First Frost (29 page)

‘He never was,’ said Frost. ‘Don’t think he likes children much.’

‘He just wants everything that’s not to do with the Fortress investigation filed and put to one side,’ said Hanlon.

‘Anything to please those effing bankers,’ grumbled Frost.

‘Mullett doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going at the moment, if you ask me,’ said Webster. ‘You can’t just leave investigations midway.’

‘Mullett and his blasted paperwork.’ Frost took another long sip of tea.

‘He should be running a bank, not a cop shop,’ laughed Webster.

‘At least we don’t have DI Allen sticking his oar in,’ said Hanlon. ‘Let’s be thankful for that.’

‘I thought all leave had been cancelled,’ said Webster.

‘It has,’ confirmed Hanlon. ‘But for some reason Allen has evaded the call-up.’

‘That’s a surprise,’ said Frost.

‘Maybe not,’ disagreed Hanlon. ‘Heard a rumour that he’s having marital difficulties: Mrs Allen’s got a bit bored. And that he’s going through some sort of a breakdown.’

‘You’re joking! Bloody hell … can’t believe you kept that to yourself, Arthur.’ Frost laughed, drained his mug, looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes.

‘Everyone’s at it,’ piped up Webster.

‘Not everyone,’ said Frost. ‘I doubt Mullett even knows where his own prick is.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ The superintendent appeared in the doorway.

Frost attempted to hide the bottle of Scotch behind a stack of papers. ‘Just talking about the old super,’ Frost beamed. ‘And how good it is to have a vigorous new boss.’

‘Some sort of celebration going on?’ Mullett said, eyeing the Scotch and wincing at the fog of smoke. ‘When I sanctioned overtime, this wasn’t what I envisaged.’

‘Actually, sir, we were toasting DI Williams. Care for one?’ Webster said, solemnly, and winking at Frost.

‘Ah, yes, well,’ said Mullett, ‘under the circumstances I think I will. Been a hell of a week.’

Frost scanned the room for a glass, and finding none, finished his own and proffered the tea-stained mug to Mullett, who nodded with thinly veiled distaste. Frost poured a generous measure.

‘To Bert,’ Frost said, raising the bottle to his lips.

‘To Bert,’ they all replied.

Mullett briefly hesitated before downing the contents in one.

‘What a day, sir,’ said Hanlon.

‘You could say that,’ Mullett huffed, clearly looking for a top-up. Frost dutifully obliged. ‘Finally got shot of Assistant Chief Constable Winslow and DCI Patterson for the night. Though they’ll be back first thing.’

‘Treading on your toes, were they?’ smirked Frost. ‘I know just how that can feel.’

Mullett looked at Frost sternly, before glancing around the room. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’ll say goodnight. Let’s hope for some major breakthroughs tomorrow. I want this Fortress raid cracked. Over a million was taken, firearms were used and people beaten up. We must get this resolved. The reputation of the whole division depends on it.’

‘Sure you don’t want another, sir?’ Frost said, sensing the superintendent wasn’t quite ready to depart after all.

‘Go on then, just a splash,’ Mullett smiled. ‘We’ll organize a traditional guard of honour at Bert’s funeral, of course … Any news there, Jack? I’ve seen the pathologist’s preliminary report – rather open to interpretation.’

‘Not yet, sir,’ Frost said, making a last round with the bottle. He was keeping his suspicions firmly to himself for the moment – Bert had obviously had his reasons for keeping things quiet. ‘Bottoms up.’

Mullett took a gulp and placed the mug on the cluttered desk. ‘Well, goodnight, gentlemen,’ he said again. ‘Careful driving home. They reckon there’s going to be a frost tonight, first of the year. There’re a lot of lunatics about as it is; someone nearly took me out for good this morning. Made a right mess of the whole of one side of my car. They didn’t stop, either. Had I not been on the way to Market Square I’d have turned round and given chase.’

‘Bet you haven’t done that in a while,’ said Frost.

‘It wasn’t a brown Mini Metro by any chance?’ enquired Hanlon.

‘Could quite possibly have been … it all happened so fast. Why?’ said Mullett, suddenly looking a little sheepish.

‘I think I know the owner.’

‘Well, let’s not bother him at the moment. There are more important things to be getting on with.’

Mullett was gone as swiftly as he had arrived.

‘The way he reacted there,’ said Frost, ‘anyone would think that Mullett had been at fault.’

‘Should be easy enough to find out,’ said Hanlon. ‘The driver’s in the cells: Simon Trench.’

‘Of course,’ said Frost, ‘the chocolate Mini Metro.’

‘The chocolate Mini Metro,’ Webster echoed.

‘Though the way Trench drives,’ said Hanlon, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was to blame. The ratty little man’s got a deathwish.’

‘Bloody shame he didn’t kill himself before he killed his daughter,’ Frost sighed.

‘I think we need another drink,’ Webster said, getting to his feet. ‘Allen keeps a bottle—’

‘Does he now,’ said Frost. ‘Well, as the most senior-ranking officer here, I authorize you to gather the evidence at once.’

Wednesday (11)

Night Station Sergeant Johnny Johnson, standing behind the front desk in the draughty lobby, could hear singing coming from somewhere. He looked at his watch and yawned. It was nearly 2.00 a.m.

Was it drunken louts passing Eagle Lane? But at this hour? The pubs, of course, had shut long ago. Unless there’d been another lock-in at the Bricklayers.

It was getting louder. He turned down the portable transistor radio, which he kept under the desk for company through the long night shifts.

Suddenly the interior door clattered open and three dishevelled figures lurched as one across the lobby: Arthur Hanlon, Jack Frost and Nick Webster, the big guys propping up Frost in the middle.

‘It’s the Old Bill,’ said Frost.

‘Hello, Bill,’ called out Hanlon.

‘Aye-aye,’ said Webster.

‘It’s Johnson,’ said Johnson firmly.

‘Johnson?’ queried Frost, trying to focus in the general direction of the counter. ‘Johnny Johnson, night sergeant? Well I never.’

‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’ slurred Hanlon.

‘Strange rumours flying around this place,’ stuttered Webster. ‘Concerning a right randy Mrs Allen, for one.’

There was a roar of laughter.

‘Out!’ shouted Johnson. ‘Out, the lot of you, before I have you arrested and slam you in the cells for being drunk and disorderly.’

Johnson watched in disgust as the three officers pushed open the station doors and disappeared into the freezing dark.

Barely had the doors stilled when the phone went. ‘Denton Police,’ Johnson said promptly.

‘I know that, you fool,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘Tell Jack Frost,’ the man quickly continued, ‘there’s a present for him lying in the gutter outside the Coconut Grove.’ The line went dead.

Johnson rushed to the entrance, but the pissed trio were nowhere to be seen.

Thursday (1)

The Cortina had reached seventy, far too fast for this dirt track of a lane at night. Frost felt perspiration break out on his forehead as he peered desperately ahead. The rain was pelting the windscreen, and the wipers seemed useless, thudding to and fro, making a peculiar knocking sound with every stroke. The car accelerated further into the darkness.

‘For Christ’s sake slow down!’ Frost yelled at the driver.

‘But we must go faster – they’re gaining on us.’ Frost looked over his shoulder, and, sure enough, the Transit was practically upon them. The van’s cab light was on and Frost could make out four masked faces. The Cortina gave a further surge. Christ, he had to get Bert to hospital. The noise from the wipers was getting louder. Frost turned to his driver, and recognized the man they’d pulled out of the canal.

‘But Mr Ransome, you’re blind! You can’t drive!’

‘You can do it, Jack, I know you can,’ Bert Williams suddenly wheezed from the back seat, coughing up blood.

‘I hope you’re feeding my dog, Detective,’ Graham Ransome said with a smile, displaying his lack of teeth.

Frost woke abruptly, drenched in sweat, the rapping on the windscreen jolting him back to life. He struggled to open the Cortina window, which had frozen, and revealed the station’s milkman standing in the early-dawn light.

‘You all right in there, Mr Frost?’

‘Yes, Neville …’ Frost stretched his stiff limbs. ‘Could you let me have a pint on account?’

‘No problem,’ the milkman said. ‘A bit of a cold one to be camping out?’ The milkman indicated the frost on the window. ‘Your scarf caught my eye, it’s trapped in the door. Then I took a closer look and saw the interior light on.’

‘Catching up on my reading – must have dozed off,’ Frost said. He got out of the car, took the pint and made his way stiffly into the station.

Thursday (2)

‘You never know what goes on in people’s homes,’ Frost said to DC Sue Clarke as she pulled out of the lab car park and steered the Escort back towards town, accelerating hard.

It had been a difficult appointment first thing on a frosty morning, with Drysdale now presiding over four bodies, four suspicious deaths. The blind man Graham Ransome, who’d died after a struggle on the towpath. Bert Williams, who’d had his chest caved in by one or more assailants, at least as far as Frost was concerned. Becky Fraser, doped with sleeping pills and then suffocated by her own parents, seemingly acting in collusion. And a naked Vanessa Litchfield, asphyxiated in her bed at home, with no evidence of serious resistance. There had been only a small amount of alcohol in her bloodstream, but there were other fluids inside her, all right.

Christ
, thought Frost, not for the first time. Two fatal beatings and two asphyxiations. Yet the circumstances of all four deaths could not have been more different, and so far they only had the culprits connected to one death. And on top of it all, Mullett breathing down his neck – bomb scares and robberies. The night in the Cortina and the Scotch hadn’t been wise. But they had Lee Wright – brought in last night. That, at least, was something.

‘It beats me just what some people get up to,’ Frost added, thinking now of Vanessa Litchfield and glancing across at Clarke, waiting for a response. None came. ‘An affair or two I can understand,’ he persisted. ‘In fact, I read somewhere that very attractive women are more likely to be promiscuous. But this—’

‘Where would you have read that?’ Clarke snapped.

‘As I’ve said before, you’d be surprised what I read in my spare time.’ Frost raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t work out how Clarke was taking the news that Vanessa Litchfield appeared to have been something of a nymphomaniac.

According to Drysdale, there were clear indications that Vanessa Litchfield had consented to have sex with several men. The chafing marks around her ankles and neck had come from light restraints. Together with Frost’s initial observations of what was still being referred to as the crime scene – the wear on the bedstead and all the equipment from the cupboard – everything was pointing to a sex game gone horribly wrong in a house used to hosting swingers’ parties, orgies and S&M sessions.

Drysdale had suggested that Vanessa Litchfield had died while trying to achieve a heightened orgasm through oxygen starvation. It was a known practice, apparently.

‘What you read is neither here nor there,’ said Clarke. ‘How are we going to break it to the husband that his wife had five different men’s semen—’

‘Do me a favour, one of them is bound to be Maurice’s,’ Frost interrupted, amazed at her naivety. ‘I told you about the clobber we found at the house: handcuffs, masks, dildos, whips, the works. Maurice Litchfield would have been one of Vanessa’s most grateful beneficiaries, not to mention, I don’t doubt, a keen observer of all the sordid goings-on.’

‘Being kinky is one thing, letting any old randy sod shove his prick inside you is quite another,’ she said crossly.

‘If you say so.’ Frost paused briefly before adding, ‘Frankly, we don’t know much about her or her husband at the moment. All we do know for certain is that Vanessa Litchfield was asphyxiated, and within the last few days had at least five different sexual partners. Her husband, Maurice Litchfield, meanwhile, is maintaining that she was raped and murdered.’

There was an odd tension between himself and Clarke this morning. And he didn’t think it was to do with the graphic nature of the Litchfield case. It was something else. His mind flicked back to Market Square yesterday morning, Sue Clarke suddenly clambering into the van, the look of concern on her lovely face.

Lighting a cigarette as the crisp countryside sped by, Frost remembered that Mike Ferris at British Telecom still hadn’t provided him with any names and addresses for those telephone numbers from Bert’s notebook.

Frost wondered whether he should get Clarke to drop him off in town on their way back to the station, but first there was another quick stop he thought they might as well make.

‘We pass right by St Mary’s School in a moment, don’t we?’ he said, flipping down the visor to cut out the low autumnal sun’s blinding glare. The weather had cleared towards dawn, while the temperature had plummeted yet further, producing, as forecast, a treacherous, sparkling frost. ‘Let’s see if that old bat Sidley can shed any light on Vanessa Litchfield’s’ – he coughed – ‘character.’

The headmistress was in the middle of taking a class – classics, according to the decrepit stooge Jenkins.

Clarke decided to wait in the musty hall, to mull over the investigations on her plate, while Frost paced about on the gravel forecourt in front of the grand building, chainsmoking. Frost really seemed too preoccupied with the demise of Bert Williams, she thought, to provide any great inspiration. That was until this morning, anyway: the Litchfield case had clearly sparked his interest.

Though he stank to high heaven of whisky, and looked an absolute shambles. He hadn’t shaved and she could have sworn he was in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, and the day before that, come to think of it. She couldn’t help wondering where he’d spent the night. On the sofa? In the car?