Winter Frost (32 page)

   
One of the PCs stood up. "No hurry for the ambulance, Sarge. He's dead."

"No-one can blame me for this," bleated Wells, making his case to anyone who would listen. "I checked him a few minutes ago and he was all right." The banging and kicking of doors from the other cells reached a crescendo. "Shut up!" he yelled, to little effect.

   
"How could he hang himself?" asked Frost, kneeling by the body and feeling yet again for a pulse, hoping against hope that Weaver was still alive. Wells pointed. On the floor lay a coil of white nylon cord, the knotted noose at the end cut where they had removed it from Weaver"s neck.

   
"Where the hell did he get the rope from?" Wells demanded. "I searched him when you brought him in this morning, Jack—you can testify to that?"

   
"Yes," grunted Frost, bending and picking up the cord which had a beige plastic tassel at the end. It looked familiar. He frowned. Where had he seen it before? Then he remembered. Shit! The hospital. The cord on the Venetian blind in the mother's room. When he left Weaver alone, the sod must have cut off a length—there were scissors on the trolley by the bed. Bloody hell! Mullett's going to have a field day over this.

   
Frost ordered the uniformed men out of the cell and sat down on the bunk bed. "What a bloody mess!"

   
Wells sank down beside him and stared down at the body, shaking his head in disbelief. "It's all bloody Mullett's fault, sending half our manpower away to help other Divisions. We should have a proper custody officer. I'm having to do two jobs. I haven't got time to do them both properly." He looked imploringly at Frost. "There's going to be an investigation, Jack. They'll be looking for scapegoats so let's get our stories straight. I searched him—you saw me."

   
Frost lit up a cigarette. "Don't worry, Bill. If there's any blame going, I'll cop the lot." He expelled a lungful of smoke. "When did you last look in on him?"

   
"About a quarter of an hour ago."

   
"He's been dead more than a flaming quarter of an hour."

   
"Half an hour ago then," snapped Wells, hysterically. "All the jobs I have to do, I can't be expected to remember exactly when."

   
"You entered it in the log?"

   
"I haven't had time. Those flaming phones have been ring, ring, ringing non-stop."

   
"Then do it now." He flicked ash on the floor, just missing the body.

   
"He left a note," said Wells. "He says he didn't do it."

   
"A note?" Frost's head snapped up. This was the first he had heard of a suicide note. "Where?"

   
Wells pointed. "Taped to the inside of the cell door."

   
Frost slammed the door shut and there it was, stuck to the door with a strip of surgical tape, scrawled on the back of one of Weaver's mother's old hospital charts. Weaver had planned this all out in advance as he sat in that room, squeezing the hand of his dying mother. Leaving it stuck on the door, Frost leant over to read it:

   
Dearest Mother:

   
I didn't do it. They are making me out to be some kind of perverted monster. That Inspector Frost is framing me. He's bullying me to confess to something I didn't do. I am innocent, but I can't stand the shame
.

   
Goodbye mum. See you in heaven.

   
Charlie

   
"In heaven!" snorted Frost. "In bloody hell more like it. He'll be able to complain to Mullett personally when the time comes."

   
"I don't think anyone else has seen it," confided Wells. "We could get rid of it."

   
"I might fake evidence," said Frost, "but I don't throw it away. Leave it." He stood up and wearily wiped his face with his hands. "Let's break the sad news to Hornrim Harry."

Mullett, lips tight with anger, stared coldly at Frost. "You left him, unattended, in a room with scissors and cord, a man you suspected of being a child killer? You left him?"

   
"Yes," said Frost.

   
"Surely, even anyone with the minimum of common sense
—"

   "Yes," snapped Frost, biting off the end of Mullett's pointless reprimand. "I was wrong. I know I was wrong. I felt sorry for the poor sod. His mother was dying."

   
"He claims he is innocent."

   
"So did Crippen. Every murderer I've arrested has claimed to be innocent, it's par for the course."

   
Mullett waved this to one side. "I've listened to the tapes of your last interview. As he says, you bullied him. He was weeping."

   
"I bet that poor kid was weeping when he raped her."

   
Mullett glared. This was not how he expected people to accept reprimands. "A bungled, incompetent, mishandled investigation, with tragic consequences."

   
"Nothing was bungled," snapped Frost. "If the silly bastard hadn't topped himself it would have been an ongoing investigation. If we found he didn't do it—and it's a bloody big 'if'—we would have let him go."

   
"If, if, if!" countered Mullett. "A death in custody and an innocent man. The press will be down on us like a ton of bricks."

   
"Innocent my arse!" exploded Frost. "He killed that kid and dumped the body."

   
Mullett flushed angrily. "I've said all I intend to say for the moment, Frost. There will be an investigation of this death in custody and I am going to put in a strong recommendation that you be suspended from duty."

   
"Thank you very much," said Frost, scraping the chair across the carpet as he stood up. "For a moment I was terrified you'd be on my side."

   
He left Mullett glowering at the slammed door.

Police Sergeant Wells wriggled uncomfortably and ran a finger round the tight collar of the brand new shirt which was chewing into his neck. His new shoes were pinching his feet, but the scuffed, old ones would have looked incongruous against his best, newly pressed, uniform.

   
Barely half-past eight the next morning, but already Mullett had arrived with Chief Superintendent Bailey and Chief Inspector Hopley, the two senior officers from County. They had swept past the front desk and straight into Mullett's office, not bothering to acknowledge his presence. A grim-looking lot of bastards, he thought, like the prison governor and the hangman on their way to wake some poor sod up on his final morning.

   
The internal phone buzzed and he was ordered to bring in three coffees. Pre-warned by Mullett not to use chipped enamel mugs—as if he flaming well would—he put the china cups on their matching saucers and carried them into the old log cabin. The conversation stopped dead and all eyes followed him as he lifted the tray over and set it on the desk at the precise spot indicated by Mullett's finger.

   
He backed out as if leaving royalty.

   
"You are Sergeant Wells?" barked Chief Superintendent Bailey, thickset and beetle-browed, breaking the silence. "The custody sergeant?"

   
"Yes, sir," replied Wells eagerly, glad of the chance to get his story in early. "I checked him regularly. I went by the book—"

   
Bailey's hand chopped him short. "Later, Sergeant, later—we're having coffee."

   
Mullett, deeming a glower was called for, glowered Wells out of the room. He beat a hasty retreat and dashed down the corridor to Frost's office to make his report.

   
Frost leant back in his chair and surveyed the new uniform in amazement. "Very smart, Bill . . . are you on a promise tonight?" He, himself, had made no effort to dress up for the inquiry, the same shiny suit and greasy tie.

   
"The inquiry, Jack. I'd have thought you might have tarted yourself up."

   
Frost brushed ash from the front of his jacket. "If they're going to hang you, they don't give a toss if you're wearing a smart suit or not."

   
Wells moved some files and sat in the spare chair. "Bailey and Hopley are here. They look a right pair of bastards."

   
"Everyone from County are bastards," murmured Frost.

   
"We've got to get our stories straight, Jack," said Wells for the hundredth time. "I searched him—you saw me—and I checked that cell regularly."

   
"Every other second," nodded Frost. "Don't worry, it's my blood they're after, not yours. Just tell them the truth—it'll throw them off their guard."

   
Both heads turned as the office door creaked open and Morgan, looking much the worse for wear, lumbered in, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

   
"Look what the cat's sicked up!" said Frost.

   
A sheepish grin from Morgan. "Sorry I'm late, guv." A painful nod to Wells as he tottered over to his desk and shook a couple of paracetamol tablets into his hand. He swallowed them dry.

   
"Where the hell were you yesterday afternoon?" demanded the inspector.

   
Morgan frowned. Frost knew where he was. "With the search party, guv."

   
"After that? We were all looking for you."

   
"I felt rough, guv, shagged out after flogging my gut out looking for that little girl. I didn't go back to the station. I went straight to my digs, took some painkillers, then went to bed."

   
"I phoned you. I sent someone round to your place," put in Wells. "They nearly kicked the door in. No-one answered."

   
"Ah!" Morgan looked shamefaced. "I felt a bit better after a while, so I went out. Spent the night at a friend's place."

   
"A female?" asked Frost.

   
"Er . . . yes." He rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I think we overdid the drink."

   
"I think you overdid the other as well," snapped Frost. He lit up. "So you flogged your guts out looking for the girl?"

   
"Yes, guv."

   
Frost riffled through the pile of roneoed forms filled in by the search parties. "You searched that old garden shed in the hospital grounds?"

   
The DC's brow creased as he tried to remember. "Did I, guv?"

   
Frost waved the form at him. "You've ticked it to say you did."

   
"If I ticked it, then I searched it." He frowned. "What's the problem?"

   
"The problem," Frost told him, "is that the shed you thoroughly searched is where we found the girl."

   
Morgan blinked, wincing as he firmly shook his head. "No, guv, that's not possible."

   
Frost glared. "Yes, guv, it is bloody possible, because that's where I found her."

   
"Then Weaver must have put it there after I searched."

   
"That was clever of him, seeing as how he was in our custody all day."

   
"Then someone else dumped it for him."

   
"Just to oblige him? The man's a loner, he's got no friends. Don't let's beat about the bush. You ticked it off, but you didn't search it."

   
Morgan loosened his tie and flapped the front of his shirt to cool himself. "We are talking about the same place, guv—little shed, fertilizer sacks, a sort of shelf thing on the wall?"

   
"Yes."

   
"I searched it, guv," insisted Morgan. "She wasn't there."

   
"And what about when you searched it the second time?"

   
Morgan now looked embarrassed. "A second time, guv?"

   
"You were told to go back and search again." Frost waved the form. "You've ticked it to say you did."

   
Morgan's head sank. "There was no point in searching it a second time, guv. It was a tiny place, no room to hide anything. She wasn't there."

   
A derisive snort from Wells, who had been listening intently.

   
Morgan flushed. "Look, guv, I may be all sorts of a shit, but if I'm looking for a kid, then I flaming well look. I lifted the sacks, each one. She wasn't there, I swear it."

   
Frost looked hard at him, smoke dribbling from his nose. "Weaver topped himself last night, left a note saying he didn't do it and I had hounded him to death."

   
The DC leant back in the chair, mouth sagging, eyes wide open. "Bloody hell!"

   
"And now the Gestapo are here from County to carry out an official inquiry. They'll be questioning you," He pulled his desk drawer open and took out a tube of extra strong mints. "Start sucking these . . . if they smell liquor on your breath . . ."

   
Morgan put one in his mouth. "Look, guv. I searched that shed. The kid wasn't there, but if it would help you, I'll say that I bungled it and ticked off the wrong shed on the form."

   
"You're positive you searched it?"

   
"Positive, guv."

   
"Is there any way you could have missed her?"

   
"You saw the place, guv. No-one could have missed her."

   
"Human dung!" moaned Frost. He mashed out his cigarette in his ashtray. "This makes things a bit complicated." His internal phone buzzed. He waved a hand for Morgan to answer it. The summons to Mullett's office.