Winter Frost (33 page)

   
Frost stood up and tugged a couple of the worst creases out of his jacket. "Do you think it would look as if I were playing on their sympathy if I wore my George Medal?"

   
"Yes," said Wells.

   
"Then I'll be subtle. I'll say, 'I'm sorry my coat sleeve is wet, but I dropped my George Medal down the karzy and had to fish it out.' "

   
"That should win the sympathy vote," said Wells. He paused. "Best of luck, Jack."

   
"Thanks," Frost replied. "If I have to drop you in it to keep my job, you will understand, won't you?"

   
Wells tried to keep the smile on his face. He was never certain if Frost was joking or not.

The grim-faced trio sat in a row behind Mullett's mahogany desk like officers at a court martial. Frost almost expected to see a sword with the blade pointing towards him. He pulled a chair over and sat down.

   
"Please sit down," said Mullett. He introduced the other two officers and let the chief superintendent take over the questioning.

   
Bailey, a big, hard-faced man, gave Frost his long, cold, intimidating Medusa stare, a stare which had reduced many a hardened suspect to a quivering wreck, all too ready to cough the lot. Frost, who could outstare anyone, flashed back his friendly smile. "Morning."

   
Bailey nodded to Chief Inspector Hopley, who took out a notebook and began to scribble notes. "We could have done without this, Frost. We've had four deaths in custody already this year and now a fifth . . . And as it is someone who might well be innocent . . ."

   
"He was guilty," cut in Frost.

   
Bailey stared again, then continued where he left off as if Frost hadn't spoken. ". . . this is the last thing the Chief Constable wants." He pulled a pipe from his pocket, then a tobacco pouch. Slowly and deliberately he filled the pipe and lit up. Frost took the opportunity to have a cigarette himself.

   
Bailey waved the pipe at Mullett. "You don't mind, I hope?"

   
"Of course not," said Mullett, forcing a grin, his eyes watering from the pungent smoke that wafted across.

   
Bailey took the pipe from his mouth. "It was put to us that you should be immediately suspended from duty."

   
"Oh?" said Frost, looking at Mullett who quickly turned his head away and stared through the window.

   
"This damn George Medal of yours makes the whole thing high profile. The press would have a field day: 'George Medal Hero Suspended', that sort of media rubbish." He jabbed the pipe stem at Frost. "And that is something the Chief Constable definitely does not want."

   
Mullett firmly shook his head from side to side. "Neither do I."

   
"We want to use your medal to our advantage, not our disadvantage," added Bailey, shooting a glance at Mullett who had abruptly to change gear and go into a vigorous nod. "This is not an official inquiry—that will follow. This is simply a damage limitation exercise." He held out a hand to Hopley who pushed the case files over. "I've been looking at the files. This man Weaver admitted the girl had been to his house and admitted he took photographs of her?"

   
"After we'd found where he'd hidden them, yes."

   Bailey spread the photographs over the desk and pushed them around with his pipe stem. "Nude photographs but nothing really pornographic." He slipped them back in the folder. "Weaver also tried to dispose of a quantity of hard porn photographs?"

   
"That's right," nodded Frost.

   
"And that, really, is the sum total of your evidence against him—there was no forensic evidence on the body to link the girl's death to Weaver?"

   
"No, but what we had made him a prime suspect."

   
Bailey gave a non-committal grunt. "I've been listening to the tapes of your interviews. You bullied him harassed him, reduced him to tears."

   
Mullett put on his pained expression and slowly shook his head to signify his disapproval at Frost's inexcusable behaviour.

   
"I would have done the same," continued Bailey. "A kid murdered and raped—I'd have smashed the bastard's head against the wall."

   
Mullett blinked. He changed the headshake to a nod of approval, but wasn't too happy.

   
"But I'd have made sure the bastard didn't top himself," Bailey went on. "And if he left a note protesting his innocence, I'd have made damn sure it disappeared bloody quickly."

   
Mullett's nod of approval was getting weaker. Bailey was known for his unorthodox methods and it was common knowledge that many of his convictions had been secured on fitted-up evidence.

   
Frost remained silent. He could see things were swinging his way.

   
"Then we come to you leaving Weaver alone at the hospital, giving him the opportunity to get enough rope to hang himself."

   
"Inexcusable," said Mullett.

   
Bailey's head slowly swivelled to Mullett. "Very excusable, Superintendent. Weaver's mother was dying. We use Frost's compassion to counteract the charge of harassment." He swung back to Frost. "No chance she's died yet? It would help our case."

   
"She's not co-operating," said Frost. "She's still alive."

   
Bailey shrugged. "Never mind, we must build our case on the materials we've got. So, out of compassion you let him see his dying mother for a few minutes on his own, but instead of gratitude, he took advantage of your kindness. You knew you were breaking the rules but you realized how he felt, having suffered a similar loss yourself." With a grunt of satisfaction he jabbed a finger at Hopley. "Note that down, Chief Inspector, that's a terrific angle." He beamed at Mullett, whose responding beam was matching.

   
"There's the question of the finding of the girl's body," Hopley reminded him.

   
"Yes," nodded Bailey. "That's a bastard. As I understand it, the girl's body was found in a place that had already been searched while Weaver was still in custody?"

   
"Yes," agreed Frost, grimly.

   
"You've spoken to the officer involved?"

   
"Yes. He is adamant the girl wasn't there when he searched."

   
"As far as this initial inquiry is concerned, we are going to be unaware of that fact. We expect the officer concerned to change his story. We leave that to you."

   
Frost said nothing. If they thought his silence was acquiescence, that was their look-out.

   
Bailey slammed the file shut. "Right. We can keep the lid on this for a while. We won't release the suicide note until the coroner's inquest. By then, I'm hoping you will have made an arrest." He shook the dottle from his pipe into Mullett's clean, cut-glass ashtray. Frost added his cigarette end to the pile. "The Chief Constable, apparently, doesn't want to lose you, Frost. You've done very well for the Division in the past . . . a history of excellent solved cases."

   
"Thanks to teamwork," put in Mullett.

   
"Of course; under the devoted leadership and guidance of your Divisional Commander."

   
"I must have been away that day," murmured Frost. He went to stand. "If there's nothing else . . . ?"

   
"Wait," said Bailey, ordering him back in the chair. "Your recent clear-up rate isn't at all good—in fact its bloody lousy. We want it improved. We're going to return some of the men your Divisional Command kindly loaned us for the drugs bust operation, so you won't have the excuse of shortage of manpower. We want this killer of prostitutes apprehended before he carves up any more, and we want this child murder case cleared up, and damn quickly." 

   "
Right." Frost stood up again. "And if you can implicate Weaver in any way . . ."

   
"If he's guilty," replied Frost, "I'll implicate him."

Wells tapped on the door and looked in on Frost, who was scribbling on a pad. Frost nodded him to a chair. "Larry, Curly and Mo want me to do a report on your claim to have looked in on Weaver," he murmured. "How do you spell 'lying bastard'?"

   
Wells grinned. He had already been let off lightly by the investigation. "You've got a visitor. Sandy Lane from the Denton
Echo
—says it's important."

   
"Did he look as if he had any fags?"

   
"He'd just opened a fresh packet."

   
"Then show him in."

   
Sandy Lane, chief reporter for the
Echo
, bounded in, his dark blue duffel coat flapping. "It's brass monkey weather out there, Jack," he said as he tossed a cigarette over to Frost before taking one himself.

   
"If you think I'm going to break the Official Secrets Act for one lousy fag, you can think again," said Frost, accepting a light. "I never do it for less than two."

   
Lane grinned and settled down in the chair. "Jenny Brewer," he began. "The dead kid . . ."

   
"Yes." said Frost guardedly "What about her?"

   
"The whisper is that Weaver didn't do it."

   "
It's still an ongoing investigation," said Frost, "and he's still my number one suspect . . . but that is off the record."

   
Lane pulled a notebook from the duffel coat, and flipped to a page scrawled with shorthand symbols. "Does the name Henry Plummer mean anything to you?"

   
"Yes, he's a he's a nutcase. He keeps getting on to us with his vague prophecies. 'You will find the body on something green, under something blue,' so she could be anywhere in the world except the Sahara desert or the North Pole."

   
"He says he's seen her body in a dream."

   
"I saw a girl's body in a dream—she was in bed with me. I told her not to speak with her mouth full. Did I tell you the joke about the bloke getting married?"

   
"Never seen a blue one before, yes, Jack, four times. Plummer says he can describe things about the girl that never appeared in the papers."

   
"Like what?"

   
"Look, Jack, I want a story out of this. If he does lead you to the body, I want an exclusive."

   
"Like what?" repeated Frost.

   
"On her right wrist—he says she was wearing a bangle."

   
Frost stiffened. Vicky Stuart had been wearing a bangle, a fact that had not been released to the press.

   
"Is it true?" asked Lane.

   
"No comment," said Frost. "Did he say what kind of bangle—gold, silver, lucky charms that didn't bring the poor little cow any luck?"

   
"Solid plastic, green and yellow sea shells."

   
Frost slowly exhaled smoke. An exact description. Only a few people knew about it and the details had never been released. "Where is this clever bastard?"

   
"In my office."

   
"Then trot him over here."

   
He paced the office impatiently, waiting for Lane to return. He spun round as the door opened, but it wasn't the reporter. It was Detective Sergeant Authur Hanlon who handed over a small brown manila envelope. "This was in the post, Jack."

    Frost glanced at the handwritten address:

   
The Detective in Charge

   
The Jenny Brewer Investigation

  
Denton Police

   There was something small and round inside. He ripped it open and pulled out a single folded sheet of cheap, lined notepaper. The message was in the same handwriting as the envelope:

   You have made a mistake and arrested the wrong man. The body is in the shed at the back of the hospital. The button came from her dress.

   He shook out a blue button which had a short length of black thread attached. A button was missing from Jenny's dress when they found her. The postmark stated the envelope had been posted at the main Denton post office, 3.15 p.m. the previous afternoon. He showed the note to Arthur Hanlon who skimmed through it.

   
"Whoever sent this, Jack, knew where the body was before we found it."

   
"I love people who state the flaming obvious," said Frost. "Send the button over to Forensic and let's see if it matches the others—knowing my luck, it's bound to." He shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. If I'd done a murder I'd be over the bloody moon if the fuzz arrested someone else for it, I wouldn't try to clear him."

   
"A murderer with a conscience?" suggested Hanlon.

   
"A murderer with a conscience doesn't rape seven-year-olds," said Frost.

   
As Hanlon left, Bill Wells poked his head round the door. "You in the mood for a bloke with second sight, Jack?"

   
"I'm in the mood for a sex-starved sixteen-year-old with a hundred fags to spare. I wouldn't kick her out if she only had fifty."

   
"Then you're out of luck. It's Sandy Lane with that fortune-telling weirdo."

   
"Wheel them in," Frost told him. "He reckons he can find Vicky Stuart for us."

   
The tweed-suited man with Sandy Lane was in his late fifties, gaunt, and sporting a goatee beard. Frost took an instant dislike to him.