R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Please don’t play silly buggers,’ pleaded Frost. ‘You know bloody well what blackmail.’

She stared again. Then the light dawned. ‘You don’t think it’s me who’s been poisoning the food? You surely don’t think it’s me?’

It was Frost’s turn to look puzzled. ‘What money are we talking about, then? You paid a thousand pounds into the cashpoint last night

…’ His eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been fiddling the books?’

She bowed her head.

‘How much?’

She didn’t answer. Her body shook as she broke down and sobbed.

Frost took his handkerchief from his pocket, saw the state of it and hurriedly put it back. ‘How much?’ he repeated.

She just shook her head.

Frost turned to Taffy Morgan. ‘Wait outside for a minute.’

Morgan frowned. ‘Outside?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Frost, pointing. ‘The other side of the flaming door. Out!’

He waited until a puzzled Morgan left, then turned back to the woman. His voice softened. ‘All right, love. How much did you pinch?’

She wiped a hand over her face to dry the tears. ‘I don’t know. It’s been over years. Something like ten… fifteen thousand pounds.’

‘Can you get it back without anyone knowing?’

She blinked at him, not comprehending. ‘Put it back?’

He leant across the desk and lowered his voice. ‘Listen, love, there’s only you and me here. If you can get the money back without any one knowing, I’m prepared to forget all about it.’

She sniffed back the tears and shook her head. ‘I’ve given it all away… animal charities, Help the Aged Cancer Research…’

‘You got any savings, love, or is there anyone who would lend you the dosh?’

‘My savings!’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘They would nowhere cover that, and there’s no one who would lend me that sort of money. I couldn’t repay it anyway.’

‘Could you borrow it from a bank?’

‘With what security? I don’t own my own house. Mr Beazley does not believe in paying lavish salaries.’

Frost slumped back in the chair and shook his head sadly. ‘That, love, as we say in the trade, is a sod. I can’t help you. I’ve got to make it official.’

She rummaged in the depths of her handbag and found a ridiculously small handkerchief, which became quickly sodden as she dried her eyes. ‘What will happen to me?’

‘You’ll be charged, then, more than likely, released on bail until the trial.’

‘And will I have to go to prison?’

‘I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a distinct possibility.’

She let the handkerchief fall into the waste paper basket. ‘I couldn’t face prison. I’d rather die – I’d rather kill myself than go to prison.’

Frost kept quiet. What could he say? That it wasn’t as bad as people made out? Because it bloody well was, especially for a woman like her.

‘There’s always a chance Mr Beazley won’t press charges,’ he said. But even as he said it, he knew it was a forlorn hope. Beazley would delight in putting the poor cow through the hoop. ‘Come what may, he’s got to know, love.’

He pushed himself up from the chair, pausing on his way to the door to look out of the window at the cars, like toys, in the car park down below. The VW screamed out at him. A less unusual colour and she might have got away with it, at least for a while. Looking down at the Beetle, it once again churned up memories of early days with his young wife. If he had acted differently, or if they had had a kid… He shook away the thought, opened the door and called Morgan in. ‘Keep the lady company, Taff. I’m off to see Beazley.’

Beazley’s lower lip dropped in amazement. ‘Pinching my bloody money? Over ten thousand bleeding quid? The bitch! You try and be a good employer…’ He took an enormous cigar from his desk drawer, bit off the end which he spat in his waste bin, then lit up. ‘Well, that’s her bloody lot. The mealy-mouthed bleeding cow. Always so high and flaming mighty, and all the time she’s been sticking her grubby hands in my till.’

‘I take it you are going to press charges?’

Beazley pulled the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end. Frost noted it was still connected to his mouth by a thread of spittle, reminding him of the umbilical cord joining a space walker to his spaceship. Beazley stuck the cigar back in his mouth and let a writhing smoke ring drift lazily across the office. ‘Press charges? That won’t get my bleeding money back, will it? And giving other members of staff time off to testify in court? No bloody fear. She’s out on her arse.’ He gave a smug grin. ‘Ten thousand quid? It would have cost more than that to make the cow redundant. She’s out of here – and she can think herself bloody lucky.’ A worried frown deepened as a sudden thought struck him. He picked up his phone and stabbed a few keys. ‘If I sack someone for misconduct, can we avoid paying them their staff pension? What? Shit!! That’s a rule we’re going to have to get changed.’ He banged the phone down, then ground his cigar into his ashtray and glared at Frost. ‘Can you believe that? The bitch robs me and walks out of here with a flaming pension. Get her off my premises now. I don’t want to see her miserable face again.’

Frost pushed himself out of his chair and hurried to the door. He was doubly pleased. First, because Miss Fowler wasn’t going to prison, and second because, in all the excitement, Beazley had forgotten all about the latest withdrawal of five hundred quid.

A terrible scream interrupted his thoughts.

He dashed to the window. Six storeys down, in between the toy cars, lay a crumpled figure. People were running towards it.

There was red. Lots of red.

He sensed Beazley standing behind him, staring down in disbelief at the scene below.

Frost ran to the vacant office where he had left Miss Fowler, crashing into Morgan on the way. The DC was carrying a glass of water and seemed completely oblivious to the commotion outside. Frost barged him out of the way and flung the office door open. The room was empty. The window was wide open, the blind flapping. Behind him, Morgan was looking round the empty room, puzzled. ‘Where is she, Guv?’

‘Get an ambulance, you silly sod,’ screamed Frost. ‘Get a bloody ambulance…’

The ambulance took the body straight to the morgue.

Frost sat slumped in the passenger seat, listening to Morgan saying for the umpteenth time how sorry he was. ‘She said she felt faint, Guv. She asked for a drink of water. I had no idea – ’

‘You never leave a prisoner unattended,’ snapped Frost. ‘You should know that. Now bloody shut up!’ Why the hell am I taking it out on Taffy? he thought. If she’d told me she felt faint, I’d have done exactly the same thing. I should have warned Taffy. She said she’d rather die than go to prison. If she’d only waited a couple of minutes

…

‘I’m sorry, Guv,’ said Morgan yet again.

‘For Pete’s sake, shut up.’ Frost rammed a cigarette in his mouth. This had all the makings of another lousy day.

‘How did it go, Jack?’ asked Wells as Frost crashed through the lobby doors.

‘Don’t bleeding ask!’ he snarled.

In his office he thudded down in his chair and looked for something to hurl at the wall to give vent to his burning fury. She said she’d rather die than go to prison, so why didn’t he warn Taffy to be on his guard?

He looked up as Wells came in.

‘Morgan’s told me what happened, Jack. You can’t blame yourself.’

‘I do blame my bloody self.’ He shook a cigarette from the pack, stuck it in his mouth and passed another one over to Wells. ‘I expect there’ll be a bleeding inquiry.’