R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘I’m bloody not,’ retorted Frost hotly, but he was conscious this lacked conviction as he was slurring his words and swaying slightly. He grabbed the door handle for support.

‘Go home,’ ordered Skinner. ‘You’re off this bloody case. I’ll take this up again with you tomorrow.’

Frost sat huddled in the back seat of the area car as Jordan drove him home. A thousand thoughts were spinning round his head, but he couldn’t focus on any of them. There was something wrong, something nagging, and he couldn’t think what it was. ‘Pull over, son. Stop for a while. I want to have a think.’

Jordan slid the car into a side street and switched off the engine. He took the offered cigarette.

For a while they smoked, Frost’s eyes half closed as he went over the events of the burglary. Then he said, ‘I think I want to have a word with Gregson again, son. Take me hack to the station.’

‘Skinner ordered me to take you straight home, Inspector,’ said Jordan.

‘So who are you going to obey?’ asked Frost. ‘A fat-bellied sober chief inspector or a drunken sod like me?’

Jordan drove him to the station.

As he sat opposite Gregson in the Interview Room, he suddenly realised how dead tired he was. He stifled a yawn. ‘A couple of things about this killing bother me,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you can clear them up.’ He shook a cigarette from the packet and offered one to Gregson, who declined with a wave of his hand. ‘Ronnie Knox,’ mused Frost as he lit up. ‘He was a classy villain.’ He shook out the match and dropped it in the ashtray, then looked up and beamed at Gregson. ‘You used to do a spot of burglary yourself, didn’t you? Not in Ronnie’s class, of course.’

Gregson’s head came up with a jolt as he vaguely recognised Frost. He pointed a querying finger.

‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘It was me who sent you down. I collared you and Ronnie. What about that for a coincidence?’

‘I remember you now,’ said Gregson. ‘It was a long time ago. I learnt my lesson in jail and packed it in when I came out. Besides, I was getting too fat to climb through kitchen windows.’

Frost gave an understanding nod. ‘But Ronnie kept himself in good nick. Like I said, he had class. He used to stake out these posh houses – usually when the owners were away – went in for jewellery, objets d’art, that sort of thing, not tuppence-ha’penny video recorders. And out of all the houses with rich pickings he could have chosen, why did he pick – if you’ll pardon the expression – your shit hole of a place?’

‘We used to look for easy access,’ said Gregson. ‘Like I told the other bloke, I’d left the window open – I guess it was an open invitation.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Frost knowingly. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But there’s one other thing. That dirty great knife he brought with him. It was far too big for his pockets and he’d need both hands free to climb over your fence, so where did he put it?’

‘I expect he stuck it in the waistband of his trousers,’ suggested Gregson.

‘Flaming hell, no,’ said Frost. ‘Climbing the fence with that stuck down his trousers – he’d have cut his flaming dick off. And how the hell would he know your window was open? He couldn’t have seen it until he climbed the fence.’

Gregson shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And another thing,’ continued Frost. ‘You said you switched on the light and found him unplugging your clapped-out video recorder? With the lights out and those heavy curtains drawn, it would have been pitch dark in there – and he didn’t have a torch.’ His headache started playing up again – he was wishing he hadn’t started all this. It was Fatso Skinner’s case anyway. ‘If he climbed over your fence, we’ll find wood fibres on his clothes, but I’ve got one of my funny feelings we won’t find any. And once we trace your wife, I reckon she’ll tell us that the knife Ronnie was supposed to have brought with him was in the house all the time – which would rather shoot your burglar story right up the arse. Might save us all a lot of time if you told us the truth, don’t you think?’

Gregson buried his head in his hands. ‘My wife… she left me for him.’

‘What, for Ronnie Knox?’

Gregson nodded. ‘He came round here to collect her things. They were going away together to Spain. He taunted me. The bastard taunted me. I lost my temper. The knife was on the worktop.’

‘You killed him, then made out he’d broken in?’ said Frost.

‘I found an old pair of ski goggles of mine and put them on him. Then I slashed my arm with the knife, put his dabs on it and left it near the body.’

‘You didn’t stand a bleeding chance of getting away with it,’ said Frost. ‘As soon as we talked to your wife she’d have blown your story sky high.’

‘A wife can’t testify against her husband,’ said Gregson.

Frost gave a scoffing laugh. ‘If you believe that, you’re a bigger prat than I thought.’

‘What the bleeding hell is going on here, Frost?’ Skinner, his face brick-red with rage, had crashed into the Interview Room.

‘There were a couple of points – ’ began Frost, but Skinner wouldn’t let him finish.

‘Sod your couple of points. I told you to go home. This is my case. Now go… now…’

Frost waved goodbye as the area car drove away, then staggered into the house, dead tired. The little red light on his answerphone was flashing. He pressed the ‘Play Message’ button. A voice he didn’t recognise. A shrill, angry voice. A woman’s voice. ‘You rotten, lousy, stinking bastard.’ He shook his head as he clicked it off. Too tired to worry about it, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

He had been asleep barely an hour when he woke with a start. That woman on his answer phone. Of course! Of bloody course! It was Carol, the big-breasted, roly-poly pathologist. His date. He had forgotten all about her. Sod, sod, and double sod. He groaned as he drifted back into a troubled sleep to dream fitfully of consummation with the naked pathologist, all warm and steaming, big-breasted and hungry-mouthed, hands exploring… A moment of bliss, shattered when bleeding Skinner burst in at the moment of penetration, waving those flaming forged car expenses… The alarm woke him.

‘You look bloody rough, Jack,’ grinned Wells as Frost made his pale-faced entrance. ‘Drive you too hard, did she?’

Frost poked a cigarette in his parrot’s cage of a mouth and lit up. The smoke sandpapered his raw throat as he sucked it down. ‘The only body I got my hands on last night had a surprised expression on its face and a carving knife in its gut.’

‘What – Ronnie Knox? Skinner’s cock-a-hoop. He squeezed a confession out of Gregson. He’s charged him with murder.’

‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ said Frost.

‘Skinner wants to see you, Jack. The minute you got in, he said.’

‘The bloody man’s insatiable,’ said Frost.

Skinner frowned angrily as Frost sauntered in and flopped heavily in a chair, showering cigarette ash everywhere.

‘Please sit down,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Don’t wait to be asked.’

‘Thanks,’ grunted Frost, the sarcasm just bouncing off him. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Skinner pulled open a drawer and took out a blue form which he slid across the desk. ‘Your request for a transfer. Just sign it at the bottom, would you?’ Seeing Frost hesitate, he added, ‘I got another batch of your expense claims from County last night. From a quick look through them it seems there are quite a few other items we could query if we really wanted to be sods.’

Frost withstood the urge to smash the bastard in the face and tried to look as if it was of no importance to him. You’ve already got me, you bastards. Why turn the screw? He scratched his signature at the bottom without bothering to read the form and slid it back to Skinner, who gave it a cursory glance and smiled with smug satisfaction as he replaced it in the desk drawer. Frost dragged down more smoke and mused over painful ways of slowly killing the sod.