R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

It was another chunk of chopped-off foot.

An hour and four cigarettes later, the frogmen called off their search. ‘Nothing else there, Inspector.’

‘Good,’ beamed Frost, nodding towards the debris that littered the ground. ‘Put all this stuff back where you found it, then you can go home.’

The senior frogman grinned. ‘Wouldn’t want to do your chaps out of a job.’ He made his way back to the van.

Frost kicked at a rusting petrol can. ‘So where’s the boy’s flaming bike?’ he muttered ‘He’ll be our prime suspect if we find the girl body.’ He looked out again over the lake. Jordan and Morgan had retrieved the bike from somewhere in the middle. So how did it get there? It couldn’t have been thrown that far. Of course! The flaming leaking rowing boat. There could be prints on the oars. But damn! Everyone had been using the boat. It would be smothered in prints by now, covering up the originals. A waste of time sending it to Forensic. Still, it would give the lazy sods something to do. ‘And get the boat and oars over to Forensic,’ he called.

His mobile chirped. Bill Wells from the station again. ‘The girl’s father has phoned, Jack. Wants to know the latest.’

‘Knickers,’ cursed Frost. ‘He’s bound to want to take me out and buy me a drink and I haven’t got time. I’ll go round and see him on my way back and tell him we’ve found his daughter’s bike. Get the main Incident Room ready, Bill, I’ve got one of my nasty feelings about this.’

‘You’d better tell Superintendent Mullett first. He hates to find these things out by accident.’

‘I know, I know,’ sighed Frost. ‘As soon as I get the flaming time – bits of legs, blackmail at the supermarket, missing teenagers and that bloody rape. Where’s Skinner? It’s about time that fat sod did a bit of work.’

‘He’s in with Mullett. The red light’s on we mustn’t disturb them.’

‘Red light? They’re having a love-in.’

Wells chuckled. ‘Oh – something else, Jack. The boy’s parents have returned from holiday. They’ve found your note and want to know what it’s all about.’

Frost groaned again. ‘Right, leave it to me.’ He hung off and turned to DS Arthur Hanlon, who had just arrived. ‘Job for you, Arthur. Go and see the boy’s parents. Just tell them we think he’s run away with the girl and we’ve got everyone out looking for them. Don’t tell them we’ve found Debbie’s bike. I’ll be round with that news after I’ve seen the girl’s father.’

‘Right, Jack?

‘One other thing. Do a wee for me when you get the chance – I’m busting – and do one for yourself.’

Hanlon grinned and hurried off to his car. As Frost slid into the driving seat of his own car, the flaming mobile rang yet again. It felt hot as he pressed it to his ear. It was an angry sounding DCI Skinner.

‘What’s this about the Incident Room being prepared?’ he barked.

Frost told him about the discovery of the bike. ‘Then who gave you permission to turn it into a murder inquiry?’ hissed Skinner. ‘In future you make no decisions without checking with me first and obtaining my express permission. From now on, I do the murder cases. You’re off this one. I’m taking over. Comprende?

‘Jawohl, mein herr,’ said Frost, giving a Nazi salute as he clicked off the phone. One less case for him to sod up. He was thinking about the luxury of doing a wee and having something to eat when the flaming mobile rang again.

‘Billy King!’ said Wells as soon as Frost answered.

‘Billy King?’ echoed Frost, frowning. The name rang a distant bell. His brain riffled through its data bank and came up with scraps information. ‘Tubby little sod. Didn’t I nick him years ago? House-breaking, petty larceny…’

‘That’s him,’ said Wells.

‘Then what about him?’

‘You asked me to check with the building society about that account number. It belongs to Billy King.’

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Frost happily. ‘We don’t often get luck like this. He’s used his own flaming card. The man’s a prat. I’ll put my wee on hold and pay him a visit right now.’

‘Before you do, Jack, DCI Skinner wants you to go round to the Clarks’ and break the news that we’ve found Debbie’s bike. He hasn’t got time to do it now.’

‘As long as he said “please”,’ said Frost sweetly, before ending the call and hurling obscenities into the air.

Clark glowered at him. ‘What the hell do you want, Frost? I was told you were off this case.’

‘I’m no longer in charge,’ explained Frost, ‘but Detective Chief Inspector Skinner asked me to call with the latest developments.’

‘And they are?’

‘I think I’d better come in,’ said Frost.

He followed Clark into the lounge, where Mrs Clark sat huddled in an armchair. She looked up in alarm as Frost entered. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Frost. ‘It could mean nothing. I just don’t know. We’ve found Debbie’s bike.’ He gave them the details.

‘Why was her bike thrown in the lake?’ shrieked Mrs Clark. ‘Something’s happened to her. I just know it.’

So do I, thought Frost, but he kept his face impassive. ‘There could be all sorts of reasons, Mrs Clark. She could have left the bike somewhere, someone stole it, rode off, then dumped it in the lake. That sort of thing often happens.’

‘She could be drowned in that lake.’

‘That’s the only thing we’re positive about at the moment. We’ve had the frogmen out. She isn’t in the lake, that I promise yow’

‘Then where the bloody hell is she?’ demanded Clark.

‘She could be holed up with the boy somewhere, too frightened to come home.’

‘If she is, I’ll wring that lad’s neck,’ snarled Clark.

Mrs Clark had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing convulsively. ‘She’s dead. I just know it. My little Debbie… she’s dead.’

‘We’ll find her,’ said Frost, hoping he sounded convincing. ‘Try not to worry. We’ll find her.’

Clark showed him out. ‘You’d better bloody find her,’ he snarled. ‘And if your procrastination has caused my daughter any harm, you’ll wish you’d never been born.’

Thank God that’s over, thought Frost as he climbed into his car. If we do find her body, I hope bloody Skinner is the one to break the news. So now for Billy King.

Billy King’s house was a shabby-looking, two storey property, standing all on its own on disused farmland. Parked in front of the house was a dilapidated caravan, its flaking cream and green paint showing large patches of rust, the wheels sunk deep in muddied ruts.

PC Collier watched Frost pound on the front door with the flat of his hand and rattle the letter box. They could hear sounds from inside, but no one came to the door. Frost banged again, emphasising his knocking with a couple of hefty kicks.

At last the door was opened by a squat little double-chinned man in his shirtsleeves.

‘Give us a flaming chance! Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it!’ Then recognition dawned. He poked a podgy finger at the inspector. ‘Detective Sergeant Frost! Cor, haven’t you aged?’

‘Detective Inspector,’ corrected Frost.

‘Inspector?’ gasped King incredulously. ‘They’ve never made you a flaming inspector!’ He turned to PC Collier. ‘Frost was always a scream – a pleasure being arrested by him cos he always made you laugh!’

‘Then this will make you flaming wet yourself,’ Frost told him. ‘I’ve got a warrant to search your premises.’

‘Pull the other one,’ giggled King. ‘You think I don’t know what this is all about? Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ They followed him through to a small kitchen. ‘Have you caught the sod yet?’