Winter Frost (41 page)

   
"Guv!" Morgan charged into the bedroom waving passport. "I've found it. The only photograph in the place."

   
Frost flipped it open. The unsmiling face of the dead woman stared back at him to confirm what they already knew. "Not the only photograph, son," said Frost, showing Morgan the portrait from the drawer. "She must have had the hots for him. It's smothered in lipstick."

   
Morgan took the photo from Frost. "I know who this is, guv."

   
"Flaming heck," said Frost. "Don't start being useful for a change. So who is he?"

   
"He's the bloke she works for . . . Ashby the dentist. He pulled my tooth out."

   
"Are you sure?"

   
"Positive, guv."

   
"Then let's go and talk to him."

   
He radioed through to the station asking them to send someone over to make the flat secure. "Some silly sod's kicked the door in," he told them.

   
The old dear opposite was hovering as they left. "We've fixed the gas leak," Frost assured her.

   
"I've just remembered," she said. "We're all electric."

   
He pretended not to hear.

The dentist had a new receptionist, a cheery little redhead with bouncing breasts and perfect white teeth. She giggled nervously at the sight of Frost's warrant card. "Mr. Ashby's with a patient right now." She nodded towards the surgery door from which the whine of a dental drill set everyone's teeth on edge. Frost winced in sympathy with the patient inside and ran his tongue round his own teeth. "If you'll take a seat," she continued, "I'll let him know as soon as he's finished."

   
They sat in the waiting area next to a stout woman and a man with a swollen jaw.

   
"I hate dentists," muttered Frost. "They give me the creeps."

   
But Morgan had eyes only for the redhead. "Did you see the size of her bristols, guv?" he whispered, but not quietly enough. The stout woman glared, moved to another seat.

   
"I bet she thought you were talking about her," said Frost, leaping to his feet as the surgery door opened and the previous patient, a pale-faced man, came unsteadily out. "Won't keep you long," he called to the woman who was indignantly muttering about people jumping the queue.

   
Ashby, the dentist, a little older and plumper than the photograph, was drying his hands on a towel while his dental nurse, a young, long-legged blonde, was disinfecting some shiny instruments before laying them out alongside the chair. The dentist's welcoming smile faded. These were not the patient's he had been expecting.

   
"Police," Frost informed him, flashing his war card.

   
The colour drained from Ashby's face. "Police What's happened?"

   
"Give us a moment, please," Frost asked the nurse waiting until she had left. "It's about your receptionist sir, Miss Stokes."

   
"Helen? What about her?"

   
"Sad news, I'm afraid. Miss Stokes was found dead last night."

   
Ashby stared at Frost, unable to take it in. "Dead? an accident?"

   
"No, sir. We believe she was murdered."

   
"Murdered? Helen? Oh my God, no."

   
"I'm afraid so, sir. When did you see her last?"

   
"Eight o'clock Friday night. We are only open for emergencies weekends, so she wasn't due back until Monday, but she didn't turn up."

   
"Didn't that surprise you?"

   
"Up to a point. We had a minor argument on Friday. She left in a huff. I thought she had decided she didn't want to work here any more."

   
"What was the argument about?"

   
Ashby shrugged. "It was all so trivial. I don't know why she got so upset. I wanted my new receptionist to do the weekend duty instead of her. Helen had done it for years with my predecessor and thought it was her right."

   
"When she didn't come in to work, didn't you check to see if she was all right?"

   
"Of course I did. We kept phoning the flat and got no reply. I popped round myself and put a note through the letter box." His eyes widened. "God, are you saying she was lying there dead, all the time?"

   
"Not in the flat, sir, no." Frost didn't elaborate. "We don't think she went back to her flat Friday night. Any idea where she might have gone?"

   
"Friday was her night for the Samaritans. She did voluntary work manning the phones."

   
"Thank you, sir. I'll probably need to talk to you again." Leaving the stunned dentist, they went back to the car.

   
"Did you get an eyeful of that dental nurse, guv?" asked Morgan as Frost slid into the passenger seat.

   
"Yes," grunted Frost. "Our dentist sure likes to have big tits around him. Poor flat-chested Helen must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Back to the station, son . . ."

Frost pinned up the photograph of dead Helen Stokes alongside the line of murdered prostitutes on the board in the murder incident room, then took his usual seat on the corner of the desk. "Spot the odd one out. We've assumed our killer only went for toms, but this one wasn't a tom. In fact she was almost too good to be true. No vices, no boyfriends, went to church on Sundays, got out of the bath to do a wee and manned the phones at the Samaritans. But she was tortured and killed like the others, so why did he pick on her?"

   
"One consistent thing about our killer," said Arthur Hanlon. "He picks his victims up late at night, very late. All the dead toms were seen working while others had jagged it in."

   
"Go on," said Frost.

   
"What I'm saying is that our killer goes out late, looking for women on their own. Now usually that means a tom. Did Helen Stokes go out late at night?"

   
"I shouldn't think so," said Frost. "She looks the sort who would be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa at half-past nine." He snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. The Samaritans! They operate twenty-four hours a day. Give them a ring, Arthur, find out what time she left them Friday night."

   
His cigarettes went the rounds as he waited for Hanlon to make the call. "Well?"

   
"She usually only stayed a couple of hours, but they were busy Friday with two of their helpers off sick. Just as she was leaving some nutter phoned threatening to do himself in and she was talking to him until well past midnight."

   
Frost heaved himself off the desk. "That's late enough for me! Let's talk to the Samaritans."

The Samaritans were housed in two rooms over an empty shop that had once sold groceries before the big supermarkets opened up in the town. Its small team of men and women were devastated to learn about Helen Stokes. At a corner desk a plumpish lady was sobbing uncontrollably, comforted by one of the male helpers. Only Mervyn Adams, the leader of the team, a twitching, worried-looking man in a grey cardigan, looking as if he could do with some counselling himself? was of any help to Frost, being the only person in the room who was actually on duty the night Helen was killed. He kept jerking his head nervously every time a phone rang, not relaxing until one of his team took the call. He removed his glasses and dabbed his eyes. "Such a loving person. I just can't believe it." He shook his head sadly. "Who could have done such a thing?"

   
Frost nodded sympathetically. "That's what we're trying to find out, Mr. Adams. What time did she leave here on Friday?"

   
"Gone one o'clock, so it was Saturday morning, actually. We were short-staffed and very busy, phones ringing constantly, so she stayed on to help us out. She was all ready to go home when she got this long, distressing call. You can't cut people short, so it was quarter past one or thereabouts, before she was able to leave."

   
"What was the call about?" asked Frost.

   
Adams was about to leap forward to answer a phone that had been ringing for some time when the wet-eyed, plump lady beat him to it. He smiled his thanks and turned back to Frost. "Everything we are told here is strictly confidential."

   
"I'm not asking for names at this stage, Mr. Adams. I'm trying to find out who murdered this sweet, loving woman you seem so concerned about." He retrieved the photograph from his mac pocket. "Would you like to see what the bastard did to her?"

   
Adams turned his head away quickly. "No thank you, Inspector. We see too much of the nasty side of life in here."

   
"You and me both," said Frost, stuffing the photograph back. "So what was the call about?"

  
"A man in the depths of despair. He'd lost his job, the mortgage company wanted to reclaim his house and his wife had walked out on him. He was near suicidal."

   
"I'd be near suicidal if I had to listen to that sort of thing all the time," sympathized Frost. "I suppose you don't get many laughs?"

   
"No," agreed Adams sadly, "not many laughs, but, sometimes, when we have been able to help some poor devil, it all seems worthwhile."

   
"My job will seem worthwhile if we can catch the bastard," said Frost. "Did she talk him out of suicide?"

   
"I don't know. He suddenly hung up."

   
"And then what?"

   
"She collected next week's duty roster, put on her coat and was ready to leave when her phone ran again. She answered it. At first she seemed frightens then annoyed. She hung up abruptly—unusual for her—and left."

   
"And what was that call about?"

   
"I don't know. I was meaning to ask when she came in again, but . . ."

   
"Could it have been a personal call?"

   
"I shouldn't think so. Helen didn't seem to get personal calls. Probably some crank."

   
"Do you get many cranks?"

   
Adams gave a sad smile and nodded. "We get more than our fair share. They are quite shocking to listen to at times, describing in graphic detail some obscene practice or some terrible crime they claim to have committed. Sick people who get their kicks from upsetting others."

   
Frost stiffened. "You get people confessing to crimes?"

   
"Yes. Mostly imaginary, of course."

   
Frost's mind raced. What if the serial killer had phoned to boast about what he had done to those toms? What if he suddenly realized he had given too much away, something that could identify him? That would have made the person who took the call a potential danger. "If you think people are confessing to a genuine crime, do you notify the police?"

   
"We have a strict code of confidentiality, Inspector. If it were learnt that someone had been arrested as a result of a call to the Samaritans—"

   
"But what if the call was from someone who had killed before and would kill again?"

   
Adams hesitated. "I don't know. Fortunately the circumstance you describe has not yet arisen. If I was sure the call was genuine and the danger was real, then I might make an anonymous phone call to the police, but I just don't know."

   
"Do you ever meet any of the people who phone you?"

   
"No."

   
Frost worried away at his scar. "Supposing, just supposing, that last call Helen took was from someone confessing to a crime. She urges him to give himself up. The caller says, 'I'm outside, come and talk to me.' Would she have gone?"

   
"At one o'clock in the morning, you do not meet complete strangers outside without telling someone. Helen was a very cautious lady. She would never have taken the risk."

   
Frost scrubbed his face with his hands. He wasn't getting anywhere, but felt he was close, very close, to something. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Adams. I might want to talk to you again."

   
As he made his way to the door, the plump lady beckoned him over. Her eyes were still puffy and red. "I'm sorry I made a fool of myself, Inspector."

   
"That's all right, love."

   
"It was just the shock. I saw Helen's car outside and thought she was here, and when they told me
—"

   
Frost stopped in his tracks. "You mean her car is still here?"

   
"Yes, it's parked in the street outside."

   
"Show me," said Frost.

It was tucked' away in the back street by a lamp post, a light grey six-year-old Mini. The doors when Frost tried them were locked. He bent to look inside. Absolutely clean, ashtrays empty and gleaming, only the driver's seat showed signs of wear, the rest almost as good as new. A lonely woman who probably had few passengers. He straightened up. "She always came here by car?"

   
"When she was on nights, she did. There's no public transport in the early hours."

   
"Thanks. You've been a great help." He turned his attention back to the Mini. No buses, so why didn't! she use the car? Was she waylaid before she could get to it? If so, she couldn't have been a random: victim of the serial killer. This area was all one-way streets and cul-de-sacs. You would have to come here deliberately. He looked around. An area mainly of shops, not many with living accommodation above, there would be few people about to see or hear anything at that hour of the morning. But just in; case, he radioed Bill Wells for men to go house-to-house in the immediate area. He also arranged for the Mini to be towed back to the station for Forensic to find their usual sod all, and waited in his car to keep an eye on it until the tow truck arrived. Just his luck for some joy-rider to pinch it before they could examine it.