his throat. The rest of the pub was a blur and a babble of over-loud voices that hammered away at his headache. His nostrils twitched. Through the smell of stale spirits and cigarette smoke came a whiff of cheap perfume.

   ‘All on our own, love?’

   He raised his head and squinted at the out-of-focus outline of an orange-haired, over-made-up woman in a cheap fake-leather coat.

   ‘Happy birthday Mr President,’ she cooed, dragging up a chair and sitting next to him. ‘Buy me a drink, love?’

   ‘Piss off,’ muttered Frost. He reached in his pocket and flashed his warrant card.

   ‘Bloody hell!’ She shot up from the chair and yelled across to the barman. ‘Lowering the tone of the place, letting the filth in, aren’t you, Fred?’ Hitching the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, she marched to the door. The barman watched her leave, then made his way over to Frost.

   ‘Can’t you give some other pub a turn, Inspector Frost?’ he said. ‘You’re driving all my regulars away.’

   ‘Soon,’ slurred Frost. ‘Very soon, Fred, my old son. Give me another whisky and a beer.’ He produced a handful of loose change and squinted at it. ‘Have I got enough?’

   The barman waved the money away. ‘If you promise to leave after I’ve served you, you can have it on the house.’ He looked up and swore softly as two uniformed policemen came in. ‘What is this? A flaming police convention?’

   By concentrating hard, Frost made out the two men to be Jordan and Simms. He beckoned them over. ‘Drinks on the house, lads.’

   ‘No they bleeding well ain’t,’ snapped the barman as he turned to the uniformed officers. ‘Can’t you get him out of here?’

   ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere, Inspector,’ said Simms, waving away the disgruntled barman.

   ‘How did you find me?’ Frost asked. ‘I’d never have thought anyone would look in this place.’

   ‘You’ve parked your car across two disabled parking spaces,’ said Jordan. ‘Someone phoned the station and complained. We recognised the registration number.’

   ‘Tell you what,’ said Frost, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘You go back to the station and tell them you couldn’t find me. I won’t split on you.’

   Jordan shook his head. ‘We need you, Inspector. A householder’s stabbed a burglar to death.’

   ‘Good for him,’ slurred Frost. ‘I bet he won’t break into any more houses.’ He retrieved his wet cigarette from the table and tried unsuccessfully to light it. ‘Get Chief Inspector Fat-Guts to do it. He’s supposed to be on duty tonight.’

   ‘He’s driven on to County to pick up some files. It’s got to be you.’

   ‘Excrement!’ said Frost, chucking the cigarette away. He pushed himself up and stood unsteadily on his feet. ‘Look at me. I’m in no fit state to take on a murder case.’ He plonked heavily down in the seat again.

   Simms beckoned the barman over. ‘Make some coffee. Strong and black.’

   ‘Coffee?’ protested Fred. ‘What do you think this is - the bleeding Ritz?’

   ‘Just make some flaming coffee,’ hissed Simms.

   Frost lifted a hand in feeble protest. ‘Forget it, lads. Like I told you, I’m in no fit state to take on a murder inquiry.’ Then he shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Shit! When am I ever fit enough to take on a murder case? Skip the coffee. I can throw up just as well without it.’ He rose to his feet again, put his hands on the table to steady himself, then pulled his car keys from his mac pocket. ‘I’ll be all right once I’m in the car.’

   Simms prised the keys firmly from his hand. ‘You’re coming with us, Inspector. There’s no way you’re getting behind a steering wheel tonight.’

   He sat in the back of the area car, being jolted from side to side as it sped through the darkened streets. He had the window down, letting the slap of cold air try to clear his aching head.

   ‘I hear you’re being transferred to Lexton, Inspector,’ said Jordan as they slowed down for traffic lights.

   ‘Good news travels fast,’ grunted Frost.

   ‘The lads are up in arms about it. What’s that all about?’

   ‘I can’t tell you,’ replied Frost, wishing the pounding in his head would ease up. ‘It would involve calling my superior officers fat, stinking, shiny, conniving bastards, and as you know, I don’t make comments like that about our beloved superintendent and his fat-gutted side kick.’

   ‘We’ll miss you, Inspector,’ said Simms.

   ‘I haven’t gone yet,’ Frost reminded him.

   The traffic lights changed and the car sped on its way. Street lights blurred as the car raced through a shopping area, then more darkness as they turned down a side street, slowing to a stop outside a detached house with all lights blazing. Another police car and a Citroën estate were parked outside.

   PC Collier opened the front door. ‘The doctor’s here,’ he told them.

   ‘Why? Is someone sick?’ grunted Frost, following Collier down the hall into the kitchen, where PC Howe and Dr Mackenzie, the duty police surgeon, were looking down at the sprawled body of a man wearing dark ski goggles lying face-down on the floor. An open window above the sink made the curtains flap. The carpet around the body was wet with blood. At its side was a long-bladed knife, also stained with blood.

   Mackenzie looked up as Frost came in. ‘Dead,’ he announced. He sniffed. ‘You smell lovely, Jack. You didn’t bring a bottle with you, by any chance?’

   Frost grinned and bent down to lift the head of the corpse and pull back the goggles so he could see the face with its expression of open-eyed surprise. Frowning, he straightened up. ‘I know this sod.’

   ‘You should do, Inspector,’ said Howe. ‘Ronnie Knox, burglary robbery GBH. Came out of the nick after doing a three-year stretch last March. You sent him down.’

   ‘Rumour had it he’d got a job and was going straight,’ said Frost.

   ‘You shouldn’t believe rumours, Inspector,’ said Simms.

   Frost leant his head against the cool wall and half closed his eyes. The bloody headache kept pounding away relentlessly, like a bass beat at a disco ‘All right. So what happened?’

   Mackenzie held up a hand. ‘I’m not interested in what happened, Jack. I’ll read all about it in the papers. I’m tired and I’ve got patients to kill tomorrow.’ He took a chit from his bag. ‘Just sign so I can claim my fee, then I’ll be off.’

   Frost took the form and the proffered pen and tried to focus on the details. He squinted at the time entered on the form, then at his wristwatch.

   ‘You’ve put the wrong time down. It’s half past eleven, not five past midnight.’

   ‘I get paid an extra ten quid if I’m called out after midnight,’ said the doctor.

   Frost scrawled his signature and handed the chit back. ‘You can get in trouble for making false claims, Doc.’

   ‘Only if you’re caught,’ said Mackenzie, zipping up his case.

   ‘That must have been where I went wrong,’ said Frost bitterly.

   The door closed behind the doctor and Frost again asked for details.

   ‘The householder is a bloke called Gregson - John Gregson,’ said Jordan.

   Frost frowned, then stopped frowning because it made his headache worse. ‘Hold on a minute. Gregson?’ His memory raced through the data base in his brain. ‘Little fat bloke, bald head? He’s got form - robbery with violence. I put him away five years ago. An ex-burglar is burgled. Poetic justice.’ He nodded to Jordan. ‘Carry on, son.’

   ‘He’s asleep in bed,’ continued Jordan, ‘when he hears a noise from the lounge. He creeps downstairs, clicks on the light and there’s this bloke in goggles unplugging his video recorder.’

   ‘Show me the lounge.’

   ‘Through here,’ said Jordan, leading Frost out of the kitchen and into a room leading off the hall. The heavy curtains in the lounge were drawn and a video recorder with trailing leads was on the carpet in front of the TV set. Frost gave the room a cursory glance, which didn’t seem to provide him with any flashes of inspiration, so he returned with Jordan to the kitchen.

   ‘Carry on, son.’

   ‘Goggle man barges past him and makes for the kitchen, to get out through that window - the way he got in.’

   Frost moved to the window. ‘Doesn’t seem to have been forced.’

   ‘Gregson said he left it open. He’d brought an Indian in and the kitchen stank of curry.’

   Frost stared out through the window on to the darkened back garden, to the rear of which was a tall wooden fence.

   ‘He got over that fence, and through the conveniently open window,’ continued Jordan.

   Frost nodded. ‘So he legs it to the kitchen. What next?’

   ‘Gregson goes to grab him. The bloke suddenly starts flashing a knife – that knife - ’ He pointed to the knife by the body, ‘and starts jabbing. He stabbed Gregson in the arm.’

   Frost looked at the long-bladed, razor carving knife on the floor. ‘That’s a big bastard. You don’t carry that just for getting stones out of horses’ hooves.’

   Jordan grinned. ‘So to defend himself, Gregson grabs a kitchen knife from the worktop and gets his jab in. The burglar slumps to the floor, Gregson dials 999. The ambulance arrived shortly after we did, confirmed he was dead and left.’

   ‘Where’s the knife Gregson used?’

   Howe held up a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a blooded kitchen knife.

   Frost went to the tap and splashed cold water on his face. His head was still thumping and his stomach churning. He wasn’t up to all this. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. It was bloody hot in here, even with the window wide open. ‘Let’s have a word with . . .’ He paused and blinked helplessly. He had forgotten the bloody bloke’s name.