R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Then he came to the red dress. The red, short- sleeved, low-necked cocktail dress. The dress she had worn that Christmas…

The first Christmas after they had married. Their very first Christmas together in their own home, and it was all spoilt when the bloody phone rang and he was called back on duty because of the murdered girl – the girl Graham Fielding had raped and strangled.

That stinking row… her tears, her threats… ‘If you leave me on Christmas Day I won’t be here when you get back!’ Nothing would console her… He remembered her tear-stained face… but he had been called out on duty. He had to leave her.

It was gone ten at night when he finally got back home, cold, tired, apprehensive and miserable. Their big day together ruined. The house seemed dark and empty. He called out her name. No reply. His heart sank. Had she gone to bed, or worse still, had she carried out her threat and left him?

He walked down the passage to the kitchen, clicking on lights as he went. He steeled himself and pushed open the door The warm smell of cooking hit him in the face.

The lights were off. His wife, in the red cocktail dress, was at the table, which she had laid with a red cloth, red serviettes and red candles, the reflected flames dancing on her skin. God, she was beautiful. He could see her now. Absolutely beautiful.

She rushed to meet him. They kissed. They both kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’ They exchanged presents. She had bought him a super cigarette lighter which he lost after a week and didn’t dare tell her. He had bought her a sexy nightdress and another present. He called it a Marilyn Monroe nightdress as it was all she claimed to wear in bed… a bottle of Chanel No. 5, which had cost him a packet. ‘That’s the nightdress I’m going to wear tonight,’ she told him.

The most wondetful Christmas night of his life. What happened? How did things go avalanching downhill? Why did such deep, passionate love change to cold, sullen hate? How did his beautiful, loving wife change into the bitter, grim-faced woman who he had to sit and watch die? It was all his fault. She had ambitions. She wanted him to go places, but he knew his limitations.

He realised he was crying. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks. He pressed his face into the red dress. The perfume – the Chanel. Was it his imagination or could he still smell the ghost of that perfume? God, what a night. they had had…

He looked down at the sack, half filled with her clothes. No point in being sentimental. Everything had to go, even the red dress.

But he couldn’t do it. He put the dress back on its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. The rest of the clothes he crammed in, forcing them down to make room, then tied the sack.

He sat on the bed and smoked some more, and thought of all the good times. Bloody hell. He was supposed to be a cynical bastard. That knock on the head was making him all sentimental and flaming weepy. Chanel No. 5 in the tiniest of bottles. ‘For that price I expected a pint at least,’ he had told the sales girl when he bought it. It had cost him a packet. But she was worth it, every penny.

He caught sight of the alarm clock. Damn. If he didn’t hurry he’d be late once again for Drysdale’s post-mortem.

The pathologist straightened up from the autopsy table and stepped back to allow the photographers to take their photographs of the dismembered body, which had now been cleaned up slightly.

‘She received a blow to the head which would have rendered her unconscious,’ he told Frost. ‘Then her throat was cut – the way animals are slaughtered, I suppose.’ He peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them in the disposal bin on top of his discarded plastic apron. ‘The dismembering of the body was carried out immediately after death.’

Drysdale moved across to the sink and washed his hands, holding them out for the towel his faithful, ever-anticipating secretary had ready. ‘Our suspect is a butcher, I believe?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever stand trial. His solicitor has got doctors to say he’s unfit to plead and I don’t think we’re going to argue about that.’

Drysdale pushed his arms into the sleeves of the overcoat his secretary was holding out, then looked back at the body on the table and shook his head. ‘In all my years as a pathologist, it never ceases to disgust me how people can do such things to fellow human beings.’

‘His five-year-old son died in Denton Hospital,’ said Frost. ‘He doted on the kid and cracked up. He blamed the hospital and the nurses for the kid’s death.’ He rubbed his aching wrist. ‘I almost feel sorry for the poor sod.’

Drysdale stared at Frost. ‘You amaze me, Inspector.’

As soon as the pathologist had left, Frost tore off the green mortuary gown and hurried out to his car. He was thankful that Drysdale was satisfied they had recovered all the body parts and didn’t want the shop searched again for a navel or an ear-hole or something equally obscure. Blood samples and maggots had been sent off to the appropriate experts, but he didn’t give a sod about the result. Wherever and whenever she had been killed, the poor cow was dead and they had the killer, and if it didn’t come to trial there would be a hell of a lot less paperwork.

Back in his office, a memo from Mullett glowered at him from his in-tray. Mullett was concerned at the amount of manpower being used in the search for the missing teenager, Jan O’Brien. When, he asked, would the officers involved be able to return to their normal duties?

‘As soon as possible,’ scrawled Frost across the neatly typed memo, which he winged across to his out-tray. Bloody hell. There was no flaming peace in this job. Wouldn’t it be lovely if a couple of days went by without bodies turning up, girls going missing and bastards blackmailing the supermarket? How was he going to get through everything he had to do with Hornrim Harry screaming about costs and missing paperwork, and half the force out of Denton on special duties?

His phone buzzed. ‘Mullett wants to see you now,’ said Bill Wells.

‘Tell him I’m out,’ said Frost, grabbing his mac and making for his car.

He drove around aimlessly; his head was still throbbing and his flaming wrist was hurting like hell, and he was getting sleepy. He passed the turning leading to the butcher’s, and wondered who Wells had given the lousy job of standing on guard outside – or inside, if they had a strong stomach. It was cold, windy and raining and he pitied whichever poor sod had drawn the short straw.

The poor sod in question was WPC Kate Holby, who was huddled up in the shop doorway sheltering from the driving rain. She quickly sprang to attention as Frost’s car drew up.

‘All right, love,’ called Frost, turning up his mac collar as he joined her in the doorway. ‘You don’t have to impress me, I’m nobody. Sold much meat?’

She grinned. For a while they silently watched the rain drumming on the pavement and gurgling down the drain. ‘You’re looking a lot happier now, love,’ said Frost. ‘Settling in, are you?’

‘It’s been a lot better these last few days,’ she said.

‘That’s because Skinner’s not here, isn’t it?’

She said nothing.

‘Look, love. Our mutual friend Skinner is kicking me out to Lexton in a couple of weeks. You really should come with me. You could easily get a transfer. I might be able to get you into CID.’ The thought of the kid stuck with Skinner and no one to stick up for her was something he didn’t like to contemplate.

She shook her head. ‘I’m not letting him drive me out. I’m not running away.’

‘If you don’t stand a chance of winning, it’s often better to run,’ said Frost. ‘I’d run away from the bastard if I were you. Your time will come. You’re bloody good, love, like your dad. You’ll zoom up the ranks. You might even be Skinner’s boss one day, then you can pay the bastard back.’