R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Piss off,’ muttered Frost. He reached in his pocket and flashed his warrant card.

‘Bloody hell!’ She shot up from the chair and yelled across to the barman. ‘Lowering the tone of the place, letting the filth in, aren’t you, Fred?’ Hitching the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, she marched to the door. The barman watched her leave, then made his way over to Frost.

‘Can’t you give some other pub a turn, Inspector Frost?’ he said. ‘You’re driving all my regulars away.’

‘Soon,’ slurred Frost. ‘Very soon, Fred, my old son. Give me another whisky and a beer.’ He produced a handful of loose change and squinted at it. ‘Have I got enough?’

The barman waved the money away. ‘If you promise to leave after I’ve served you, you can have it on the house.’ He looked up and swore softly as two uniformed policemen came in. ‘What is this? A flaming police convention?’

By concentrating hard, Frost made out the two men to be Jordan and Simms. He beckoned them over. ‘Drinks on the house, lads.’

‘No they bleeding well ain’t,’ snapped the barman as he turned to the uniformed officers. ‘Can’t you get him out of here?’

‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere, Inspector,’ said Simms, waving away the disgruntled barman.

‘How did you find me?’ Frost asked. ‘I’d never have thought anyone would look in this place.’

‘You’ve parked your car across two disabled parking spaces,’ said Jordan. ‘Someone phoned the station and complained. We recognised the registration number.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Frost, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘You go back to the station and tell them you couldn’t find me. I won’t split on you.’

Jordan shook his head. ‘We need you, Inspector. A householder’s stabbed a burglar to death.’

‘Good for him,’ slurred Frost. ‘I bet he won’t break into any more houses.’ He retrieved his wet cigarette from the table and tried unsuccessfully to light it. ‘Get Chief Inspector Fat-Guts to do it. He’s supposed to be on duty tonight.’

‘He’s driven on to County to pick up some files. It’s got to be you.’

‘Excrement!’ said Frost, chucking the cigarette away. He pushed himself up and stood unsteadily on his feet. ‘Look at me. I’m in no fit state to take on a murder case.’ He plonked heavily down in the seat again.

Simms beckoned the barman over. ‘Make some coffee. Strong and black.’

‘Coffee?’ protested Fred. ‘What do you think this is – the bleeding Ritz?’

‘Just make some flaming coffee,’ hissed Simms.

Frost lifted a hand in feeble protest. ‘Forget it, lads. Like I told you, I’m in no fit state to take on a murder inquiry.’ Then he shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Shit! When am I ever fit enough to take on a murder case? Skip the coffee. I can throw up just as well without it.’ He rose to his feet again, put his hands on the table to steady himself, then pulled his car keys from his mac pocket. ‘I’ll be all right once I’m in the car.’

Simms prised the keys firmly from his hand. ‘You’re coming with us, Inspector. There’s no way you’re getting behind a steering wheel tonight.’

He sat in the back of the area car, being jolted from side to side as it sped through the darkened streets. He had the window down, letting the slap of cold air try to clear his aching head.

‘I hear you’re being transferred to Lexton, Inspector,’ said Jordan as they slowed down for traffic lights.

‘Good news travels fast,’ grunted Frost.

‘The lads are up in arms about it. What’s that all about?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ replied Frost, wishing the pounding in his head would ease up. ‘It would involve calling my superior officers fat, stinking, shiny, conniving bastards, and as you know, I don’t make comments like that about our beloved superintendent and his fat-gutted side kick.’

‘We’ll miss you, Inspector,’ said Simms.

‘I haven’t gone yet,’ Frost reminded him.

The traffic lights changed and the car sped on its way. Street lights blurred as the car raced through a shopping area, then more darkness as they turned down a side street, slowing to a stop outside a detached house with all lights blazing. Another police car and a Citroen estate were parked outside.

PC Collier opened the front door. ‘The doctor’s here,’ he told them.

‘Why? Is someone sick?’ grunted Frost, following Collier down the hall into the kitchen, where PC Howe and Dr Mackenzie, the duty police surgeon, were looking down at the sprawled body of a man wearing dark ski goggles lying face-down on the floor. An open window above the sink made the curtains flap. The carpet around the body was wet with blood. At its side was a long-bladed knife, also stained with blood.

Mackenzie looked up as Frost came in. ‘Dead,’ he announced. He sniffed. ‘You smell lovely, Jack. You didn’t bring a bottle with you, by any chance?’

Frost grinned and bent down to lift the head of the corpse and pull back the goggles so he could see the face with its expression of open-eyed surprise. Frowning, he straightened up. ‘I know this sod.’

‘You should do, Inspector,’ said Howe. ‘Ronnie Knox, burglary robbery GBH. Came out of the nick after doing a three-year stretch last March. You sent him down.’

‘Rumour had it he’d got a job and was going straight,’ said Frost.

‘You shouldn’t believe rumours, Inspector,’ said Simms.

Frost leant his head against the cool wall and half closed his eyes. The bloody headache kept pounding away relentlessly, like a bass beat at a disco ‘All right. So what happened?’

Mackenzie held up a hand. ‘I’m not interested in what happened, Jack. I’ll read all about it in the papers. I’m tired and I’ve got patients to kill tomorrow.’ He took a chit from his bag. ‘Just sign so I can claim my fee, then I’ll be off.’

Frost took the form and the proffered pen and tried to focus on the details. He squinted at the time entered on the form, then at his wristwatch.

‘You’ve put the wrong time down. It’s half past eleven, not five past midnight.’

‘I get paid an extra ten quid if I’m called out after midnight,’ said the doctor.

Frost scrawled his signature and handed the chit back. ‘You can get in trouble for making false claims, Doc.’

‘Only if you’re caught,’ said Mackenzie, zipping up his case.

‘That must have been where I went wrong,’ said Frost bitterly.

The door closed behind the doctor and Frost again asked for details.

‘The householder is a bloke called Gregson – John Gregson,’ said Jordan.

Frost frowned, then stopped frowning because it made his headache worse. ‘Hold on a minute. Gregson?’ His memory raced through the data base in his brain. ‘Little fat bloke, bald head? He’s got form – robbery with violence. I put him away five years ago. An ex-burglar is burgled. Poetic justice.’ He nodded to Jordan. ‘Carry on, son.’

‘He’s asleep in bed,’ continued Jordan, ‘when he hears a noise from the lounge. He creeps downstairs, clicks on the light and there’s this bloke in goggles unplugging his video recorder.’

‘Show me the lounge.’

‘Through here,’ said Jordan, leading Frost out of the kitchen and into a room leading off the hall. The heavy curtains in the lounge were drawn and a video recorder with trailing leads was on the carpet in front of the TV set. Frost gave the room a cursory glance, which didn’t seem to provide him with any flashes of inspiration, so he returned with Jordan to the kitchen.

‘Carry on, son.’

‘Goggle man barges past him and makes for the kitchen, to get out through that window – the way he got in.’