Winter Frost (40 page)

   
The photograph showed two girls in their twenties, both wearing bathing costumes. One of the girls, dark-haired, bearing a strong resemblance to the woman facing Frost, had her arm linked round a ravishing long-legged blonde whose two-piece skimpy bathing costume was a mite too tight for Frost's comfort. A really sexy cow if ever he saw one. They were both grinning excitedly at the camera.

   
"That's my mum." She pointed to the dark-haired girl. "Taken a long time ago, of course. The other one is Nell Aldridge, the one I was telling you about. My dad took the photo—I think he fancied Nell."

   
"I fancy your mum," lied Frost, still staring at the blonde who simply oozed sex.

   
"Just behind them," continued the girl, pointing to the fence they were leaning against, "you can see her garden. That's where she used to sunbathe topless."

   
"Disgusting," said Frost, mentally stripping away the top of the swimsuit. "Can I keep this?"

   
She nodded. "I'd like it back, though."

   
"If you find any more," he told her, "bring them in. I don't care how rude they are, I'll steel myself to look at them."

   
He showed her out and watched for some time as her waggling bottom made its way across the road. "She couldn't keep her hands off me," he told Bill Wells as he cut through the lobby to his office. "I had to give her a quick one to calm her down."

   
A note in his in-tray from Mullett reminded him, with heavy underlining, that the promised progress report was very much overdue. He found the photograph more interesting than the memo. That blonde would have had more trouble beating off men than the poor cow whose post-mortem he was about to attend. He slipped the print in the file, then pulled it out again. Something he'd vaguely noticed. In the background, behind the two women, could be seen the spire of a church. It had to be St Aidan's, it was the only one in the neighbourhood . . . He rummaged in his drawer and found a street map. Yes—he was right. The fence the two girls were leaning against would have to be at the rear of the mother's house, not to one side. Nelly didn't live in Nelson Road, but in the road running parallel to it.

   
As he was unsuccessfully trying to refold the map, Morgan bounced in, all bright and breezy, a folded
Daily Mirror
poking from the pocket of his tweed overcoat. "Sorry I'm late, guv . . . the damn car wouldn't start."

   
Frost cut him short. "I use that excuse myself, Taffy, so I know it's a bleeding lie." He picked up the photograph. "What do you want first—the good news or the bad news?" 

   "The good news, please, guv."

   
Frost handed him the photograph. "If you had your choice, which of these two would you pick?"

   
Morgan moved over to the window so he could study it better. "No contest, guv—the blonde. I wouldn't say no to the other one, but just look at the blonde, those legs . . . that flat belly!"

   
"Did you notice," said Frost, "how tight her swimsuit is? How her lusty young nipples, full and firm like ripe wild cherries, are trying to fight their way through the thin fabric of her bra, how they are aching for the soothing, but rough rasp of a gentleman's thumb?"

   
"Pack it in, guv," croaked Morgan. "You know how responsive I am to that sort of talk. Who is she?"

   
"She's your next job, Taff. I want you to find her."

   
A broad grin. "You're on, guv!"

   
"Now for the bad news," said Frost. "That photograph was taken some fifty years ago. If she's not dead and buried, she will now be wrinkled, hairy in all the wrong places and stinking erotically of thermal knickers and wintergreen."

   
Morgan's face fell. "Oh!"

   
"You've been checking the wrong street, Taff. Old mother Aldridge's house was in the next street."

   
"There's no next street, guv—just a through road and an estate."

   
"That estate's only been up thirty years, they must have demolished the old street to erect it. There's some ancient street maps in the basement store room, go and dig them out."

   
"Can it wait until I've had some breakfast?" pleaded Morgan.

   
"No, it can't. We've already waited fifty years. And hurry—I've got a date with a naked woman." As the constable's eyes lit up, he added, "She's dead and on a mortuary slab—so chop, chop."

   
He was putting on his mac, ready to go, when Morgan returned smothered in cobwebs and dust from the basement store room and holding a yellowing map, its folds reinforced with brown sticky tape. "Give it here, son." Frost spread it out over his desk top. "Where's Nelson Street . . . ah, yes. And look, there was a street running parallel . . . Beresford Street—that's where the girl with the wild cherry nipples lived. Back to the town hall, son." He checked his watch. Ten minutes to nine. He was going to be late for the post-mortem.

Frost dragged the green gown over his mac and scarf. It was like the North flaming Pole in the autopsy room and he had to keep warm somehow. Drysdale, hovering over the body, scalpel poised, stared pointedly at the clock on the wall. "I've been waiting for you Inspector."

   
"Sorry," muttered Frost, "damn car wouldn't start." The body on the slab looked even less appealing than the night before, the bruises, weals and burns standing out in stark relief against the pallor of the white flesh.

   
"I take it we still don't have a name?" Drysdale asked.

   
Frost shook his head.

   
A deep dramatic sigh as if this was only to be expected with someone like Frost. "Right, let's see if we can uncover any points that the good Dr McKenzie overlooked." He turned to his secretary. "Autopsy on an unknown woman aged between thirty-six and forty-two years." The blonde's pen flew across the page of her shorthand notebook. Drysdale didn't believe in tape recorders ever since one let him down and details of a lengthy autopsy were lost.

   
As the pathologist droned away with initial findings that the inspector thought almost too obvious to mention, Frost's mind drifted on to other things, although his autopilot was ready to switch him back to full alert should anything of interest come up. He was suddenly switched back. Everyone was looking at him as if expecting an answer.

   
"Sorry, doc, what was that?"

   
"I asked if Dr McKenzie told you that this woman I was a virgin before she was assaulted?"

   
Frost gaped. "A virgin?"

   
"No doubt about it. You had her down as a prostitute?"

   
Frost just stared, open-mouthed. "Bloody hell, doc. I didn't think there were any virgins left in Denton—present company excepted, of course." He winked at the blonde secretary who was blushing fiercely. "Are you sure, doc?"

   
"I am. Perhaps you'd like to call in Dr McKenzie for a second opinion?"

   
Frost shook his head, his mind in a whirl. They had put the killer down as a kerb-crawler, picking up toms. This required a radical rethink. No wonder she didn't look like a prostitute. Poor cow, what a lousy bleeding way to have your first sexual experience.

   
"Violent penetration, bruising, bleeding, but no trace of semen," continued Drysdale.

   
Frost's gloom suddenly lifted. This was the odd one out, the victim that could lead them to the serial killer. The important thing now was to find out who she was. A dig in the back made him turn and there was Morgan, grinning all over his face.

   
"I've come straight from the town hall, guv . . . I've I found that address." He tailed off as he spotted the; blonde secretary and flicked her a wink. She reddened once more and pretended not to notice. "I couldn't' half give her one, guv."

   
"What for? She's got thousands pickled in jars. What have you found out?"

   
"Not a lot. She used to live at 44 Beresford Street.That almost backs on to the house where we found' the skeleton."

   
"So where does she live now?"

   
"Can't tell, guv, vanished without a trace. She could be dead."

   
"Then check with the Registrar of Births and Deaths, and you can check if she ever registered the death of her son."

   
"Do you mind not holding private conversations while I'm performing an autopsy?" said Drysdale peevishly.

   
"Sorry, doc." Back to Morgan. "On your way, son."

   
But Morgan was staring at the body on the slab. "Is that your unknown victim, guv?"

   
"Yes "

   
Morgan stared again. "I know her, guv. I'm sure I know her."

   
"You can't know her," said Frost impatiently. "She's a virgin."

   
"I've seen her, guv, and recently." Morgan scratched his head in thought.

   
"I've asked you for silence," snapped Drysdale.

   
"Sorry, doc," said Frost. "My colleague here thinks he can identify the body."

   
Morgan moved forward for a closer look. He peered at the face. "She's the spitting image of the receptionist from the dentist's when I went for the abscess injection."

   
Frost frowned. This didn't seem likely. "Are you sure?"

   
"It could be her, but she was wearing glasses." 

   "Glasses?" Drysdale bent closer to look at the nose. "She did wear glasses—there's an indentation across the bridge."

   "All right," said Frost, still not impressed. "Phone the dentist and ask if their receptionist is alive or dead on an autopsy table, and let me know either way."

   
"Will do, guv," said Morgan, giving the blonde another broad wink before trotting away.

   
"A dental receptionist?" mused Drysdale, picking up a scalpel.

   
"Don't get too excited, doc," Frost told him. "He's not as reliable as I am."

   
"I wouldn't have thought that possible," said Drysdale as he drew a red line with the scalpel across the stomach.

   
They both looked up as the swing doors crashed open and Morgan bounded back in, clasping his hands over his head sounding the 'Ta-ra' of a fanfare.

   
"No luck?" asked Frost.

   
Morgan smirked. "She hasn't been in to work since Friday. They've phoned her flat but got no reply."

   
"And no-one's been round to see what's up, or has reported her missing?"

   
"She had a row with her boss, so they assumed she'd walked out on the job."

   
"All right," said Frost. "Then let's pay her a visit. If she opens the door, you can think of an excuse."

The name on the neatly typed card pinned to the front door of the flat read 'Helen Stokes'. On the step were three bottles of semi-skimmed milk. "You could be right, Taffy," said Frost grimly as he hammered on the door with the flat of his hand, knowing that no-one was going to answer.

   
The door to the flat opposite opened and a bird-like old dear stuck her head out. "I think she must be away. I haven't seen her for the past few days. Can I help?"

   
"Gas Board," said Frost. "Report of a smell of gas." He sniffed. "Cor, it's strong! Better keep your door shut, love." The door slammed shut.

   
None of Frost's skeleton keys worked, so he stood back as Morgan kicked the door in. They stepped inside, Frost stooping to pick up the two letters on the door mat: a credit card statement and an envelope without a stamp. The flap wasn't stuck down so he thumbed it open and peeped inside. A scribbled note from the Ashby Dental Practice saying: "Concerned you did not come to work today. Please phone." He couldn't read the signature.

   
A tiny flat. The curtains were tightly drawn, pulled them open, letting in the morning sun. same cold, chilling atmosphere that Frost had felt so many times before, almost as if the place knew that its occupant was dead. A quick nose around kitchen, bathroom, tiny lounge and bedroom. The place had a clinical feel as if its owner had left no mark behind. Frost flopped down on the settee and lit up, treating the dark grey carpeting to the first shower of ash in its life.

   
"Look around, son. See if you can find a photograph." He should have brought a Polaroid of the woman in the mortuary to show the old dear in the flat opposite, but hadn't thought of it. He soon got fed up watching Morgan grubbing through drawers and cupboards, so pushed himself up and wandered around aimlessly, not really knowing what he was looking for.

   
A thick winter coat was hanging in the hall. He went through the pockets. A petrol receipt, but nothing: else. The front door had been fitted with a strong security chain and there were smoke alarms on walls of every room. A cautious woman.

   
He wandered back into the lounge where Morgon on his knees, was going through the contents of drawer he had tipped out on to the carpet. "It doesn't look as if she ever had her photo taken, guv."

   
"It's the pretty ones who have lots of photos," said Frost as he walked into the cell-like bedroom, it's single bed made with almost military precision, a thick sensible winceyette nightdress neatly folded on the pillow. He sat on the bed, probably the first man ever to do so, and pulled open the drawer of the dark oak bedside cabinet. Handkerchiefs, spare glasses, and right at the bottom a photograph, the smiling face of a dark moustached man in his mid-thirties. There was something reddish across the surface. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Lipstick.