Winter Frost (53 page)

   
"Just about, guv." Morgan looked down at the man. "Who the hell is he?"

   
"He didn't say," said Frost, rubbing his own bruises. "Get the cuffs on him quick before he comes round."

   
The man, whoever he was, was out cold.. Morgan knelt down and, with an effort, rolled him over so he could lock the handcuffs behind his back. He glanced up and his eyes widened as he saw something behind Frost. "Look out, guv!"

   
Frost spun round. Eyes dimly accustomed to the dark made out the figure of the old girl charging towards them. Her arm was raised, holding something that flashed silver. A knife. The wickedly sharp, long-bladed knife she had used to dismember the chicken. She screeched and lunged, looking like the mother from Bates Motel. Frost flung himself to one side as the knife hissed through the air, missing him by a hair's breadth. Morgan leapt across to take the knife from her, then gasped with pain as she wildly jabbed and the blade slashed through the sleeve of his jacket. She raised the knife again, but Frost managed to grasp the skinny wrist and shake it from her grasp. As it thudded to the ground he kicked it well out of reach. "What are you playing at, you silly, bloody cow?"

   
She glared at them, hatred spilling from her eyes, then backed away out of the room.

   
Frost shone the torch on Morgan's arm where a sticky red stain was spreading fast over the upper sleeve of his jacket. "You all right, Taff?"

   
The DC squeezed his arm to stop the flow of blood. "Just a flesh wound, I think, guv. Nothing serious."

   
"You were right, for once," said Frost. "This wasn't a good idea." He shone the torch down and swore violently. "Oh shit!" The handcuffed man was no longer on the floor. "Where did the bastard go?"

   
They raced to the back door just in time to see a dark figure disappearing into the night.

   
"Shit," said Frost again. He leant against the wall and pulled out his packet of cigarettes.

   
"Aren't you going after him, guv?" asked Morgan.

   
"No fear," said Frost. "The bastard would kill me. He won't get far. We'll let the uniformed boys earn their keep for a change." He pulled his radio from his pocket and called the station, requesting urgent assistance. Back to Taffy. "And we'd better let the doctor look at your arm—you're dripping blood all over the lady's nice shitty floorboards." The old lady! She was in the house somewhere and she could tell them who the hairy bastard was. Then he saw Morgan's face was chalk white; he had lost a lot more blood than Frost had realized. The old girl could wait, he'd winkle her out when the area car arrived. "Come on, son." Supporting him with an arm round his waist, he sat Morgan down in a chair, then poked a cigarette in his mouth, lighting up for them both. They smoked silently as they waited.

   
The car was heard whining up the incline long before the torch beams flashed at the window.

   
"We're in here," called Frost. Simms and Jordan stumbled in, their boots and trouser legs muddied from their scrambling up the lane. Frost quickly filled them in, then steered them to the back door. "He's out there somewhere. Go out and get him."

   
"What does he look like?" asked Jordan.

   
"Like flaming King Kong only hairier. You can't mistake him, he's wearing handcuffs."

   
He watched them make their way out into the bleak, moonlit landscape wher leafless trees shivered in an icy wind, then returned to check on Morgan before going to look for the woman.

   
She was in a cold, upstairs room, lit by the flickering orange flame of a smoky oil lamp, seated in an ancient rocking chair which creaked a loose floorboard as she rocked forwards and backwards. She was humming tunelessly to herself, her vacant eyes staring at nothing. She didn't turn her head as he approached. He gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry, love. You've got to come back to the station with me. There's lots of questions to be answered, like who's that hairy sod?"

   
No reply. Just the tuneless drone and the creaking of the floorboards.

   
"I'm arresting you for assaulting a police officer," he began, reeling off the standard caution. He tailed off, leaving it unfinished. Why was he bothering? She wasn't listening and probably wouldn't understand a word if she was. "Come on, love," he urged. He gently gripped her arm. She snatched it away.

   
He had noticed a drab grey coat hanging from a nail in the passage and went down to fetch it. "Put this on, love, it's cold." She looked at him, then held out an arm like a child waiting to be dressed. He slipped the coat over her shoulders, put her arms through the sleeves, then buttoned it up. "You got a scarf?" She shook her head. He took his own off and wound it round her neck. It was freezing out there. He didn't want another prisoner to die on him.

   
Footsteps and muffled voices from downstairs. "Inspector!" called Simms. "We've got him."

   
"Coming." He dashed down the stairs. "Did he give you any trouble?"

   
"No," Simms told him. "He was huddled up by that big oak tree. He was crying."

   
Frost looked at the man, whose arms were tightly gripped by two burly policemen. His head was bowed and little of his face could be seen through the long matted beard and shoulder-length grey-streaked greasy hair. He wore shabby well-patched clothes, stiff with dirt.

   
"Who are you?" asked Frost.

   
The man didn't answer.

   
"What's your name?"

   
Slowly, the man's head came up. Tears had cut white channels through the dirt. "Boy," he said. "My name is Boy."

The area car had left, taking mother and son to the station. Frost took a torch and went for a look around the damp and musty-smelling house. He shuddered. What a place to live. Now that the woman's coat had been removed from the nail, he could see a small door under the stairs. He opened it and shone his torch inside. A filthy mattress and some dirty bedclothes. Boy's bedroom and a place he could hide on the rare occasions visitors were allowed inside the house. He must have been hiding here when Frost and Morgan had called earlier that day.

   
He closed the door firmly, extinguished the oil lamp in the kitchen and stepped outside. He paused. A flutter of wings from the henhouse, then silence. He looked at his watch. A few minutes past six. Was that all? He could have sworn it was nearer midnight. One last look at the house, then he scrunched down the cinder path to the car where Morgan was waiting.

Bill Wells was liberally squirting air freshener around the cell area. "Where did you dig those two up from, Jack? They're stinking the place out."

   
Frost grinned. "If they don't talk I'm going to threaten them with a bar of soap." He pinched out his cigarette. "Did you hear the one about the two flies on the heap of steaming horse-dung? One says to the other, 'I saw a bottle of disinfectant yesterday.' The other one says, 'Do you mind . . . I'm having my dinner.' "

   
"Yes, I have heard it," grunted Wells. "How's Morgan?"

   
"I've packed him off to Denton Hospital. He might need some stitches. Where's the old girl?"

   
"No. 1 interview room. She looks harmless enough."

   
"As long as she hasn't got a carving knife in her hand. And the bloke?"

   
"I've stuck him in a cell for now. Is he her son?"

   
"Apparently. She's been telling everyone he's dead. He smells as if he is, but she's been keeping the poor sod hidden away under the stairs." He lit up a cigarette and took Burton with him to the interview room.

The mug of tea the WPC had brought her was left cold and untouched on the table. Frost moved it out of reach in case she decided to chuck it over him in lieu of a slop bucket. "The officer you attacked. He's in hospital having stitches," he told her.

   
She stared blankly ahead. Her face registered nothing.

   
Frost puffed out a lungful of smoke and watched it weave its way up to the ceiling. "The sooner we get this over, the quicker you can go home. Is that hairy sod your son?"

   
She slowly turned her head towards him. "My son is dead."

   
"I've never been kneed in the groin by a dead man before," said Frost. "Why did you keep him hidden away all these years?"

   
Her mouth twitched a secretive smile, then she began rocking backwards and forwards in the chair, humming that same tuneless dirge, ignoring all further questions until he gave up and terminated the interview. A WPC gently took her arm and walked her back to a cell.

   
"She's off her head," said Burton.

   
Frost worried away at his scar. "She's a crafty old cow. I don't think she's as daft as she's making out." He decided to ask Bill Wells to call in the duty solicitor to sit in next time he questioned her in case it was suggested he had taken advantage of a feeble old woman who couldn't defend herself unless she had a dirty great carving knife in her hand. "Let's chat up Hairy Horace."

The man wasn't looking so wild now. He looked frightened and was watching PC Collier mop up the tea that had spilt from the mug in his violently shaking hands.

   
In the harsh light of the unshaded cell bulb his face looked more dirt-grimed, his hair more matted and straggly than before. His long, ragged coat was flapping open. Bill Wells had removed the knotted rope used as a belt in case he decided to hang himself like the previous occupant of this cell. They took him to the interview room where he sat uneasily in his chair, shrinking back as far away from Frost as possible. He flinched when Frost lit up a cigarette and cowered away from the flame of the lighter.

   
"What's your proper name?" Frost asked.

   
"Boy," he muttered. "My name is Boy." He repeated 'Boy' a few times as if he liked the sound of it. He grinned. "Boy," he said again.

   
"This is a police station. Do you know why you're here, Boy?"

   
A solemn nod.

   
"Tell me."

   
The man hung his head and shook it.

   
"You've got to tell me," insisted Frost. "It's the law."

   
Boy looked up, tears again cutting paths through the grime on his face. He wiped a running nose with the back of his hand. "If I tell you, Ma says you'll hang me."

   
Frost gawped at him. "Hang you? We stopped hanging people years ago. Why should we want to hang you?"

   
Boy stared down at the table. "I mustn't say," he mumbled.

   
"We used to hang people," said Frost, "but only if they had killed someone. Did you kill someone?"

   
The man stared at his hands and rubbed the red marks round the wrists where the cuffs had bitten. "Ma says I mustn't talk about it."

   
"Talk about what?" asked Frost, softly.

   
Boy shook his head firmly from side to side. "If I tell you, you'll hang me. I'm not going to tell you."

Beaumont, the duty solicitor, had arrived; a small fuzzy man who didn't approve of Frost. "You're charging her with assaulting a police officer?" he asked.

   
"It could be a bit more serious than that," Frost told him.

   
They went into the interview room and waited for the WPC to bring her in. She scowled suspiciously at the solicitor. "Who is he?"

   
"I'm a solicitor," said Beaumont, carefully sounding all the syllables as if speaking to a young child. "I'm here to protect your interests."

   
Her head swung round to Frost. "Get him out!"

   
"You'd better have him," said Frost. "He's free, and things are a bit more serious now. I've had a chat with Boy."

   
"Boys dead," she snapped.

   
"He told me a lot of things, but he didn't tell me that," said Frost. They settled down in the chairs. The solicitor sat next to her, then his nose twitched and he decided his best position would be at the far end of the table. He usually objected when Frost smoked, but this time was happy to see the inspector light up. Tobacco smoke was preferable to other aromas!

   
"We've spoken to Boy," Frost continued. "He's told us everything."

   
She shook her head. "He doesn't know anything, he's simple."

   
"He knows enough to tell us where you buried the body, the precise spot, exactly where we found it."

   
Her eyes narrowed. She thought for a while. "What did he say?"

   
Frost smiled sweetly. "Never mind what he told us. Let's hear your version."

   
The solicitor intervened. "I think I should have a word in private with my client before she makes any kind of a statement."

   
She glared at him with contempt. "You shut your mouth!" Back to Frost. Lips pursed, looking shrewd, she didn't seem so simple now. "His father deserted me as soon as he knew I was pregnant. I had to bring him up on my own. You didn't get any help from the government in those days, you were on your own. I had to get money any way I could."

   
"And what way was that?" asked Frost.

   
"I let men stay the night."

   
Frost looked at her through the blue haze of cigarette smoke. Wrinkled, scraggly grey hair, dirty and unwashed, it was difficult to imagine that this smelly crone was once able to get men to pay for her services. She read his thoughts. "I was quite good-looking then."