First Frost (28 page)

‘Come on, lad, I haven’t got all night.’

‘Vanessa.’

An image came immediately to Frost’s mind of a very attractive young woman addressing a bunch of teenage girls outside St Mary’s school. Vanessa. Vanessa Litchfield. That was it: the woman who had discovered Graham Ransome’s body floating in the canal, and who worked at St Mary’s School for Girls.

‘Any idea when this supposed attack took place?’ Frost asked, frowning. ‘The thing is’ – he was speaking as much to himself as to Baker – ‘if she was raped, it’s unlikely whoever did it would bother to undress her fully first, and then take her up to bed to do it. But it takes all sorts.’

‘No clear idea when this happened,’ said Baker. ‘The husband was out all day, working in London.’ The PC flicked back through his notepad, adding, ‘He reckons she was raped
because
she was in bed, naked.’

‘No confirmation there, then, I take it,’ said Frost. ‘I’m no expert when it comes to rigor mortis, but she’s been there a while.’ Frost prodded the woman’s shoulder. ‘Stiff as a board.’

‘You certainly are no expert. Stand aside, Detective.’

‘Ah, the good doctor himself.’ Frost turned and grinned at Doctor Maltby, who was striding into the room, shaking the rain from his Homburg. ‘Been a busy week, Doc, and we keep missing each other.’ Frost had a grudging respect for the old soak.

As usual Maltby’s tie was askew, his wiry grey hair still defied gravity, while his bushy grey eyebrows continued to erupt from his forehead.

Bert Williams had always been highly complimentary about the doc – they were from the same school, in many ways, Frost thought.

‘Never known a week like it, Mr Frost,’ Maltby said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Frost stepped back from the king-size bed to allow Maltby better access, catching a blast of Johnnie Walker Black Label as he did so – the doc’s preferred tipple. ‘No, can’t say I’d ever want another week like it either.’

While Maltby fussed around the corpse, Frost lit a cigarette and checked out the lurid seascape that hung above the bed: a naked Venus was rising from an opened oyster shell.

‘Well, she’s dead, good and proper,’ said Maltby.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Frost. ‘I thought she might be. You fondling her like that would surely have woken her were she asleep.’

‘Been dead a while, too,’ said Maltby, ignoring him. ‘Rigor is at its peak. Between eighteen and twenty-four hours is my preliminary conclusion.’

Frost noticed a flashing blue glow seeping around the curtains.

Maltby was opening the corpse’s mouth, sticking his fingers inside, then running his hands lightly over the woman’s arms and legs. ‘What do you make of that?’ He lifted the right leg up slightly by the ankle.

‘It’s a foot,’ Frost said. ‘Size six, I’d guess. Wait, is that a verruca I can see?’

‘There’s reddening around the ankle, Mr Frost. Caused by chafing. And here, on the other one, too.’

‘From what, do you reckon?’ Frost stepped closer.

‘You better wait for Drysdale’s report, he’s—’

‘Paid more than you?’ Frost finished, though feeling vaguely disloyal for mocking Drysdale’s position; the pathologist had done Frost a huge favour earlier in the day.

‘Quite. Her toes are disfigured, too, and there are the beginnings of bunions – probably down to her footwear.’ Maltby stood back, peeled off his gloves. ‘Bit of a mystery this one. She hadn’t swallowed her tongue. No real sign of trauma. No bruising around the neck, though there is another slight chafing mark. Almost as if she’d been wearing a collar or necklace that was rather tight.’

‘Unlike you not to have an opinion at least,’ quipped Frost. ‘Are you working to rule?’

‘As I said, been a long week, already.’ Maltby adjusted his glasses. ‘Though I’ll offer you this: if she was raped, she certainly didn’t put up a fight. The chafing and faint marks around her neck are not consistent with any serious attempt at restraint.’ Maltby made for the bedroom door. ‘You’d be surprised by what people get up to in their own homes.’

‘I’m not sure anything would surprise me any more,’ said Frost, as Maltby left the room and made for the stairs.

‘Very sorry about Bert, by the way,’ Maltby called over his shoulder.

‘We all are,’ Frost replied, turning to face Baker, who was now bending down inside the built-in wardrobe on the far wall of the bedroom. ‘Not knicker sniffing, are you?’

‘What do you make of this, Sarge?’ Baker said, straightening and holding up a black-leather face mask with a zip where the mouth should be. He walked over and handed it to Frost.

Frost took it, perplexed. Then suddenly he thought of S&M, and the gang that had hit the Fortress. A coincidence too far, surely.

Baker had now also discovered a black rubber basque, handcuffs, an array of large pink phalluses and a pair of thigh-high white PVC boots, so pointed that Frost found it crippling even to look at them. The thought of Vanessa Litchfield trussed up in this gear was more than enough to fuse his tired brain.

‘Kinky, eh?’ Baker leered, waving a huge, black strap-on penis at Frost.

‘Put that back, you’ve no idea where it’s been,’ Frost said sharply. ‘Forensics will have some probing questions for you after they brush that thing down.’

Baker dropped it instantly.

‘Wonder if she wore it,’ said Frost.

‘What, that?’ Baker pointed to the strap-on at his feet.

‘No. The mask, you idiot. You’d be surprised what headgear people pop on to nip out to the bank.’ Frost wondered if it was bought locally or by mail order. He thought one thing might lead to another and shoved the black-leather mask into his mac pocket. He moved over to the bed. The enamel on the iron frame at the head had been worn right away at various points. Through various playful restraints rubbing against it?

‘Where do you get this sort of sex gear round here?’ said Frost.

‘There is a place at the far end of Foundling Street, blacked-out windows, a Private Shop, I think,’ said Baker, deliberately not looking at Frost.

‘Why don’t I know about that? Don’t answer. So, what’s the husband’s story?’

‘He works in the City, a stockbroker. Up and out by five thirty every morning, back shortly after seven. Says he discovered his wife dead when he got in tonight, and dialled 999 straight away.’

Frost paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. There was a faint creak from the iron frame. ‘That doesn’t seem to stack up,’ he eventually said. ‘Of course we’ll get confirmation later, but given the state of rigor I seriously doubt she died during the day today. Not even first thing this morning – which, I suppose, might at least have explained why she was naked and in bed.’

Frost went back over to the painting, Venus rising from her oyster shell. ‘Why does Maurice Litchfield think she’s been raped? Because she’s naked, and wasn’t when he left her this morning? Because he’s had an exploratory sniff?’

‘To be honest, he hasn’t said much at all,’ said Baker. ‘We were waiting for you.’

‘How thoughtful.’ Frost lit another cigarette, exhaling heavily. ‘There’s something very fishy about this, I’m afraid, and I don’t mean that strap-on.’

Baker winced.

‘We’ll have a quick word with Maurice,’ continued Frost, ‘see if anything more comes to light immediately, otherwise let’s wait until Drysdale and Forensics have their say before we get down to any serious questioning. I want uniform posted out here all night.’

Baker now groaned audibly.

‘I do believe I hear the patter of Scenes of Crime’s feet on the stairs,’ said Frost, turning towards the landing. ‘They’ll have plenty to amuse themselves with.’

Wednesday (10)

Sue Clarke, at home and in bed at last, couldn’t keep the image of the dead little girl out of her head. Seeing Graham Ransome being pulled on to the canal bank by the police frogmen was one thing, but a dead two-year-old was quite another.

It was the way Becky Fraser’s eyes were shut, and how there was almost a smile on her little face. She’d been neatly tucked up in bed – no sign of the struggle that must have ended her life.

Making it all so much worse, of course, were the parents: Liz Fraser and Simon Trench. They’d been arguing about who’d incited what, who’d pushed who into that one last, fatal time. There’d been a long catalogue of abuse, a slow, steady downward spiral. The history of this troubled and lethal partnership would be pored over by the courts for months. But what had quickly become clear, what Liz Fraser and Simon Trench both admitted to, was that they had tucked up the small child’s limp body, in bed, for ever. Then kissed her goodnight and goodbye.

Clarke threw off her duvet, found her dressing-gown, and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Her mind was whirring away, coming to the conclusion that while Liz Fraser had long wanted to be caught and stopped, Simon Trench had begun to hate himself so much he didn’t care what happened to him at all.

That, at least, was Clarke’s bit of amateur psychology, for free.

Wrapping her dressing-gown tightly around her, she half thought about ringing Derek Simms, to say she was sorry for losing her temper in the corridor that afternoon, and would he like to come over and warm her up.

But as she sipped her hot drink, she realized she was never going to apologize to him, let alone ask him over again. He was a right prat, putting it about all over the place, too. Besides, he only ever really fancied himself.

Back in the bedroom, her thoughts turned to Jack Frost. Now there was a man who never took himself too seriously, yet he was full of integrity. She couldn’t help wondering whether he was in bed right now … with his wife. What the hell was she like?

Clarke hoped his wife made him happy. Or one day, she might just have a go herself.

‘A sex shop, on Foundling Street?’ Hanlon exclaimed. ‘How did I miss that?’

‘Too busy looking for that bakery,’ said Frost, stretching back in Bert Williams’s old chair, hands behind his head, feet on the desk, a hole in both soles of his shoes.

It was late, very late, and Jack Frost, Arthur Hanlon and ruddy-faced Police Sergeant Nick Webster from Records were crammed into Bert Williams’s office, the room as smoky as a nightclub.

‘Blacked-out windows,’ said Webster quietly, perched on the edge of the large desk. ‘You wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking for it.’

‘But you knew, all right,’ said Frost, nodding at Webster. ‘Dirty sod.’

The wind whistled outside, making the cramped, dimly lit, smoked-filled office feel almost cosy.

‘The thing is, Arthur,’ Webster continued with a grin, ignoring Frost, ‘these places are always there if you look for them.’

‘Never been detailed to Vice,’ said Hanlon.

‘Is that regret I hear in your voice?’ said Frost.

‘Grow up,’ muttered Hanlon crossly.

‘Pointy boots, shackles, masks and big rubber cocks aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, I suppose,’ mused Frost. ‘But give Arthur a sausage roll, and he’d do things to young Miss Smith that’d make your ears bleed.’

‘Don’t mean to interrupt, but did I hear the word “tea”?’ asked Grace, hovering by the door. ‘You men want a last one? The boss has said I can go on all night, and there’ll be no problem claiming overtime.’

‘I bet he has,’ said Frost.

‘All right, cheeky,’ she said, ‘but it’s gone midnight, and I’m dead on my feet. Overtime or not, I’m not planning on sticking around for ever.’

‘Love one, thanks,’ said Frost, ‘and let’s see if Bert left something behind we could top it up with.’ He began riffling through the desk drawers and almost instantly retrieved a three-quarters-full bottle of Scotch. ‘Think we could all do with some of this.’

‘By all accounts,’ said Hanlon, still vexed, ‘Miss Smith has enough men bothering her.’

‘Wasn’t aware she was complaining,’ said Frost.

‘Mullett’s had words with her about it, apparently,’ revealed Webster. ‘Doesn’t like that sort of thing going on right under his nose.’ He paused, sniffed. ‘I hear she even had a thing with Pooley, of all weirdos.’

Frost leant across the desk to top Webster’s tea up with Scotch.

‘And then there’s Simms,’ continued Webster. ‘Though everyone knows he’s also been poking …’ His voice trailed off, and he took a gulp of tea.

‘The way you’re going on,’ said Grace, ‘anyone would have thought you had a soft spot for our Miss Smith.’

As laughter erupted Grace quickly pulled the trolley out of the room and disappeared down the corridor. Webster’s chair, one of Mullett’s new orange ones, which he’d dragged in from the corridor, then gave an alarming squeak.

Calming down, Frost said, ‘Don’t get married too young, that’s the key, I reckon.’

‘Doesn’t stop some people, Jack,’ Hanlon smiled.

‘Well, perhaps some people shouldn’t get married at all,’ Frost said, flicking ash on to the floor. ‘Who’s for another top-up?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Hanlon. ‘I’m gasping. Nasty business at Liz Fraser’s. Sue Clarke’s taken it rather badly. She was very upset.’

‘Not often you see a dead child, even in this business,’ said Frost. ‘I should have done more,’ he added, before taking a large swig of his fortified tea. ‘Got that Doctor Philips at Denton General to keep her in longer. I don’t know, there must have been something I could have done. Trouble was, I took my eyes off it.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jack, we all should have done more. There was a lot going on, and neither Liz Fraser nor Simon Trench were on Social Services’ radar,’ said Hanlon. ‘Social Services have a lot to answer for, too.’

‘They’ll pass the buck – as ever,’ sighed Frost. ‘Thing is, I always knew Liz Fraser wasn’t entirely blameless, for the kid to be in that state when we first found her. But to kill a child …’

‘She’d made those emergency calls in the past, hadn’t she?’ said Webster. ‘Complaining about prowlers and suspected burglars. What was that all about?’

‘Cries for help,’ suggested Hanlon. ‘Help from herself.’

‘We’re not shrinks,’ said Webster. ‘How were you meant to work that one out? We couldn’t even track Trench’s car.’

‘I suppose this station’s a touch overstretched,’ said Hanlon, ironically. ‘Anyway, Mullett doesn’t seem overly concerned with the case.’