Winter Frost (29 page)

   
Frost pulled out a pen. "Which charities?"

   
They looked at each other. "Will it make any difference to what sentence we get if I tell you?" asked the man.

   
Frost shrugged. "Probably not."

   
"Then let them keep it. I suppose you'll take the money back from old Maggs?"

   
"He denies receiving it," said Frost, "and if you deny sending him any, there's not much we can do."

   
"Then I didn't send him any."

   
"Fair enough," nodded Frost. "Then the charities got it all." He stood up. "I've got to take you in." He sounded almost apologetic.

   
Redwood's arm tightened around his wife, who looked ready to collapse. "What will happen to us?"

   
"You'll give us a statement, then you'll be charged, then you'll probably be released on police bail pending the court hearing."

   
The man blinked in dismay. "We won't go to prison, will we?"

   
"It was armed robbery," said Frost. "If only you hadn't used that loaded bleeding gun you might have got off with a caution."

   
"We thought it would make it more realistic."

   
"Well it certainly took me in," grunted Frost, "especially when you nearly shot that poor sod's leg off." His voice softened. "I don't know what sort of sentence you'll get, but play up your motive and keep limping on that bad leg and wincing. The judge might mink you've suffered enough." He was helping the man on with his coat when he remembered what he should have asked earlier. "Where's the shotgun?"

   
"Locked away in the cupboard under the stairs," Redwood told him. "Shall I go and fetch it?"

   
"No," said Frost hastily. He didn't want the old boy to return with the gun and demand a fast car and a plane. "I'll get one of our firearms blokes round to pick it up."

   
Redwood raised his chin so his wife could wind a long woollen scarf round his neck. "The key's in the bureau with the shotgun licence."

   
"Shotgun licence?" echoed Frost.

   
"A police shotgun licence. I suppose that's how you got on to us in the first place?"

   
"Yes." lied Frost. "It was the first thing I thought of."

"Another case solved then, Jack?" beamed Police Sergeant Wells.

   
"I can solve other people's cases, but can't solve my own." He pulled a face. "A couple of geriatric Bonnie and Clydes trying to do Cordwell one in the eye. If there was any justice the poor sods should have got away with it." He scribbled a note and attached it to the case file. "Liz Maud can have the credit when she comes back. I don't mind solving her cases, but I'm damned if I'm going to do her paperwork."

   
"That cow solves more cases when she's away then when she's here," sniffed Wells.

   
Frost stared out of the window. It was getting dark and the mist was thickening. "I think I'll go and see how the search parties are doing."

Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon followed the silent line of men and women as they moved slowly forward, poking and prodding. He checked his watch. It was almost too dark to see the dial. Nearly five o'clock, time to call the search off until the morning. A police whistle shrilled, echoed by other, fainter, whistles in the distance. Wearily, the searchers, miserable and dispirited, straightened up and made for their transport. A long, cold, fruitless search.

   
Hanlon nodded as they trudged past him to the parked cars. His back hurt from continually stooping. He was cold, his trouser legs were sodden from wet grass, his clothes clammy where moisture had dripped and trickled from overhanging branches. He ached all over and he was hungry. He looked around. Where was Jack Frost? The inspector had come down to check on progress and had then wandered over to the hospital buildings to join the few men Hanlon had been able to spare to search them yet again. A waste of time, but the inspector was insistent.

   
He needed to talk to Frost to find out if he should send the search teams straight out in the morning or wait for a briefing. Mullett was getting very fidgety about overtime being paid to men with cups of tea in their hands, laughing at Frost's dirty jokes, instead of getting down to the nitty-gritty of searching. And had Frost dismissed the men doing the hospital grounds search? Mullett had insisted that no overtime was to be paid for after five o'clock. Hanlon rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation, then climbed in his car and headed for the hospital grounds to find Frost.

   
The numbing wind cut right through him, but at least it was driving away the mist. He turned up his coat collar as he plodded over the thick carpet of wet, fallen leaves along the little-used paths at the back of the hospital. There was Frost's car, the radio chattering away aimlessly with no-one to listen to it. Somewhere in the distance someone had lit a bonfire and the wind carried the smell of burning leaves. Then another smell. Cigarette smoke. Frost was near, but he couldn't see him in the dark.

   
"Jack?"

   
A grunt in reply. Hanlon squeezed through some bushes and there was Frost, cigarette drooping, slumped against the crumbling brick wall of a derelict hospital shed. Hanlon looked around anxiously. No sign of the other men so he hoped Frost had sent them home.

   
"I've called off the search for tonight, Jack. We'll meet up again at the station first light tomorrow."

   
Frost took the cigarette from his mouth. "Cancel it."

   
Hanlon blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. "Cancel it?" he echoed. He stared at the inspector as the glow from the cigarette lit up his face, a face grey with fatigue, looking older than his years. "Why, Jack? We can still find her."

   
Frost stared into the distant dark, squinting against the smoke from his cigarette. "I've found her, Arthur," he said quietly. He jerked a thumb at the shed.

   
Hanlon's face creased into a puzzled frown. "She can't be there, Jack. We searched it thoroughly this morning, and this afternoon."

   
"Then you couldn't have been thorough enough," snapped Frost, "because she's in there."

   
Hanlon moved away to look, but Frost caught his sleeve. "Don't be in such a bloody hurry to see her, Arthur. She's dead. The bastard has raped and strangled her . . . he's nearly torn her apart."

   
He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it savagely into the darkness, then pulled out the packet and offered it. Hanlon, who rarely smoked, took one. "We'll need the police surgeon, Forensic—" he began.

   
"I've called them," said Frost, clicking his cigarette lighter. They lit up and smoked, saying nothing. Car headlights sheared through the darkness. "That will be them now."

   
Harding, with two of his staff from Forensic, homed in on Frost's shouts. "Where is she?" Frost led them to the shed door.

   
"I thought this had been searched earlier?" said Harding.

   
"We must have missed her," muttered Frost, switching on his torch and pulling back a length of sacking that had once held fertilizer. He moved back so Harding could see.

   
Harding bent over the tiny body. The girl, wearing a green dress, lay on her side, the body slightly curved as if she had been carried in someone's arms before being dumped on the floor. In the corner of the shed, apparently just thrown in, was a child's blue anorak. The girl's eyes were open and marks of bruising were evident around her neck.

   
Harding briefly lifted the skirt then, with a look of disgust, straightened up. "She's been raped!"

   
"Tell me something I don't know," grunted Frost.

   
"Has the pathologist seen her yet?" Harding asked.

   
"No, so try not to move her. You know what a fussy sod he is."

   
Headlights hurled their shadows against the far wall. The rest of the Forensic team had arrived. Frost took Harding's arm and lowered his voice. "I've got the sod who did this, but not enough proof to make it stick. Find me evidence to nail the bastard, and if you can't find anything, bloody plant it!"

   
A nervous twitch of a smile from Harding who was never sure when Frost was joking. "If there's anything here, Inspector, we'll find it, I promise you." He called the rest of his team over as Frost went outside to wait for the pathologist.

He was speeding down the Bath Road on his way back to the station, a thousand thoughts swirling, like the mist, round his brain. Then he noticed the speedometer . . . he was doing over eighty. That's right, kill yourself, you silly sod. He slowed down to a fairly respectable sixty. He was nearly at the station when he realized he hadn't broken the news to Jenny's mother. Shit! He slammed on the brakes and squealed into a U turn. This was the part of the job he hated.

"Dead?" She broke down and he was holding her tight, saying nothing as her body shook and hot, scalding tears splashed down her face. How many times had he held mothers like this, telling them of the death of their kids? Too many times! What a bloody job!

   
"I never treated her right," she sobbed, "but I loved her. I really loved her."

   
Frost nodded, patting the back of her head soothingly, still saying nothing. Pity you didn't love the poor cow more when she was alive, he thought. Aloud he murmured, as if it would make her feel better: "We've got the bastard, love . . . we've got the bastard who did it."

Ignoring the incessant ringing of the phones, Bill Wells stamped his feet to get the blood flowing, then felt the radiator in the lobby to make sure it was working properly. It was going full blast but didn't seem to be warming the place up very much. He clapped his hands over the papers on his desk to keep them in place as the lobby door crashed open and Frost, maroon scarf streaming behind him, hurtled in. "Mr. Mullett wants to see you, Inspector," called Wells.

   
"Hard luck," said Frost over his shoulder as he dashed past. "I want Weaver in the interview room—now!"

   
Wells jerked a thumb to the constantly ringing phones. "The press won't leave us alone. They're screaming for a statement."

   
"They can bloody scream. Get Weaver." And the swing doors slammed shut behind him.

   
Wells returned to the desk. Ignoring the outside lines, he picked up the internal phone. It was Mullett. "Yes, sir, he's just this minute come back. Yes, I did tell him. I'm sure he will be with you soon." He held the phone away from his ear as Mullett bleated his annoyance. "Yes, sir, I'll tell him." He banged the phone down and yelled for Collier to fetch Weaver from the cell, then turned his attention to the other phones. "Yes. I can confirm we have found a body of a young girl. Sorry . . . no further comment at this stage . . ."

Weaver blinked at the light as Collier ushered him into the interview room, smoothing back his hair and rubbing his face as if he had just been wakened from a sound sleep. He gave Frost his 'always willing to help' smile. Frost stared at him, nose wrinkled with contempt as he flicked a finger to the chair. "Sit!"

   
Weaver sat, looking hurt at the inspector's tone.

   
"You're interested in photographs, aren't you?" asked Frost, snatching a photograph from the file on the table and thrusting it in Weaver's face. It was the Forensic coloured Polaroid photograph of the dead Jenny Brewer, eyes bulging, blood trickling from her nose and mouth.

   
Weaver flinched and pushed Frost's hands away. He closed his eyes and refused to look.

   
"Recognize her?" demanded Frost, barely in control of himself. "That's how we found her. Were her eyes open in terror like that when you raped the poor little cow? Seven years old, you bastard—seven years old."

   
The colour seeped from Weaver's face. He slid his chair back from the table as if trying to get as far from the photograph as possible. "You're trying to incriminate me," he shrilled. "You want a suspect, so you're framing me."

   
"Did you give her one of your green sweets first? 'Here little girl, have a sweetie while nice Uncle Charlie rapes you then chokes the bloody life out of you'?"

   
Weaver started sobbing, then leapt to his feet, sending the chair crashing back to the wall. "You framed me. You planted the body . . . you . . ." Then his eyes opened wide and his hand went to his throat, tearing open his collar. He was making deep wheezing noises as he desperately tried to suck in air. Frost sprang up and flung the door open. "Bill! Get his bloody inhaler." He looked helplessly at Collier, hoping the constable would know what to do as Weaver sank to his knees, fighting for breath. After what seemed ages, Wells returned with the inhaler. "Get him a doctor,"said Frost, "and bloody quick." He snapped a glance at Collier. "Interview terminated at 8.20."

   
"8.24," corrected Collier.

   
"What bloody difference?" snarled Frost as he stamped out.

Mullett waylaid him as he slouched back to the office. He was not going to let Frost get away this time. "You've found Jenny Brewer? Why am I always the last to know?"

   
"Sorry," mumbled Frost. "I was on my way to see you now."