R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Why can’t I have bail?’ demanded Clark.

‘Where would you go?’ asked Frost. ‘Your wife won’t have you back with her.’

‘The house is in my name,’ said Clark. ‘She’ll do what she is damn well told.’

‘You don’t like people going against your wishes, do you?’ said Frost.

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘You told your daughter she wasn’t to go out with Thomas Harris. She went against your wishes. Now she is dead and the boy is dead.’

Clark stared at Frost, eyes wide, mouth open. ‘Are you suggesting I killed… killed my own daughter? I’m not saying another word unless my solicitor is present.’

Staring back at Clark, Frost took the childhood photograph of Debbie from his pocket and thrust it in Clark’s face. ‘Is this your daughter, Mr Clark?’

‘You know damn well it is. Where the hell did you get it from?’

‘It was on the computer of your paedophile chums. Did you share it around so they could all dribble over it?’

The colour drained from Clark’s face. He took the photograph and gaped at it in disbelief. ‘Inspector, you’ve got to believe me.. . I never… I…’ He shook his head. ‘Wait… I did send it to one of our group. This was long before I knew of their… our special tastes. I was proud of her. I was just showing her off. This was years ago… I never dreamt…’

I don’t believe you, you sod, thought Frost. I don’t flaming well believe you. He took the photograph back. ‘On the evening Debbie went missing, you told me you stayed in. Your wife tells me this is not true. You left the house shortly after Debbie did and didn’t return until almost midnight.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clark. ‘I lied. I was with some of our group.’

‘You mean the paedophiles?’

Clark nodded. ‘Some new photographs had been downloaded. We were to collect them. I couldn’t tell you. They will vouch for me. I promise you, they will vouch for me.’

Yes, thought Frost. All those lying bastards would stick together. He yelled for Bill Wells to let him out. ‘I’ll speak to them, Mr Clark. Let’s see if they can lie as well as you can.’

‘Get them to confirm it later, Jack,’ pleaded Wells. ‘Beazley’s going to be back on that phone any second.’ The phone rang. ‘I’ll bring them in now, sir,’ said Wells, hanging up and scooping up some papers. ‘Mullett wants the overtime returns,’ he said before dashing off.

While Frost waited, he glanced at the pages Wells had been working on. It was a list of keyholders for various properties to be updated. He was about to push it away when a name caught his eye. He snatched up the page and studied it closer. ‘Bloody hell!’ He waved the page at Wells when the sergeant came back.

‘This keyholder. It’s our flaming butcher. The one who reckons he turned his wife into mincemeat.’

Wells looked at the page and nodded. ‘That’s right. Why?’

‘What is he the keyholder of?’

‘His butcher’s shop.’

But he was kicked out of there nearly a year ago.’

‘He’s still the keyholder. The landlord couldn’t get anyone else and he just stayed on by default. Why?’

‘Why didn’t you bloody tell me this before? If I wanted to cut up my wife and dump her remains, what better place than an empty butcher’s shop?’

Wells twitched his shoulders. ‘Never gave it a thought, Jack. But you yourself said he was fantasising.’

‘Because more bits of body than the odd foot or ankle would have turned up otherwise. He’s dumped her in that bloody shop, Bill, I just know it. Do you have a spare set of keys here?’

Wells unlocked a drawer and pulled out a box full of labelled keys. ‘Here you are.’ Frost snatched the keys and made for the door.

‘Where are you going, Jack?’

‘To take a bloody look.’

‘But Mr Beazley…’

‘He can bloody wait.’

As the door slammed behind him, the phone rang and rang…

As he drove to Lewis’s old butcher’s shop, his mind began whirring yet again as he went through all the things he had to do. Jan O’Brien, the other missing teenager: she was a pupil at the same school as Debbie Clark. Was it just a coincidence? Probably. It was the obvious school for Denton girls of her age to attend.

Had Jan run away from home, as she had done so many times before? Was she shacked up somewhere with a new boyfriend? Possibly, but that didn’t explain her mobile phone found near where the drunk heard a girl screaming. No. She was in trouble somewhere, serious trouble, but they had no idea where the hell she was. She could be still in Denton, or miles away, or – and he shuddered at the thought – she could be dead. Could it be the same killer who murdered Debbie and Thomas? Another body to be slashed and sliced open on the autopsy slab?

But this was all speculation. He’d have to look in on her parents to see if there had been any contact. It was a forlorn hope, but people didn’t always bother to tell the police when a missing person suddenly returned.

And God, he still had to tell Thomas Harris’s parents that their son’s bike had been found, before they read about it in the press. It was definitely the boy’s, but he’d need a formal identification. But more importantly, he had to see Debbie’s mother to find out if she knew of any reason why her daughter would go to that deserted office block. And then there was the dreaded visit to bloody Beazley.

A policeman’s lot was not a flaming happy one. Why the bloody hell wasn’t Skinner down here to help?

The butcher’s! In chewing over all the other things he had to do, he had almost forgotten the flaming butcher’s, his main reason for coming out in the first place. Where the hell was he? He had been driving on autopilot. An angry tooting of a horn snatched him away from his self-pitying thoughts and back to his driving. Shit! He had nearly driven straight through a red light and had narrowly missed crashing into a petrol tanker whose driver was mouthing obscenities at him. He pretended not to notice.

He jerked his head from left to right, trying to find a landmark, and realised he was near Thomas’s parents’ house – so that would be his first port of call.

The boy’s parents were still numb from grief and shock. They sat side by side on a settee in the lounge, holding hands, staring into space. They seemed barely aware of Frost’s presence and he had to repeat each question several times before he got an answer. No, they knew of no reason why their son would have gone to the office block. Yes, Mr Harris would come down to the station to identify the bike. There were long moments of silence. Eventually, Frost mumbled his goodbyes and let himself out.

Then he headed to Jan O’Brien’s house. He didn’t have to ask if they had heard from the girl. As soon as his car pulled up outside, the mother came running out to ask if there was any news. ‘Not yet,’ said Frost, ‘but we’re pulling out all the stops trying to find her.’ That was a bloody lie. They’d looked everywhere while searching for the other two kids and that was it. Details had been circulated to all divisions with no results. The trail had gone cold and congealed. There was little more that could be done, especially with Denton’s limited resources.

‘She’s dead,’ sobbed Mrs O’Brien. ‘Like that poor Debbie Clark. She’s dead. I know it.’

‘We’ll find her,’ soothed Frost, trying to sound convincing. ‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll find her.’ Another bloody lie, but what the hell? He couldn’t tell her what he really thought.

Back in the car. Where next? Debbie Clark’s mother. Gawd, he was dreading this. His mobile rang: it was Bill Wells.

‘Jack, Beazley’s going ballistic.’