Winter Frost (35 page)

In the living-room her husband sat with his arm around her, the tears they had both held back for so long now flowing freely. Over the mantelpiece, in the original of the police poster photograph, their dead daughter smiled down at them.

   
Frost took the green plastic bracelet from his pocket. "Is this Vicky's?"

   
The mother took it, holding it in her open palm. "Yes," she nodded. "It's . . ." She couldn't bring herself to say her daughter's name. She closed her hand tightly and pressed the bracelet against a tear-stained cheek.

   
"We need it back," said Frost, gently. He had to prise open her palm to take it.

   
"Did she suffer?" asked the husband.

   
"No," lied Frost, firmly. "She didn't suffer."

   
"And will you get the man who did it?"

   
"Yes," said Frost. "That I can promise you. We'll get him."

Drysdale looked at the large clock on the tiled mortuary wall and frowned. Ten past two. He'd specifically told Frost two o'clock and couldn't start the autopsy until the inspector deigned to put in an appearance. There would be an official complaint about this.

   
A slamming of doors and the sound of raucous laughter. The pathologist's lips tightened. He didn't need to turn round when the mortuary doors opened and closed. "You've kept me waiting, Inspector."

   
"I've been breaking the news to the kid's parents," said Frost, shuffling on one of the green autopsy gowns he always felt such a fool wearing. "Not the sort of thing you can cut short." DC Morgan, who had come in with Frost, had difficulty with his gown and smiled gratefully as Drysdale's secretary helped him find the sleeves.

   
"If you're ready, at last." Drysdale pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and surveyed the body like a diner ready for his main course. Hovering at Drysdale's shoulder, the green-gowned SOCO man waited patiently, his camera at the ready. Overhead a large extractor fan whirled lazily, but didn't seem to be doing much to improve the fetid atmosphere.

   
Frost stared down at the tiled floor and let his mind wander. He'd give his flaming pension for a cigarette. He didn't want to watch the proceedings unless it was absolutely necessary. Morgan seemed to find it impossible to tear his eyes away from Drysdale's blonde secretary. Whenever she met his gaze, she flushed, bent her head and scribbled furiously in her shorthand notebook.

   
"Ah . . . !"

   
Frost looked up. Drysdale, who had been probing the girl's mouth, had extracted a sodden mess of something. "Toilet tissue . . . like the other girl . . . used as a gag."

   
"The bugger was nothing if not consistent," said Frost as the mess was dropped into a plastic jar held out by SOCO.

   
"And, like the other girl, she was raped before death but as before, he seems to have used a condom, so no chance of DNA identification."

   
The pathologist reached for a scalpel to open up the stomach. Frost turned his head away. This was the part of post-mortems he really hated. Morgan, looking green, had lost interest in the secretary and was sitting in a chair at the back, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.

   
"It would help if I had your attention, Inspector," said Drysdale peevishly. Frost raised his head. The pathologist was dropping something into a sample jar. He held it up so Frost could see. Little lumps of something brown floating in a murky liquid. "The last thing she ate very shortly before death . . . I think it is a sweet . . . a toffee or something."

   
Frost nodded grimly. The bastard always gave them a sweet to suck while they were waiting to be raped and murdered.

   
Drysdale slashed, hacked and weighed as the extractor fan proved more and more ineffective, but nothing of further importance was found. At last he was finished and was washing his hands at the sink as the mortuary attendant did his best to sew the tiny body into something more presentable. "About time they got some decent soap," complained Drysdale, scrubbing away at his nails. "My findings are as before, Inspector. Like the first girl, she was gagged, sexually abused, then manually strangled. The body then appears to have been stored in a sub-zero temperature, probably a domestic deep freeze. Date of death?" He shrugged. "The unknown storage conditions mean I can only guess. I'd say nine, ten weeks."

   
"Which is round about the time she disappeared," said Frost. He sighed. "Thanks, doc." A jerk of his head to Morgan who had recovered enough to be chatting up the secretary. They discarded the green gowns and dropped them in the bin, then hurried out of the building to suck in lungfuls of clean, cold, untainted air before climbing into the car for a smoke.

   
"Post-mortems are part of the job I hate, guv," said Morgan.

   
"It's not as much fun as frisking toms," agreed Frost, sliding into the passenger seat.

   
Morgan switched on the ignition. "That Drysdale's secretary, guv. I've got a thing about long-legged blondes. I wouldn't mind having her."

   
"I reckon she's seen enough organs to last her a lifetime," said Frost.

Back at the station he was barking out orders to the murder squad. "I want Plummer's house searched. See if there's any porno pictures of kids, or anything at all that would tie him in with Weaver. And do Weaver's place over again, see if there's anything to tie him up with Plummer." As he was leaving the incident room he remembered something else and spun round. "Vicky had been eating toffees just before she was killed . . . so see if Plummer's got any bags of sweets." No sooner out, than he was back again, telling the WPC who was manning the phones to photocopy the prostitute serial murder files and send them over to Belton Division right away. Then back yet again as he thought of something else. "Bag up all the note-paper and envelopes you find at Plummer's place and send it over to Forensic. Let's see if they can match it with that anonymous letter with the button."

   
As he scuttled back to his office, Bill Wells yelled that Plummer was demanding to know why he was being held.

   
"He's supposed to have bloody second sight, let him find out for himself. I'll talk to him in a minute."

   
His in-tray was overflowing again—more statements taken from prostitutes about weirdo clients. Nothing that looked promising. The internal phone rang. Harding from Forensic.

   
"Vicky Stuart, Inspector. Did she have a pet dog?"

   
"No." He shouldered the phone to his ear as he lit up a cigarette.

   
"Did Weaver?"

   
"No—why?"

   
"We've found hairs from a black dog on Vicky's clothing. Find the dog and we can match them."

   
"I'll do some checking." He hung up and wiggled the cigarette up and down as he thought. His hopes were raised, but the dog hairs could have come from anywhere. He buzzed for Arthur Hanlon.

   
"Arthur, you questioned Vicky's school friends when she first went missing. She used to visit their houses. Did any of them have a dog with black fur?"

   
Hanlon thought for a moment. "Two of them, Jack . . . a black and white spaniel and a black mongrel."

   
Frost showed his disappointment, but at least it would eliminate the animal hairs as a possible clue to the killer.

   
"Go to the houses, get samples of the dogs' hairs and send them over to Forensic for testing."

   
He took another long drag at the cigarette before pinching it out and yelling for Morgan to accompany him to the interview room for a cosy little chat with Plummer.

Plummer's beard was bristling with anger. "I hope you are prepared for a substantial claim for false arrest. This is absolutely intolerable."

   
Frost looked hurt. "A few questions, Mr. Plummer. I naturally assumed you'd be more than anxious to help us. After all, if it wasn't for you we might never have found her."

   
Slightly mollified, Plummer sat down. "If I can help you further . . ."

   
Frost smiled his gratitude and dragged the other chair to the table. He jerked a thumb at Morgan. "My colleague, here, sir, doesn't understand one or two things about what has happened. He's a bit slow on the uptake, I'm afraid, on account of being Welsh. Perhaps you could enlighten him?"

   
"Of course," Plummer turned enquiringly to Morgan who looked blank, not knowing what was expected of him.

   
"My colleague was puzzled how you could make a mistake with the map, Mr. Plummer. You told us your psychic powers would enable you to pinpoint the body, but you were over a mile out."

   
Plummer tugged at his beard and smiled. "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that, Inspector. I have no control over my gifts."

   
"Quite, sir," nodded Frost, "the way some people have no control over their bladder." He leant over as if sharing a confidence. "You see, sir, my colleague tends to think the worst of people. He reckons the only way you could know where the body was, would be because you dumped it there in the first place."

   
Plummer's eyes blazed. "That is both insulting and ridiculous!"

   
Frost wagged a reproving finger at Morgan. "See, you've upset the gentleman. I knew you would."

   
"Sorry," mumbled Morgan, playing up to the inspector.

   
Another smile at Plummer. "I told him, sir, that if you had killed the kid and dumped her body, you would know where it was and wouldn't have to rely on the map."

   
"Quite!" snapped Plummer.

   
"But do you know what he had the damn cheek to come back with?" asked Frost. "He said you were probably a damn good body dumper, but a bloody poor map reader."

   
Plummer's face reddened. "Are you making an accusation, Inspector?"

   
Frost's air of friendliness switched off abruptly. "You knew the body was there, didn't you? A bit hazy about directions because you probably dumped the kid when it was dark."

   
"How dare you!" Plummer's fist crashed down on the table. "I come here to help and you make these wild accusations
—
"

   "
If you didn't put her there, how did you know where to find her?"

   
"I have the gift of second sight." He stood, eyes glazed, pointing a quivering finger as if he was receiving a divine revelation. "You have recently suffered the loss of a loved one."

   
"That's right," snapped Frost. "My hamster died yesterday. Now sit down and stop sodding us about." He waited for the man to sit. 'My personal life, Mr. Plummer, is an open book, you've only got to look through the newspapers."

   
"I don't need to," the man answered. "My information comes from inside."

   
"And that's where you'll flaming well end up," fired back Frost. "You killed Vicky Stuart and then hid her body."

   
Plummer shoved his face close to Frost. "How dare you," he hissed. "You've already harried one innocent man to his death, you are not doing the same with me. The first time I saw that poor child's body was when I led you there. I am answering no more questions without the presence of a solicitor."

   
"Your privilege, sir." Frost stood and patted his papers together. "One last question—do you have a dog?"

   
Plummer's brow puckered. "Yes—why?"

   
"Would my second sight be correct in saying that it is a black dog?"

   
"Yes"

   
Frost smiled sweetly. "We found dog hairs on the child's body. They can't be from your dog because you've told us you haven't been near the body before, but just to prove your innocence, I'm arranging for samples to be collected so that we can be sure they don't match." He looked at Plummer with concern. The man's face had suddenly drained of colour. "Are you all right, sir?"

   
Plummer flapped a limp hand. "Perfectly all right, thank you." But he didn't look it.

   
"Good," said Frost. "Let's see about getting you a solicitor."

"Well?" asked Sergeant Wells as Frost swaggered across the lobby.

   
Frost smirked with satisfaction. "As guilty as hell. Sluice out Weaver's old cell and check Plummer's pockets for rope."

"What progress?" asked Mullett.Frost had been dashing in and out of the station, finding bodies, attending post-mortems, interviewing suspects, but didn't bother to keep his Divisional Commander informed. "I can't hold the press off much longer."

   
"I expect to charge Plummer this afternoon," Frost told him. "Just waiting for Forensic to report on the dog hairs." He quickly brought the superintendent up todate.

   
"Good," beamed Mullett. "This case has taken up too many man-hours already. All of this will be in your today's progress report, of course?"

   
"Of course," lied Frost emphatically. He hadn't the time to waste on this stupid paperwork.

   
"And I'm still waiting for your report for yesterday."

   
"I was working on it when you called me in, Super," plied Frost. "All these flaming interruptions, I won't have time to do it now." 

   But Mullett knew when not to listen. "On my desk half an hour please," he said, clapping the phone to his ear and punching out the number for County.