R. Wingfield - Winter Frost

'County knows we can't give guarantees,' said Frost. 'One more night. I've got a feeling in my water that tonight's the night.'

'No,' said Mullett firmly. 'You've had that same feeling the past three nights.'

I'll cut out one of the cars and use mine instead,' Frost offered. 'Just think of the praise you'll get from County if we pull it off…'

'And the flak I'll get if we don't…' Mullett wavered. If Frost could pull it off and he could get on the phone to the Chief Constable to modestly announce that Denton Division had done it again… 'All right, Frost. One more night… but this is the limit and if your lack of success continues, then I'm taking you off the case.' He skimmed through the wad of receipts Frost had handed over to support the claimed expenses. Some of them looked decidedly dubious. Many of the cab fare receipts seemed to be signed in the same hand although the names were different. He stared hard at Frost, but the man seemed completely unconcerned. Damn. If only he could prove it. He pulled out his pen and signed the authorization. Frost, face impassive, suppressed a sigh of relief and snatched the authorization back before Mullett could go through it more thoroughly. 'I'll get this off to County now, Super.' He had a few more receipts to slip in and a final total to alter now that Mullett had obligingly signed the covering authorization. He rose to go.

'Wait,' ordered Mullett. 'Where do we stand with the murder of the two little girls?'

'We stand nowhere,' Frost told him. 'My only suspect topped himself.'

'I am only too aware of that,' sniffed Mullett. 'The inquest is coming up next week and your job is on the line. I suggest you find yourself a more likely suspect and fast.'

A half-hearted nod from Frost. He had reached an impasse on this. No other suspects, no more clues, no helpful witnesses coming forward. You're working so hard on this one, Inspector, Vicky's mother had said, and he was doing sod all.

'And the skeleton,' reminded Mullett. 'I'm still waiting to learn his name.'

'Still working on it,' lied Frost, who had better things to do.

'My patience is wearing thin, Frost. I want a name…today… without fail…'

'Stitches come out today, guv,' announced Morgan when he returned to the office.

'They should have stitched up the flies on your trousers while they were about it,' grunted Frost.

'So I'll need time off to go to the hospital…'

Frost stared at him, light dawning in his eyes. 'The bloody hospital. Of course!'

'Guv?' frowned Morgan, puzzled.

'Mullett wants us to name that skeleton! We know the poor sod broke his ankle a couple of months before putting his leg over for the last time. Here's your starter for ten. Where do you go if you break your arm?'

'Hospital, guv.'

'Precisely, and Denton Hospital keeps records back to the year dot…' He snatched his scarf from the hook. 'Get the car out.' On the way past the incident room he yelled for Burton. 'Come on, son, we're off to Denton Hospital.'

The hospital porter, a miserable-looking man in dirty overalls, led them down endless flights of stone stairs and unlocked an olive green door. A musty smell of damp papers wafted out to greet them. He fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on. A long, narrow room, almost like a corridor, its sides lined with ceiling-high racks jam-packed with ancient files running far into the dark distance, all gradually coming into view as light after light clicked on.

'Should be down the far end somewhere,' said the porter, leading them past shelves labelled with the dates of the files they held. It was like walking back in time as the files got yellower and yellower and the years rolled further and further into the past: '80s, '70s, '60s… Frost shivered and tightened his scarf. The far reaches of the corridor were damp, cold and mildewy just like the smallholding.

'There you go,' said the porter, waving a vague hand at the 1957 section where shelves groaned under the weight of files and bundles tied with string held in fossilized knots. 'If he came here with a broken ankle and if it's been filed correctly, which doesn't always happen, you should find him amongst this little lot.' The racks of 1957 files seemed to go on and on. 1957 was a bumper year for people going to hospital.

'This could take all bloody week,' moaned Burton,

'At least,' grunted the porter. 'Turn out all the lights when you've finished.'

'A helping hand would be nice,' said Frost hopefully.

'That's what I thought when you bastards nicked me for speeding,' said the porter.

They waited until he was out of earshot, his footsteps fading in the distance. 'Find out the number of his car and nick him again,' said Frost. Ignoring the 'No Smoking' sign, he passed his cigarettes around and lit up. 'It's so bleeding damp, nothing would burn down here,' he muttered, 'but I've half a mind to give it a bleeding good try.' He pulled out a bulging file. The string broke and the contents spewed out on the floor. 'We're in for a flaming good time,' he moaned, kicking the file to one side. He nodded at an overflowing rack behind Morgan… 'What are those big green envelopes?'

Morgan pulled one out and looked inside. 'X-rays, guv.'

'Right,' said Frost. 'If he broke his ankle he'd have it X-rayed. Ignore all the other files, just get the green envelopes out.'

Frost and Burton looked through the envelopes while Morgan dragged them from the shelves. The Pile of discarded files grew higher and higher. 'Didn't people have anything better to do in 1957 than break their flaming arms and legs?' complained Frost, adding yet another file to the discard heap.

'You realize he might not have come to this hospital, guv,' said Morgan.

'If you haven't got anything helpful to say, shut up!' snarled Frost. There were very few green envelope files left and he was beginning to give up hope, when 'Bingo! This is it! Derek Femley, aged twenty-six.' He skimmed through the patient's record card.. 'Single. Address: 3a St Clement Road, Denton. Occupation, Assistant Manager.'

'Damn!' This as the tottering pile of discarded files suddenly toppled over and ancient string snapped, sending the contents all over the floor in an untidy mess. The two DCs bent to pick them up, but were restrained. 'That's what hospital porters are paid for,' Frost told them, tucking Fernley's file under his arm and marching out, deliberately neglecting to switch off all the lights.

The phone in the incident room rang. Harding from Forensic. 'Yes, Inspector, the break in the ankle of our skeleton corresponds exactly with the X-ray photograph. It's him all right.'

'Thanks,' grunted Frost. 'I'd have settled for him even if the X-ray didn't match.' He hung up and scratched his chin thoughtfully. The assistant manager of what? A shop, an office, a factory? An assistant manager goes missing and no-one reports it? Surely someone would have noticed by now that he wasn't at his desk? He took a look round the room. 'Where's Taffy?'

'He's still checking that address in St Clement Road,' said Hanlon.

'If Derek Femley opens the door to him, we're back to square one,' grunted Frost. 'And if a nubile young tart opens the door we won't see Taffy back here today.'

'And who's taking my name in vain?' Taffy had returned, his clothes smothered in dust, an ancient police file tucked under his arm. He plonked a black and white photograph in front of Frost. 'That, guv,' he said proudly, 'is Derek Fernley.' The photograph was of a man in his early twenties, arms folded, dark hair glossy with brilliantine, an over-large nose and a small, neatly trimmed moustache.

Frost studied it, then checked the photograph of the skeleton before shaking his head. 'Nothing like him, Taff. Our one hasn't got a moustache.'

'It is him,' insisted Morgan. 'I went to his old address. They couldn't help, but I found someone in the street who remembered him.'