Winter Frost (14 page)

   
Frost flopped down in the chair by the bed. "You look like Queen bleeding Nefertiti," he told her. She didn't answer. He unhooked the chart from the foot of the bed and studied it, shaking his head in mock concern. "It says, 'Condition very serious, but cooperate with the police and you'll live.' "

   
"I'm in pain," hissed the girl. "I want to be left alone."

   
"Greta Garbo wanted to be left alone," said Frost, "and now she's dead!" He checked to see there was no nurse in sight and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. "Come on, love. Tell me what happened and I'll go, cubs' honour."

   
"Nothing to tell. I'm at Denton Terrace, freezing cold, not much trade about, when this bloke pulls up. I didn't like the look of him, but he wasn't going to get trampled in the rush, so we agrees a price and I get in his car. He drives off to somewhere near the woods and parks. I'm starting to unbutton my dress when the bastard belts me one . . . That's it. I don't remember any more."

   
"He just beat you up—for no reason?"

   
"Yes."

   
"That wasn't very sociable. You didn't make any disparaging remarks about his appendage or anything?"

   
"I never saw his appendage, only his bleeding fist and there was nothing wrong with the size of that."

   
"Describe him."

   
The bandaged head shook. "I don't remember."

   
"Come on," urged Frost. "You remembered enough to say you didn't like the look of him."

   
"Middle age, medium height, medium build, dark clothes."

   
"Clean-shaven?"

   
"Yes."

   
"We've got him then," said Frost. "There can't be more than twenty million blokes with that description." He puffed smoke up to the ceiling. "What sort of car?"

   
"Just a car. I know nothing about cars."

   
"Old, new, big, small, diesel, petrol, steam-driven?"

   
"Medium sized . . . fairly old."

   
"Colour?"

   
"Darkish."

   
Frost flicked ash on the floor. "You're sodding me about, aren't you, love? You could describe him Perfectly if you wanted to."

   
"I've told you all I can remember."

   
"How old are you?"

   
"Seventeen."

   
"Been on the game long?"

   
"Couple of months."

   
"Got a pimp?"

   
"No."

   
"I thought not. You say this bloke picked you up at Denton Terrace? That's where Harry Grafton's girls flash their knickers. I bet they didn't like a young piece of stuff like you encroaching on their turf?"

   
"It's a free country."

   
"I reckon they warned you off, but you gave them the two-fingered salute, so Harry sent one of his persuaders to teach you a lesson. Right?"

   
"I'm saying nothing."

   
"He smashed you up, love—are you going to let him get away with it? He could have killed you!"

   
She just lay stiff and still, willing him to go.

   
Frost sighed. "If you want the bastard to get away with it, that's your prerogative. Like you said, it's a free country." He pinched the cigarette out and dropped it in his pocket. Liz and Morgan followed him out.

   
The night sister was at her desk behind a newly delivered large bunch of flowers. She looked up at the inspector. "Did Cherry tell you who did it?"

   
"Sudden loss of memory," Frost told her.

   
"Whoever did it wants locking up. I hardly recognized her when she was brought in."

   
Frost stopped in his tracks and walked back. "You know her?"

   
The nurse nodded. "She used to work here . . . in the staff canteen."

   
Frost exchanged glances with Liz. "When was this?"

   
"About four months or so ago. She didn't stay long." The nurse rose from her chair and picked up the bunch of flowers. "Perhaps these will cheer her up."

   
Frost held up a hand. "Hold on . . . Someone's sent her flowers?" He checked the card on the bouquet of red and pink carnations. 'To Miss Cherry Hall, Nightingale Ward . . . To Pastures New . . . Bon Voyage . . .' "Who the hell would have known she was here—let alone get the right ward?"

   
"People can always phone the switchboard and ask," the nurse told them. "They have an updated list of admissions."

   
Frost's eyes lit up. "Do you tape all calls?"

   
"Yes," said the nurse. "In case people claim we've given the wrong information."

   
Frost sent Liz to go down to the switchboard to check, then he picked up the bunch of flowers and waited in the corridor. He was on his second cigarette when the clatter of shoes on parquet flooring signalled Liz's return. She was panting and had to wait a while to catch her breath. "The stairs in this place . . ."

   
Frost nodded. He knew all about the stairs. His wife had been up on the fourth floor. "You've got something?"

   
One last gasp before she was ready to talk. "Yes. A man phoned about half an hour ago. Asked how Cherry Hall was and what ward she was in. They told him and he hung up."

   
"And . . . ? I can see from your face there's more."

   
She fluttered a hand telling him to be patient. "I listened to the tape of the call . . . It was the same man who phoned last night."

   
Frost expelled a mouthful of smoke, then picked up the flowers. "Right. Let's pay her another visit . . ."

   
She was still lying motionless, eyes tightly closed, pretending she was asleep and hadn't heard them return. He squeaked the chair noisily and thudded down in it. "The bloke who beat you up sent you some flowers. Wasn't that nice of him?"

   
She didn't answer.

   
He shook her violently by the shoulder. "OK, Fanny, we stop playing games now."

   
She shrugged off his hand. "I've nothing to say. Now get out!"

   
"Do you know a girl called Mary Adams?"

   
She stiffened. "We used to work here together . . . so what?"

   
"Your friend who sent the flowers. We think he called on Mary last night."

   
"Oh?" She feigned indifference.

   
"He won't be sending her any flowers though . . . the poor cow couldn't smell them if he did. She's dead!"

   The eyes widened. "Dead? Mary dead?"

   
"He strangled her, the same bloke who beat you up, so you are now going to tell me who he is."

   
"I want my clothes. I'm getting out of here." She struggled to get up, but Frost pushed her down.

   
"You're not going anywhere, love, you're a key witness. And to help you not go anywhere, we'll have a nice policeman sitting by your bed, twenty-four hours a day." That'll bring the pains on with Mullett, he thought.

   
She lay back, eyes fluttering. "He said he'd kill me if I went to the police."

   
"He won't be able to kill you if we've got him locked up. Tell me about you and Mary Adams."

   
"We used to work here in the canteen . . . long bleeding hours, starvation wages. They tried to make out we were nicking from the till and we got the push. Mary didn't want to let her boyfriend know they were saving up for a house. She told me she was going on the game, said it would be easy money. So we both had a go. I used to share a place with her in Clayton Street where we could take the punters, but we weren't earning enough to pay the rent, so Mary said we should go to Denton Row and get the kerb-crawlers. The other girls didn't like it and we started getting threatening phone calls. I stayed away for a couple of weeks, but I wasn't earning, so I went back. And this . . ." a bandaged hand indicated her bandaged face, ". . . was what happened. He said I was to leave Denton and if I went to the police I'd end up in the bottom of the canal with conger eels for customers."

   
"And who was it who beat you up?"

   
"One of Harry Grafton's bully boys. I don't know his name."

   
"Describe him."

   
"Big . . . heavy build . . . wonky nose . . . looked as if it had been broken."

   
Frost's eyes gleamed. He turned to Liz. "I know him. Mickey Harris, one of Harry's pit bulls . . . used to be a wrestler."He stood up, sliding the chair back against the wall.

   
"You won't tell him I grassed?" the girl pleaded.

   
"You won't come into it, love," smiled Frost. "Beating you up is small beer . . . We're after him for murder."

They went to pick up Mickey Harris without Liz Maud who had a pile of paperwork to clear before her trip to London. Morgan's lustful eyes watched her as she pushed through the swing doors. "For a detective inspector, she's got a nice little bottom on her, guv," he commented as they drove off.

   
"Can't you get your mind on higher things?" grunted Frost, who was thinking exactly the same. "Turn left here . . ."

   
Mickey Harris's house was in darkness and the space outside where his car should have been parked was empty. Frost pounded and kicked at the front door and the noise echoed in a house that was obviously unoccupied. He climbed back in the car. "We'll pick him up first thing in the morning." He yawned. "Back to the station, Taff."

   
They never made it to the station. As they turned into the Market Square the radio called him. It was Bill Wells. "Just had a call from a motorist, Inspector. Reckons he's found a woman's body."

   
"Bum-holes!" moaned Frost. "I could have done without this. Where?"

   
"In the undergrowth by the old Denton Road, near the Denton turn-off."

   
"That's near the old service station where we were looking for the kid. What was he doing there?"

   
"He stopped off for a pee—said he nearly wee'd all over her. He sounded shattered . . . said she was naked with blood all over her."

   
"I was all eager when you reached the naked bit," grunted Frost. "I've gone off her now. Is the motorist waiting for us?"

   
"No. He said he didn't want to get involved. He reported it, then rang off. Jordan and Simms are at the location waiting for you. Oh, and Wonder Woman's on her way over there as well."

   
"The more the merrier," said Frost. "We're on our way." He turned to Morgan. "A chance to see your favourite bum again, Taffy. Turn right at the top here . . ."

The metal sign in front of the deserted petrol station was still clanging madly as the night wind sawed across the forecourt. Jordan and Simms climbed out of the area car and waited, coat collars turned up against the bitter cold, as Frost and Morgan pulled up.

   
Frost shivered and wound his scarf tighter as he surveyed the desolate area of scrubland dotted with skeletal bushes which were bending in the wind. "The quicker we find her, the quicker we can get a nice marquee erected and keep warm." He looked up and down the length of the old road. A lot of ground to be covered, but there were short cuts. "If the bloke who found her stopped for a pee, we can assume he didn't want to walk far with a full bladder. He'd pick the nearest bushes to the road. Jordan, Simms, you take that side of the road, the Welsh Rarebit and me will take this. And mind where you tread; it's not only widdles that motorists do behind bushes."

   
The wind was cutting through him like a rusty saw and he wished he was wearing something more substantial than his paper-thin mac. He cupped his hands round the glowing tip of his cigarette to steal some warmth. "You take that end," he told Morgan. "I'll start from the old petrol station."

   
He trudged through the long, wet grass which soon made his trouser legs sodden. In the distance was the glow of sodium lamps and constant throb of traffic from the new road. There were no lights along this section of the old road and they had to use torches. Frost's torch kept flickering and promising to die on him. He should have replaced the battery long ago. He swore bitterly as hidden bramble thorns scratched blood from his icy cold hands as he searched under bushes. He had the awful feeling this whole thing was someone's idea of a joke—give the fuzz something to do instead of handing out parking tickets to blameless motorists.

   
"Over here, Inspector!" Jordan was calling urgently from across the road, the beam from his torch soaring skywards like a searchlight, homing them over. Frost squelched across the road, Morgan hard on his heels.

   
Jordan's torch flashed down on the body, which was silvery white in the moonlight. Behind a clump of bushes, half hidden in the long, wet grass, lay a girl in her early twenties, sightless eyes staring up into the night sky, the mascara on her lashes running down her cheeks. She was naked. There were angry red and charred burn marks on her stomach.

   
Simms stared at the face. "I know her, Inspector. I don't know her name, but she's one of the toms who hang out around the Tenwood area."

   
Frost reached out a hand and steered Jordan's torch beam on to the girl's arms and legs. There were deep blooded grooves etched into her wrists and ankles where she had been tied down and where she had strained to get free. He touched the flesh. Stone cold and hard. She had been dead for some time. As he was radioing through for a full forensic team and a pathologist, another car pulled up and Liz Maud dashed over to them.