Winter Frost (45 page)

   
Morgan pushed the door open, bearing two mugs of tea. He was followed in by Detective Sergeant Hanlon. Frost fished the tea-bag from his mug, took a sip and shuddered. "Cat's pee," he said.

   
"Sorry, guv," mumbled Morgan. "Making tea isn't my strong suit."

   
"Nothing done in a standing position seems to be your strong suit," said Frost. He turned to Hanlon. "What joy with Forensic?"

   
"They're still going through the house, Jack. They bagged up some clothes for examination, including the coat he was wearing in the car, but no obvious sign of any fur fibres."

   
Frost looked worried. "You sure it was the right coat?"

   
"His keys and his driving licence were in the pocket."

   
"For all we know he went back to that red-haired receptionist's flat and changed. I should have left someone watching the place."

   
"You think she's in it with him, guv?" asked Morgan.

   
"I reckon there's got to be two of them, Taff. He couldn't have carried Big Bertha's body from the car on his own, not without a fork lift truck." He took another sip from his mug before grimacing and pushing it away. His cigarettes went the rounds. "Knowing who did it is one thing—proving it can be bloody difficult." He looked up hopefully as Rawlings, the SOCO, followed by Burton, came in and dropped into a vacant chair. "This had better be good news," said Frost, "or I'll get Taffy to make you a cup of tea."

   
Rawlings waved away the offer of a cigarette. "Forensic are doing more thorough tests, but I haven't turned up anything either in the house, his clothes or his car. My guess is she was never in that Honda."

   
"I'm not interested in your guesses," moaned Frost. "If you've nothing positive to report, then lie." He turned to Hanlon. "What happened when you went to the house?"

   
"I told him we'd like him to come to the station to answer a few questions. He said he'd come tomorrow. I said now. He told me to get stuffed, so I arrested him."

   
"On suspicion of the murder of Helen Stokes?"

   
"Yes. He called us a load of incompetent fools."

   
"He knows us too well." Frost yawned. It had been a long day and it wasn't yet over. "Unless Forensic come up with something, we haven't got a lot on him; suspicion, but nothing concrete. We're going to bluff our way through this, pretend we know a lot more than we actually do." His internal phone rang. Ashby's solicitor had arrived.

Ashby, dishevelled and furious, was seated next to his solicitor, a small balding man who looked equally annoyed. "My client would have been perfectly willing to answer your questions at a reasonable time, Inspector. It's intolerable that you should drag him down here at this hour of the morning." He glanced at the sheet of paper in front of him. "I understand you wish to question him regarding the death of his late receptionist Miss Helen Stokes?"

   
"Bang on!" nodded Frost, settling himself down in the chair with his files, his cigarettes and his lighter. He checked that Burton was ready with the tape machine.

   
As soon as it was running, the solicitor said his set piece. "My client wishes to state emphatically that he knows nothing at all about the death of his employee and he resents most strongly that you have arrested him without a shred of evidence."

   
"Then let's try and clear this little misunderstanding up," beamed Frost, leaning across the table to Ashby and making great play of studying his earlier statement. "Miss Stokes was killed in the early hours of Saturday morning. You told us you went straight home Friday night, after the surgery closed, stayed in and didn't go out?"

   
"That's correct."

   
"Is it?" asked Frost, sounding surprised. He pulled another sheet of paper towards him. "So any witness saying they saw you out in your Honda in the small hours would not be telling the truth?" He had no such witness, of course and kept his fingers crossed that the solicitor wouldn't challenge this point, but to his relief Ashby swallowed the baited hook.

   
"Saw me driving? Ah, yes, now I come to think of it . . . I suffer from insomnia, Inspector, and sometimes have to get up and take a short drive in my car. I find driving aimlessly around helps me sleep."

   
Frost smiled happily. "That clears up that little point, sir. We don't like to have these discrepancies." He shuffled through the papers and pulled out a witness statement. "Now what was the date that other witness mentioned . . . ? Ah yes . . . the early hours of Tuesday morning . . ." He raised his eyebrows enquiringly. More bluff. The statement was from a householder reporting they saw nothing at all at the time the body was dumped under the fast food van.

   
"Ah . . ." said the dentist, as if suddenly remembering. "I did go out for a late night drive . . . It slipped my mind before."

   
Frost ticked the statement. "Good. We know the body was dumped between half-past midnight and half-past one Tuesday morning. Can you tell us where your aimless drive had taken you between those times?"

   
"I'm sorry, Inspector, I don't stare at the clock as I drive, I just don't know."

   
"Did you know Miss Stokes had a secret passion for you sir?"

   
Ashby blinked in amazement. "What . . . ?"

   
Frost showed him the photograph. "We found this in her bedroom . . . the red marks are lipstick. She'd been slobbering all over it. Didn't you detect any signs of a smouldering passion?"

   
"No, I did not."

   
The solicitor came to life. "I can't see where any of this is is leading, Inspector."

   
"Bear with me, sir." Back to Ashby. "I'm suggesting, sir, that Miss Stokes, with her secret passion, would have been insanely jealous if you gave your favours to someone else."

   
"I'm a happily married man," snapped Ashby.

   
"Yes, sir, but is it your wife who is keeping you happy or your new receptionist?"

   
The solicitor quickly intervened. "Are you suggesting my client is having an affair with his receptionist?"

   
Frost gave the solicitor a knowing smile. "I don't think your client will deny it, sir, especially as I caught them at it." Back to Ashby. "Did Miss Stokes catch you at it as well, sir? Did she threaten to tell your wife? Is that why she had to be silenced?"

   
"No, no, no," shouted Ashby, his fist hammering on the table for emphasis.

   
"You had motive and opportunity, sir."

   
Before the dentist could answer, the solicitor raised a hand. "Just a minute, Inspector. A purely hypothetical motive which my client has denied, and as for opportunity, being unable to state definitely where he was at a critical time is hardly proof that he committed a crime."

   
"You're right, sir," said Frost ruefully. "It's not enough, is it?" He lit up another cigarette and slowly exhaled smoke. "Let's see if we can't bolster our case up a bit." He put Sarah's file on the top of the heap and opened it up. "Now here's coincidence. Death does seem to follow your client around. He was seen with another woman earlier tonight and now she's dead!"

   
The colour drained from Ashby's face. "Jayne? Are you saying Jayne's dead? Oh my God!"

   
Frost's mind whirled. Jayne? Who the hell was Jayne? Then it clicked. She was the redhead. Clever, bloody clever. The man deserved an Oscar. "Not your receptionist sir, a prostitute . . . Sarah Hicks, fur coat and bobble hat."

   
Ashby's eyes narrowed as if he was trying to remember. "You mean that old granny? She offered me her services and I told her to leave me alone. I then went into my receptionist's flat for a quick chat."

   
"What time did you leave there, sir?"

   
"Round about half-past one."

   
Frost nodded. That agreed with the time the receptionist had told him. "And what time did you return to your house?"

   
A vague shrug. "Around a quarter to two, I suppose."

   
"That's the time I would have expected you to arrive if you had driven straight there, but in actual fact it was gone 3.30, not too long after we found the body."

   
Frowning, the solicitor looked up from his notes. "Who says my client didn't arrive home until nearly 3.30?"

   
"One of my officers, sir. Your client has been under surveillance all evening."

   
"If he was under surveillance, you will know where he was during that time."

   
Frost tried not to look uncomfortable. "Unfortunately, sir, the officer concerned was called away to another incident for a while." A tap at the door and Bill Wells came in. "Not now," hissed Frost.

   
Wells pushed a piece of paper towards the inspector and left hurriedly. Frost glanced at it. A note from Mullett, heavily underlined in red. 'Must speak to you urgently.' Damn. Was the sod still here? He crumpled the note and resumed his questioning. "So what were you doing in that missing hour and a half, Mr. Ashby?"

   
"Just driving around . . . I still wasn't tired."

   
"And where did you drive?"

   
"Round the woods, along the trunk road. I don't know for sure. You may not be willing to believe this, inspector, but I was still very upset about Helen. It's bad enough when a stranger is murdered, but when it's someone you work with, you see every day . . ." He blew his nose loudly.

   
Hearts and bleeding flowers time, thought Frost. But he was worried. He wasn't really getting anywhere. He kept hoping Forensic would come galloping to the rescue at the last minute with solid evidence to nail the bastard. He pulled out the list of dates for the earlier prostitute killings and read them to Ashby asking where he was on those nights. To each date the reply was: "I'm sorry. I don't remember."

   
"An alibi we could check would be very helpful," Frost told him.

   
"Had I known I'd need one I'd have made damn sure I got one. Prostitute killings! What else will you try to accuse me of—the Great Train Robbery?"

   
"Two people you were in contact with are now dead, sir. One of them was a prostitute. Our serial killer picks up prostitutes, and you have received two cautions for kerb-crawling, looking for prostitutes at night."

   
The solicitor glared at his client. "Kerb-crawling? You never told me about that."

   
"I didn't think it was important."

   
"Important? Of course it's important."

   
"If I could continue," said Frost, sounding almost apologetic for interrupting. "One other question. Tell me about your phone calls to the Samaritans, Mr. Ashby."

   
Ashby stared incredulously. "The Samaritans? Why on earth should I phone them?"

   
"Telling them about things you had done, and finding you were talking to your old receptionist and fearing she had recognized your voice."

   
Ashby gave a scoffing laugh. "This is really scraping the bottom of the barrel, Inspector. You're floundering. You haven't a clue and you're trying to come up with a suspect, any damn suspect. You tried to pin the murder of those kids on that poor man who hanged himself. Well, you're not going to pin this on me."

   
Frost winced inwardly but tried not to show it. Every tin-pot crook would be chucking that in his face from now on.

   
The solicitor cleared his throat. "My client has denied your accusations which you clearly have no evidence to support. I demand that he be released from custody."

   
"I'm sorry," replied Frost. "Our investigations are continuing and there will be further matters I wish to put before your client."

   
The solicitor pursed his lips angrily and zipped up his briefcase with a flourish. "Very well, Inspector. But if you hold him one second longer than the law allows without specifically charging, you will be in serious trouble."

   
"I'm rarely out of it," said Frost.

Harding from Forensic was waiting for him in the murder incident room. He wasn't smiling. "You're just pretending it's bad news, aren't you?" said Frost. "You've nailed him, haven't you?" He swilled down the dregs of cold tea on the desk, then spat it out hurriedly. He had forgotten he had dunked a cigarette end in it.

   
"Nothing on his clothes. Fibres from her fur coat adhering to the driver's window of the Honda, but nothing else."

   
"She would have leant on the car to stick her titties through the window," said Frost. "You sure you found nothing inside—a 60B bra or a pair of open crotch knickers?"

   
Harding gave a tired grin. "I wouldn't have kept it from you if we had, Inspector. I like to be frank and open."

   
"I'd prefer you to be lying and bleeding devious," said Frost. "If she got inside that car there should be bits of fur all over the seat." He had a sudden thought. "He's got a place where he usually takes them. Perhaps he's got a car vacuum cleaner. Could he have cleaned it out before he drove back home?"

   
Harding shook his head. "It would have to be a super vacuum cleaner to remove every trace, Inspector."

   
"You're bleeding useless," said Frost.

   
"We can't find what isn't there," protested Harding, "and you can take it from me, there was nothing."