R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

He walked back to his car, deaf to the questions of the waiting reporters. Then everyone's attention was diverted by the arrival of a gleaming black Rolls-Royce. Flash guns fired as Drysdale and his secretary walked into the bungalow. They flashed again when the bodies were brought out, bodies so tiny the undertaker was able to accommodate all three in a single coffin shell.

Frost drove back past the golf course, all silver and black in the moonlight. The flag on the club house was whipped out stiff and straight by the wind. No longer any sign of police with torches looking for the mother. The search had proved fruitless.

He detoured to skirt Denton Woods, a place where the mother might make for. His headlights picked out the odd small animal furtively crossing the road, but no sign of the woman. He shivered and turned up the heater. Something white caught his eye, something moving behind one of the bushes. He braked sharply, but it was only a plastic carrier bag blown by the wind.

As he turned into Bath Street he caught sight of the blue lamp outside the police station. He reversed and drove into the car-park. It would be warmer there than in his cold, empty house. He found the station a relaxing place to be in the wee, small hours when the phones were quiet, the office empty, and he could prowl around and read the contents of other people's in-trays to see what was going on. And best of all there was no Mullett to keep finding fault with everything he did.

"Nasty business with those kids," said Wells, taking the offered cigarette.

"Yes," grunted Frost. "Any tea on the go?" He was munching away at the tuna fish sandwich Wells had brought in for his own consumption. The canteen wouldn't open until five so the night shift had to fend for themselves.

Wells clicked on the wall switch with his foot. The kettle was already plugged in. "Did I tell you that Mullett's got me working here on Christmas Day again?"

"Yes, I believe you did mention it," said Frost. It was Wells's sole flaming topic of conversation these days. Frost was not really sympathetic. He always got the Christmas Day shift, but didn't mind. It was just like any other day to him with the added bonus of the absence of the Divisional Commander.

"I'm going to have it out with him," continued Wells. "I can be driven just so far." He picked up a written message. "We've had two more sightings of the missing boy one in Manchester and one in Sunderland."

"Thanks," grunted Frost gloomily, stuffing the message in his pocket. "In a couple of hours we start dragging the canals and the lakes. God knows how many dead dogs and horses we're going to turn up." He watched Wells drop a tea-bag in each of two mugs and fill them with hot water and his mind drifted back to the bungalow. "That place was spotless. The nippers were well nourished… clean… bags of toys." He sighed. "Poor cow. Better if we do find her dead. How can you carry on living knowing you've killed your own kids?"

Wells nodded sympathetically as he brought out the carton of milk. Then he stiffened. He had heard something. A car door slamming in the car-park. "That sounds like Mullett's car."

"You're just trying to frighten me," said Frost.

But it was Mullett, shiny and polished in his uniform, chin pink and smooth and freshly shaved. "I've just come from Cresswell Street."

"Ah!" Frost gave a knowing nod. Cassidy must have told the publicity-hungry Mullett that the press and TV boys were there in force with half a million quid's worth of Japanese cameras. "Get your photograph taken, did you, super?"

Mullett smoothed his moustache. "I thought it advisable to take advantage of the TV cameras to appeal for help in tracing the mother." He flashed a smug smile. "I think it went very well. It'll be shown on breakfast television."

That should put people off their cornflakes, thought Frost.

"Ah, tea!" beamed Mullett. "You must have known I was coming, sergeant." He picked up the mug Wells had poured for himself. "I'll take it with me." His smile clicked off abruptly. "And I'd like a word in my office, Frost… now!" He spun on his heels and marched up the corridor.

"He's found out about the fags," said Frost, horrified.

"Don't implicate me," called Wells. "I had nothing to do with it." He looked at the cigarette smoking in his hand and quickly stubbed it out.

But it wasn't about the cigarettes. "Sit down," began Mullett, but he was too late, as usual. Frost had already slumped into one of the visitor's chairs, putting his mug of hot tea on the polished top of Mullett's desk. Mullett hastily put a sheet of blotting paper under it.

"Cassidy seems to think these unfortunate children might not have been killed by their mother."

"Oh?" said Frost. "First I've heard about it."

"He detects strong similarities between these killings and the spate of child stabbings we've had over the past weeks."

"Stabbings?" said Frost. "The kids were asphyxiated."

"There was a stab wound on the eldest boy's upper arm."

Frost frowned. "I never spotted it."

"But Cassidy did. We're fortunate in having him, Frost, otherwise goodness knows what vital clues might be missed."

"Kids always get knocks and scratches," said Frost.

"This was definitely a stabbing wound… and the Home Office Pathologist says it was inflicted after death."

That bastard Cassidy, thought Frost. He's deliberately kept this from me. "No doubt when we find the mother she'll tell us what happened."

"If the mother was responsible. Cassidy is beginning to suspect Sidney Snell."

"Snell? Rubbish!"

"Consider the coincidences, Frost. Snell likes jabbing very young children on the arms or buttocks. This boy was jabbed in the arm. Snell likes staring in windows, watching women undress. There was a report of a man doing just that in the same street. The previous stabbing was in a bungalow by the golf course… This also was a bungalow by the golf course. Too many coincidences to be ignored."

"Snell gets his kicks from seeing little drops of blood on chubby arms and legs. He doesn't kill with pillows."

"There's always a first time for everything," retorted Mullett. "Something could have gone wrong tonight. The children all woke up and started crying. He panicked and tried to silence them with a pillow."

"And the mother?"

"Mr. Cassidy thinks she could have heard the commotion and come running in, so he had to kill her as well."

"And then he took her body away in case someone tripped over it?"

Mullett flapped away the awkward question. "We don't know the exact details."

"The mother killed her kids and did a runner," said Frost firmly. "Snell had nothing to do with it."

"I hope, for your sake, you are right," said Mullett. "I understand Cassidy wanted you to arrest Snell, but you were content to warn him off. Might I ask why?"

"We've got too much on at the moment to sod about with Snell. Let Newcastle handle him."

Mullett took a sip of his tea. "If we find that the man you couldn't be bothered to arrest then goes out and murders three innocent children, I will personally throw the book at you, Frost."

Frost gave him a sweet smile and stood up, ready to go. "I wouldn't expect anything else of you, sir."

Bill Wells could hear raised voices rolling down the corridor and was deciding whether to take a stroll past Mullett's office in the hope he could overhear what was going on. But a sudden blast of cold air that ruffled the papers on his desk made him look up. A little old woman had toddled in from the street. Frail-looking, in her eighties, she clutched a large empty shopping bag. Her feet flip-flopped across the lobby. She was wearing pink bedroom slippers with large red pom-poms.

"What's happening with the buses?" she demanded in a shrill voice. "I've been waiting ages at that bus stop for a number 6 and nothing has turned up nothing. I've got to get to the shops before they close." Wells sighed and shook his head sadly. "It's four o'clock in the morning, Ada. The buses stopped running long ago and the shops are all shut. Everyone's in bed — and that's where you should be."