R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Ah bleeding what?’ asked Frost.

‘There was this girl, Guv… a right little cracker…’

‘With big tits?’

‘Now you come to mention it, Guv… and she had this tight sweater on.’

‘I don’t want to know how the cow was dressed. What happened after you dribbled all over her dugs?’

‘She asked if the body was Debbie Clark.’

‘And what was your negative reply?’

Morgan pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘I just said something vague.’

‘Something vague? Like “Yes it is, no bloody doubt about it”?’

‘Of course not, Guv. I just said something like…’ His voice dropped to a mumble. ‘Something like, “Yes, we believe it is.”

‘We believe it is!’ echoed Frost shrilly. ‘You gave that reply to a reporter who thought she was talking to a bona fide member of the police instead of to a stupid Welsh prat?’

‘Reporter? I didn’t know she was a reporter, Guv.’

‘Why not? Because she wasn’t carrying a Speed Graphic camera and you thought the word “Press” on her sweater was an invitation?’

Morgan shuffled his feet and put on his whipped-puppy look.

Frost sighed in exasperation. ‘In future, keep your bloody Welsh mouth shut, Taffy. Madam flaming Big Tits went straight round to the Clarks’ house and asked for a photograph of their dead daughter so she could splash it all over the front page.’

Morgan stared down at his feet. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘You don’t know how bleeding sorry you’re going to be,’ snarled Frost. ‘I’ve got to go round there now and squirm and apologise to Debbie’s mum and dad for causing them this flaming grief and get a bollocking from her loud-mouthed father. You stay here and give no more exclusive interviews to the press.’

‘You can rely on me, Guv,’ said Morgan.

‘You’re the last person I can bleeding well rely on,’ retorted Frost.

The front door crashed open as soon as his car pulled up in the drive. Clark, his face crimson with rage, bellowed at Frost. ‘You! I might have bloody guessed. Detective flaming Inefficiency. Thanks to you, my wife is in a state of collapse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frost. ‘The reporter had no business coming to you.’

‘No bloody business,’ shrieked Clark. ‘She was told by the police that they had found my daughter’s body.’

‘She made a false assumption.’

‘She said she was told by the police, and was surprised you lot hadn’t been to us first.’

‘She made a false assumption,’ insisted Frost again.

Clark slammed the front door shut behind the inspector. ‘Don’t try to bluff your way out of this. She said she was categorically told this by the police.’

‘She asked one of my colleagues, who had not yet seen the body, if it was Debbie. My colleague said, “We think so.” She knew he hadn’t seen the body so this was conjecture, not fact.’

‘This is not bloody good enough, Detective Inspector whatever your bloody name is. If he didn’t know, he should have told the reporter he didn’t know. My wife is having hysterics. Nothing I do or say can convince her that it was a police balls-up.’

‘I can only express my regrets,’ mumbled Frost, mentally disembowelling Taffy Morgan.

‘Regrets? You’re going to have cause to regret this. I’m making an issue of it. Now go and put things right with my wife.’

He stamped up the stairs, followed by Frost, and opened the door to a darkened bedroom in which Frost could dimly make out the figure of Mrs Clark lying on the bed. She shot up as the two men entered the room and screamed at her husband, ‘Get out! I don’t want you near me.’

‘The policeman in charge of the investigation is here.’ He pushed Frost forward.

Her tear-stained face crumpled as she stared at Frost. ‘You’ve come to tell me she’s dead, haven’t you? My lovely daughter… my baby… she’s dead. That woman told me…’

‘I’m not here to tell you that, Mrs Clark,’ said Frost gently. ‘We haven’t found your daughter. We are still looking.’

‘But that reporter said…’

‘We have found a body, but it is definitely not Debbie.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘This body has been dead for at least a month, Mrs Clark. There is no way it can be Debbie. I’m afraid the reporter jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

She expelled a breath and started to cry again. ‘Thank God.. . Thank God…’

Clark stepped forward. ‘Now you’ve made your pathetic apology, Inspector, I will insist you are never allowed to have any dealings with this or any other serious case again. Now get out!’ He flung the door open.

‘Why are you so keen for him to go, Harold?’ demanded his wife. ‘Are you afraid he will discover the truth about your lies?’

Frost looked at Clark. ‘What is this about, Mr Clark?’

‘Nothing. My wife isn’t well.’

‘Nothing?’ his wife screamed. ‘Nothing? He lusted after his daughter… his own daughter… did you know that?’

‘Please, Anne,’ said Clark. ‘You’re not well…’

‘You’re the one who’s not well. He threatened to kill that boy, Inspector… and he lied to you. He said he was indoors the evening Debbie went missing. He wasn’t. He was out. He was out for over an hour. Did you know that, Inspector?’

Clark grabbed Frost’s arm and steered him outside, shutting the bedroom door firmly behind them.

‘I did not go out, Inspector. My wife is not well. She has mental problems and often imagines things that haven’t happened.’

‘Are you sure they haven’t happened?’ asked Frost. ‘Lying to the police is a very serious matter.’

‘How dare you adopt that threatening tone with me?’ snapped Clark. ‘My wife’s GP is Dr Cauldwell. Check with him – he will confirm what I’ve told you. Now get out.’ He propelled Frost to the front door, pushed him outside and slammed the door shut.

‘I will bloody check,’ muttered Frost. Back in the car, his stomach rumbled to remind him that he hadn’t had his dinner yet. He hoped fish and chips would still be on by the time he got back to the station.

‘Mackerel salad!’ echoed Frost in disbelief. ‘What sort of dinner is mackerel salad?’

‘It’s all we’ve got left,’ said the woman. ‘Of course it’s all you’ve got left. No one flaming wants it.’

‘Superintendent Mullett always asks for it.’

‘I’m talking about normal people. Give me a baked-bean-and-bacon toasted sandwich.’

The Tannoy called him, so he took his sandwich down to the lobby.

‘Jordan’s brought in that tom you wanted to see,’ Wells told him.

Frost frowned: ‘What tom?’

‘Maggie Dixon. The tom who was hovering round Market Square last night.’

‘Oh, her!’ He took a bite of his sandwich. ‘That cow in the canteen said they’d only got mackerel salad.’

‘Sounds fishy to me,’ said Wells.

‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Frost, taking his sandwich and mug of tea to the Interview Room.

Maggie looked distinctly unappetising in the harsh light of day: thick lipstick and mascara and a heavily powdered face gave her an almost clown-like appearance. Her straw-blonde, bleached hair added its twopenn’orth to her unattractiveness. She was none too pleased to have been hauled in at this unearthly hour and stood, arms folded, glaring at Jordan. She transferred her glare to Frost as he entered.

‘What’s the bleeding idea, dragging me in here? I’ve got to get ready to go out and earn the rent.’

‘Won’t take long, Maggie,’ soothed Frost. ‘Sit down.’

She plonked herself down in a chair, still scowling.

‘I’m hoping you can do something for me, Maggie.’

‘I don’t give policemen freebies, you know.’