R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

They managed to get her back to the car, where she resisted all the efforts of the WPC to comfort her. ‘I’ll kill him,’ she kept muttering. ‘If he comes near me, I’ll kill him, so help me…’

They dropped her back home. She didn’t want anyone with her. Her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the key in the door. Frost took it from her and turned it in the lock. She barged past him, slamming the door shut on them without a word. He could still hear her screams and sobs as he walked back to the car. He slid into the passenger seat and told Kate to drive to the boy’s parents’ home. God, this was a sod of a day.

Drained and washed out, Frost staggered back to his office with a ham roll and a mug of tea from the canteen. Sandy Lane was in the visitors’ chair, waiting for him; he pointed to two bottles of whisky on the desk. ‘Merry last Christmas,’ he said.

‘If I had any strength of character, I’d refuse them,’ said Frost, picking one up and surveying the label. ‘I’ll hide them away before anyone sees how cheaply I can be bought.’ He pulled open a drawer and dropped them in. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Was it the missing girl – Debbie Clark?’

Frost nodded.

‘Cause of death?’

‘Some bastard raped her, flogged her and strangled her, but that’s off the record until the post-mortem. You can say we’re treating this as a murder inquiry

‘And the boy?’

‘Skull caved in, but that’s not official until after the PM.’

‘I’m told you’ve arrested Debbie’s father.’

‘On an entirely different matter, Sandy. Keep him out of it.’

‘Are you going to charge him with possession of obscene photographs?’

‘You’ve had all that two bottles of cheap whisky can buy. Be satisfied.’

‘When will you be making the official press statement?’

‘Skinner’s doing that. It’s laid on for six o’clock tonight, I think. Now clear off.’

Sandy rose from the chair. ‘For those few meagre crumbs, my half-hearted thanks. Enjoy the whisky.’

‘Whisky? What whisky?’ asked Frost innocently, kneeing the drawer shut. As he took a bite of his ham roll, the phone rang. It was Mullett.

‘I understand we’ve found two bodies, Frost – the boy and the girl.’

‘That’s right, Super.’

‘Still no trace of the other girl?’

‘Not a trace.’

‘Right. I understand you’ve arranged a press conference for six o’clock tonight. I don’t want you there. I’ll be dealing with that.’ There was no way he was going to let slummocky Frost appear on the nation’s TV screens, with his scruffy mac and cigarette drooping from his lips, as a representative of Denton division.

Mullett clearly didn’t know that Skinner intended doing the conference. Frost decided not to tell him. ‘Right you are, Super.’

‘Put all the details on my desk and ask my secretary to get my best uniform from the dry-cleaner’s.’

No sooner had Frost banged the phone down than it rang again. This time it was Bill Wells.

‘Drysdale’s screaming blue murder down at the morgue, Jack. He seems to think you ought to be there.’

Frost looked at his watch and groaned. Ten past flaming three. Shit. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’

There was a tap at the door and an agitated WPC Holby looked in. ‘We’re going to be late for the autopsies, Inspector.’

Frost grimaced. He had forgotten that Skinner had ordered her to attend. ‘Look, love, I know what Skinner said, but – ’

She cut him short. ‘I don’t want to be molly coddled. If it’s part of the job, then I’ve got to do it.’

‘All right, then,’ sighed Frost. ‘But if at any time you feel you want to walk out, do it – you won’t be the first, or the last.’

‘I won’t walk out,’ she said. ‘I won’t give him the satisfaction.’

‘What’s he got against you?’ asked Frost.

She hesitated. ‘My father was in the same division as DCI Skinner when they were both inspectors. He wanted my father to lie in court about some evidence supposed to have been found in a suspect’s house. My father refused and the suspect got off. Skinner never forgets a grudge. Getting at me is his way of getting his own back on my father.’

‘The man’s a bastard,’ said Frost. ‘The trouble is, he’s a bastard who’s a chief inspector and you’re only a probationer constable. He’s got the edge. He could tell lies about you and he’d be believed; you could tell the truth about him and you wouldn’t be.’ God, he wished he wasn’t going to be kicked out of Denton. He’d like to be able to stay and keep an eye on the girl, if only to spite Skinner. He had to find some way to foil the bastard. ‘Look – why not apply for a transfer? Come with me to Lexton.’

She shook her head defiantly. ‘There’s no way I’m going to run away from him. He would consider that a victory.’

‘It sometimes pays to run away, and come back and fight when the odds are better.’ But he was wasting his breath. She was as stubborn as he was. He would never run away, even if it was the most sensible thing to do – sensible things to do weren’t his style.

‘I’m staying,’ she said.

‘Good for you, girl,’ said Frost. Bloody hell, if a flaming nineteen-year-old kid could do it… ‘If I can find a way to do the bastard down, I’m staying as well.’

Drysdale’s frigid glare lowered the chill factor of the autopsy room by several degrees as Frost and WPC Holby entered. ‘It would be an agreeable surprise if you were on time for once, Inspector.’

‘I hate giving people surprises, Doc,’ said Frost, pulling on the obligatory green gown. He rubbed his forehead. The cold of the room was making his scar ache.

Debbie, lying open-eyed and naked on the autopsy table, looked so small and vulnerable. Frost turned his head away as Drysdale selected a scalpel and made the first incision in the bluish-white flesh of the neck, muttering his standard running commentary to his green-gowned secretary, whose pen skimmed over her notebook, recording the words almost before Drysdale spoke them. This was just routine to them. It should have been routine for Frost, but he could never get used to it, especially when young kids were involved. His ears were still ringing from the mother’s heart-wrenching screams of despair.

He let his eyes travel round the room: harsh neon lights burning down on the autopsy tables; green-tiled walls; the blue flicker of the electric insect-killers, of more use in hot weather than now. Somewhere a tap was dripping. There always seemed to be a dripping tap, plop-plop- plopping into a stainless-steel sink. Two autopsy tables. Two bodies. Two for the price of one. That tasteless thought reminded him of the supermarket and the blackmailer, now stuck on the back-burner. What the hell was he going to do about that? The thought was chopped short as he realised all eyes were on him. Drysdale, looking annoyed, had asked him something and was waiting for an answer.

‘Sorry, Doc. I was miles away.’

Drysdale raised his eyes to the heavens and expelled a theatrical sigh. ‘Sorry I’m not holding your attention, Inspector, but I ventured to ask if the bodies had been formally identified.’

‘Yes, Doc. Both of them.’

‘I asked because that specific section of the “Autopsy Request” form had been left blank and my mind-reading ability is not at its best today.’

‘That’s all right, Doc,’ said Frost grandly. ‘We all have our off-days’ He quickly filled in the form and handed it to Drysdale, who waved it towards his secretary, who took it and slipped it in a folder.

‘Could the body be turned face-down, please,’ requested Drysdale.