R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

There was a pregnant pause.

‘So what do you think?’ asked Mullett at last.

I think you are a pair of shits, thought Frost. Aloud he said, ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

‘By tomorrow morning, first thing,’ said Skinner. ‘Otherwise Mullett will have no alternative but to report this matter to County and to the Inland Revenue.’

Mullett nodded his agreement, happy that he hadn’t had to make the threat. ‘That’s all, Frost,’ he said – but to an empty chair. The office door slammed and the glass ashtray did another dance on the desk as Frost took his departure.

‘Well,’ said Mullett. ‘We handled that quite well, I thought.’

Skinner scooped up the petrol receipts.

‘Bloody well,’ he said. ‘The sod didn’t know what hit him.’

‘Skinner’s old division? Lexton?’ said Wells, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s a tip, and the Superintendent is a real right bastard.’

‘Then I’ll feel at home, won’t I?’ grunted Frost. ‘But don’t worry I’m not going to let the sods get away with it.’

Wells looked at Frost anxiously. ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, I hope?’

Frost affected surprise. ‘When do I ever do anything stupid?’

‘Every bleeding day,’ said Wells.

‘Yes… well, I meant apart from that. I’ve had a word with Joe Henderson up at County. He says all the old car-expense vouchers are filed away in the basement storeroom. He reckons it shouldn’t be too difficult for someone to sneak down there and bung them in the incinerator.’

Wells’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not going to burn them?’ he croaked. ‘Supposing you get caught?’

‘I won’t get caught,’ said Frost stubbornly. ‘An old storeroom full of ancient expense claims. It isn’t even locked.’

‘But when they realise it’s your file that’s missing, they’ll know damn well who took it.’

‘Knowing and proving are two different things. Besides, I’ll burn a couple of others as well.’

‘But what about the vouchers Skinner showed you this afternoon?’

‘They’ll be locked in Mullett’s filing cabinet. Once he’s gone home for the night it won’t take me five minutes to nick them.’

‘But jack – ’ spluttered Wells. The phone rang. He answered it and handed it to Frost. ‘Your mate Henderson from County.’

Frost took the phone and listened. His face fell. ‘The bastard. Thanks for telling me.’ He banged the phone down. ‘Skinner has requisitioned my old expenses file. It’s being sent direct to him at the hotel he’s staying at.’

Wells looked relieved. ‘Well, at least it’s stopped you from doing something stupid.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Frost sadly, ramming a cigarette in his mouth. He puffed smoke. ‘Tell you what though. I could get myself a can of petrol and burn his hotel down.’

‘At last you’re being sensible,’ said Wells.

Frost sat slumped in his office chair, making paper darts from the contents of his in-tray and hurling them in the general direction of the waste-paper bin. His aim was poor and the floor was littered with crashed aircraft. Someone tapped at the door.

‘Come in.’

Harding from Forensic entered, carrying a polythene evidence bag which he dumped on Frost’s desk. It contained the various pieces of severed foot and leg so far recovered.

'I’ve had my lunch, thanks,’ said Frost, giving it hardly a glance. Body parts were the least of his troubles.

There was a token smile from Harding, who was not a fan of Frost’s tired humour. ‘I thought you would be interested in our findings.’

‘If it’s from a medical student’s dissecting room, I’m interested. Anything else, I’m bored stiff.’

Harding shook his head. ‘If it had been smuggled out of a medical school we’d have expected evidence of preservatives. We found none.’

‘Shit,’ said Frost. ‘Are you saying we’re talking murder?’

‘Not necessarily. It could have come from an amputation and a student took it away for a joke.’

‘Terrific joke,’ moaned Frost. ‘I’m pissing myself. We don’t know for sure, so we’ve got to assume it’s murder and start looking for the rest of the bits.’

‘I can tell you this,’ Harding said. ‘It’s from a female, aged around thirty-five to forty perhaps a bit older, and whoever sawed it off had some degree of medical knowledge. The way it’s gone through the metatarsal suggests a proper bone-saw was probably used.’

‘And how long would the owner have been dead,’ asked Frost, ‘assuming she isn’t still walking around with half her foot missing, but hasn’t bothered to report it because she knows the police are bleeding useless?’

‘You’d better get the pathologist to answer that. At least a couple of weeks – possibly much more.’

Frost scratched his cheek. ‘Give it to Skinner. I’m off all murder cases from now on.’

When Harding had left, Frost resumed his half hearted paper-dart-throwing. He was dispirited and miserable – he could see no way of wriggling out of this. Lexton! A shit hole! He’d spent all his working life in Denton; he knew it like the back of his hand. He knew the people – the scumbags, the villains, everyone. He didn’t want to start from scratch in a new division and, worst of all, he hated the thought that Skinner and Mullett had put one over on him. Why had he got so smug and bloody careless with the petrol claims? He hurled a paper dart savagely at the door, narrowly missing Taffy Morgan, who had burst in waving a sheet of A4.

‘What’s all this about, Guv?’ Taffy thrust the page under Frost’s nose. It was a circular from Mullett that Morgan had prised from the notice-board. It read:

Transfer of Detective Inspector Frost

As many of you may know, Detective Inspector Frost will be transferred to Lexton division from the first of next month. It is expected that his colleagues may wish to be associated with a suitable leaving present and your donations are invited.

The donation list was headed by the entry: Supt. Mullett… ?25.

‘Twenty-five lousy quid?’ spluttered Frost. ‘Is that all the lousy four-eyed git thinks I’m worth?’ He snatched up his ballpoint pen and carefully altered the amount to read?125. ‘Let the bastard try and wriggle out of that.’

Morgan took the sheet and read it again in disbelief.

‘But you haven’t applied for a transfer, Guv?’

‘I didn’t have to, Taffy. The bastards have kindly applied for me, and they’re jumping the flaming gun.’ He pushed himself up from his chair and unhooked his scarf and mac from the coat rack. ‘I’m going out to get pissed. If anyone wants me, tell them to get stuffed.’

‘But Guv – ’ pleaded Taffy to a slammed door.

Frost had gone.

Frost stared blearily at the ashtray overflowing with squashed cigarette ends, then moved his hand ever so carefully towards the glass in front of him, which seemed to be moving in and out of focus on the table. What was the point in getting pissed? It did no bleeding good and made him feel lousy. His head was throbbing and his mouth tasted foul. Pulling an unlit cigarette from his mouth, he laid it on the beer-wet pub table, then swallowed a shot of whisky in one gulp, shuddering as the raw spirit clawed its way down his throat. The rest of the pub was a blur and a babble of over-loud voices that hammered away at his headache. His nostrils twitched. Through the smell of stale spirits and cigarette smoke came a whiff of cheap perfume.

‘All on our own, love?’

He raised his head and squinted at the out-of-focus outline of an orange-haired, over-made-up woman in a cheap fake-leather coat.

‘Happy birthday Mr President,’ she cooed, dragging up a chair and sitting next to him. ‘Buy me a drink, love?’