R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Frost moved to the window. ‘Doesn’t seem to have been forced.’

‘Gregson said he left it open. He’d brought an Indian in and the kitchen stank of curry.’

Frost stared out through the window on to the darkened back garden, to the rear of which was a tall wooden fence.

‘He got over that fence, and through the conveniently open window,’ continued Jordan.

Frost nodded. ‘So he legs it to the kitchen. What next?’

‘Gregson goes to grab him. The bloke suddenly starts flashing a knife – that knife – ’ He pointed to the knife by the body, ‘and starts jabbing. He stabbed Gregson in the arm.’

Frost looked at the long-bladed, razor carving knife on the floor. ‘That’s a big bastard. You don’t carry that just for getting stones out of horses’ hooves.’

Jordan grinned. ‘So to defend himself, Gregson grabs a kitchen knife from the worktop and gets his jab in. The burglar slumps to the floor, Gregson dials 999. The ambulance arrived shortly after we did, confirmed he was dead and left.’

‘Where’s the knife Gregson used?’

Howe held up a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a blooded kitchen knife.

Frost went to the tap and splashed cold water on his face. His head was still thumping and his stomach churning. He wasn’t up to all this. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. It was bloody hot in here, even with the window wide open. ‘Let’s have a word with.. .’ He paused and blinked helplessly. He had forgotten the bloody bloke’s name.

‘Gregson,’ Jordan told him and led him upstairs.

Gregson – fatter, balder and older than Frost remembered him, now in his fifties – was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. He was still wearing his pyjamas, which were garish purple and bloodstained. His wrist bore a bloodstained bandage. Taffy Morgan, lolling in a chair next to him, jumped up as Frost entered. ‘Mr Gregson, Guv,’ he said, as if Frost didn’t know.

Frost pulled up the chair Morgan had vacated and slumped down in it. ‘We’ve got a dead body downstairs, Mr Gregson,’ he said.

Gregson looked up and stared at Frost. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him. I just don’t know how it happened. It was all so confused. I was dripping blood. I was just holding the knife to protect myself. He must have moved forward. I never even knew I’d stabbed him. He just looked at me, all sort of surprised, then slumped to the floor and there was blood – lots of blood.’ He shook his head as if to try and erase the memory Frost listened patiently, trying to ignore the ominous churning in his stomach. He hoped the bathroom was next door. If it was downstairs he wasn’t sure he’d make it. He suddenly realised that Gregson was looking at him, expecting an answer to an unheard question. ‘Sorry what was that again?’

‘I said what is going to happen to me?’

Life imprisonment for you and?50,000 compensation for the burglar’s family, the way our bleeding law is going, thought Frost. Aloud he said, ‘Too early to say at this stage, Mr Gregson.’ He sighed with relief as his stomach eased up a bit, then screwed up his face, trying to remember what Jordan had told him. ‘He was unplugging your video when you spotted him?’ Gregson nodded. Frost beckoned Morgan over. ‘See if you can find chummy’s car or van. It shouldn’t be too far away.’

‘His car?’

‘He’s not walking down the street in the small hours with a video recorder tucked under his arm like Anne Boleyn’s bleeding head, now is he? Even our own PC Plods might find that a mite suspicious.

‘What sort of car has he got?’ asked Morgan.

‘How the bleeding hell would I know?’ retorted Frost.

‘Then I wouldn’t know either, Guv, would I? If we knew where he lives, I could go to his house and ask.’

‘No!’ said Frost sharply. ‘If he’s married, or living with someone, we’re going to have to break the news that he’s dead and I’m not up to that at the moment.’ He could just see himself throwing up all over the bereaved. ‘Forget the car for now.’ He turned his attention back to Gregson. ‘We’re going to have to ask you to come to the station to make a statement, Mr Gregson. Put some clothes on and let the officer have your pyjamas. We’ll need them for forensic examination.’ He paused. What the hell was nagging him? The bed. Of course. It was a double bed.

‘Are you married, Mr Gregson?’

Gregson kept his head bowed. ‘Yes.’

‘And where is your wife?’

Gregson stared blankly at Frost for a while before replying. His voice was flat. ‘She left me over a month ago.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. And where is she now?’

‘I don’t know. I came home from work and there was a note on the table saying she’d left me and she wasn’t coming back. I had no idea. There was no hint… I thought we had a perfect marriage.’

Frost shook his head sadly. ‘Rotten luck. And now this…’

He told Morgan to take Gregson to the station, then trotted downstairs to join the four uniformed men who had made themselves mugs of instant coffee and were drinking, oblivious to the sprawled body on the floor. The window where the dead man had made his entrance was still wide open and the cold air was starting to clear Frost’s head. He took the offered mug of coffee. ‘Is there anything to eat in this house? I’m starving.’

Jordan looked in the fridge. ‘Yoghurts?’ he offered.

‘Sod that,’ said Frost. ‘Find some bread and make us all some toast.’

While Jordan began feeding bread into the toaster, Frost filled them in on his conversation with Gregson. ‘Probably a straightforward self-defence killing, but let’s break all my rules and be thorough for a change. I get a feeling there’s something not quite right here. He says his wife left him about a month ago – probably couldn’t stand the sight of those bleeding purple pyjamas. Anyway, check that she’s not buried in the garden. And knock up the neighbours. They might be able to throw some light on where she is.’

Simms consulted his wristwatch. ‘A bit late to be knocking people up, Inspector.’

Frost squinted at his own watch, but his alcohol-blurred vision made it impossible to read, so he nodded. ‘First thing in the morning then. And as soon as SOCO have finished, root around and try and trace where her parents live. They might know where to find her. Ah…’ This as Jordan passed round a plate of buttered toast. For a while they munched quietly. ‘Mind how you eat it,’ warned Frost. ‘I don’t want toast crumbs all over the bleeding corpse. And someone wash up afterwards, otherwise the next time he kills a burglar he won’t ask us back.’ Supersaves own brand of washing-up liquid on the window ledge reminded him he was no further forward with the bloody blackmailer. Tomorrow… tomorrow… he’d think about what to do about that tomorrow. ‘Any more of that toast left?’

Jordan was popping another load of bread in the toaster when the door crashed open. A furious-looking Detective Chief Inspector Skinner was framed in the doorway. ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’

‘Bloody hell… the filth,’ muttered Frost to himself. Aloud he said, ‘We’re just taking a meal break.’

‘A meal break? Looks more like a bloody picnic – and all round the flaming corpse. If the press got hold of this…’ He jerked his head at Frost. ‘A word, Inspector.’

Frost followed him out to the hall, like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study.

‘Thank your lucky stars you’re being transferred, otherwise I’d have had you demoted and back on the bloody beat,’ snarled Skinner.

‘I’m only here because they couldn’t find you,’ said Frost.

‘That’s no flaming excuse.’ Skinner’s nose twitched. ‘And you’re drunk.’