R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Very funny,’ sniffed Wells.

There was no way he was going to get the sleep he so desperately craved. As he turned the key in the lock, he could already hear his phone ringing. It was Bill Wells.

‘What the hell is it now?’ snarled Frost.

‘You switched your mobile off.’

‘I know. Stupid bastards keep trying to phone me. So what is it?’

‘That video, Jack. You’ve got to see it.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘I think you’d better see it for yourself, Jack.’

‘All right, I’ll see it when I get back. Now let me get some sleep.’

‘Now, Jack. You’ve got to see it now.’

Frost frowned. ‘I’m dead on my flaming feet, Bill. This isn’t a leg-pull, is it? Are you paying me back for the light bulb?’

‘It’s not a leg-pull, Jack; I wish it was. I’m deadly serious.’ He sounded it.

‘All right,’ sighed Frost. ‘I’m on my way.’

Mullett waylaid him as he hurried down the corridor. He’d checked Frost’s in-tray and found all his memos untouched.

‘My office, now, Frost.’

‘Right away, Super,’ said Frost on autopilot. He didn’t follow Mullett. He branched off into the Incident Room, where DS Hanlon, Wells and PC Collier were waiting for him. They all looked shaken and grim-faced.

Frost stuck a cigarette in his mouth and sat himself down in the chair facing the monitor.

‘The tape’s loaded, Inspector,’ Collier told him. ‘Just press Play.’

Frost pressed Play.

Black-and-white flashes zipped across the screen, then a juddering picture of two people appeared, too fuzzy to make out, then the picture steadied. Something black moved from side to side – a black cloth covering something.

Frost fiddled with the volume control. ‘What’s happened to the sound?’

‘There’s no sound, Jack,’ said Wells. ‘Just watch.’

The video camera zoomed back. The black cloth was a hood, completely covering someone’s head. It was shaking violently from side to side.

A hand snatched at the hood and pulled it off. A close-up of a pair of tear-stained eyes blinking at the light. The head twisted away from the camera. A blur as a hand passed in front of the face and jerked it back to face the camera, holding it firmly so it couldn’t move. The camera zoomed back further. A young girl, terrified and crying.

The cigarette dropped from Frost’s mouth. He stared in horrified disbelief. ‘Good God…’

It was the tortured, pleading, crying face of Debbie Clark.

The picture blacked out. White snow shivered across the black screen.

Frost was still staring, frozen to his chair, open-mouthed. He went to switch off and rewind the tape. A restraining hand stopped him.

‘There’s more to come, Jack,’ said Wells gently.

The snow juddered, then cleared to reveal a quivering picture of Debbie Clark’s face.

Whoever was holding the camera was shaking violently. The picture steadied. The girl’s head and bare shoulders filled the screen; Frost could just make out the dark shape of someone standing behind her. Debbie moved her head to one side. Hands grabbed her hair and roughly jerked her back.

The girl’s lips were moving. She was saying something… pleading with whoever was operating the video camera.

Two hands moved up slowly from behind her and encircled her throat. She vainly shook her head from side to side, trying to shake them off, still screaming and pleading.

The hands tightened their grip on her throat.

Her face crumpled in agony.

Her eyes bulged. Blood trickled from her mouth.

The hands squeezed tighter, tighter, then released their grip.

The girl slid lifelessly to the floor, the camera following her down.

Keeping well out of the camera view, her killer dragged her up by her hair. Her head hung limply, tongue lolling.

She was dead.

The hands let go and she slumped back to the floor.

The picture ended abruptly and noisy, raw tape took over.

‘Switch the bleeding thing off,’ said Frost. He couldn’t take his eyes off the monitor.

Collier leant across him and clicked off the video player.

Frost felt cold, he felt sick, he felt angry, he felt pity, and he felt bloody helpless.

He shook a cigarette from the packet and, with unsteady hands, poked it in his mouth.

‘Bloody hell,’ he croaked. ‘They filmed the poor kid being strangled. The perverted bastards!’

The others said nothing. They were as affected as he was.

‘I want everyone involved in this investigation to see that tape,’ said Frost. ‘We drop everything else and we concentrate on this one. We’ve got to get these bastards. I want copies of that tape made. I want the original to go over to Forensic with the wrapping paper and I want them to drop everything too. This is top priority.’ He scrubbed his face with his hands. He had never felt so upset and shaken in all his life.

‘Why film it? Why send us a copy?’ asked Hanlon.

Frost shook his head. He didn’t have any answers. He shunted his cigarettes around.

The Incident Room door opened and closed. No one looked round to see who it was.

‘What is going on, Frost?’ hissed Mullett. ‘I specifically told you to come to my office. Instead I find you lolling and smoking in here.’

Frost didn’t look up. He took a long drag at his cigarette and expelled a lungful of smoke. ‘Something more important than a bollocking in your office came up,’ he snapped.

Mullett’s face went beetroot. ‘And what could be more important than a summons from your divisional commander?’ he snapped back.

‘This!’ said Frost, jerking a finger at the monitor and vacating the chair. He nodded to Collier. ‘Play the tape for Superintendent Mullett, son.’

Mullett glanced at the screen impatiently. Then he froze. His face whitened and he dropped down into the chair, staring, as if hypnotised, at the images on the monitor. As it ended, he turned his head away and took off his glasses to pinch his nose and dab his eyes. ‘My God!’ he said.

‘Came by post an hour ago,’ Frost told him. ‘London postmark.’

Mullett covered his face with his hands and shook his head. ‘My God!’ he said again. He blew his nose loudly, then stood up. ‘Take all the men you want, Frost – from other divisions if necessary, but get these animals.’

Frost nodded his thanks. ‘I want to keep this bottled up for the moment, Super. No one outside need know we’ve had this tape – especially the parents. Now is not the time.’

‘Anything you say, Frost,’ said Mullett, who then hurried back to his office.

‘See,’ said Frost. ‘The bastard has a heart after all. Show him a video of a girl being strangled and he’s putty in your hands.’ He screwed up his eyes and shook his head in an attempt to erase the images he had just witnessed. ‘Hanlon, get the video copied and send the original straight over to Forensic. And let’s go back to my office. I’ve got some whisky.’

Frost sat in his office with Hanlon and Wells, all moodily drinking Sandy Lane’s Scotch out of mugs. They were still shaken. Frost spat out a tea leaf. ‘Right. Why did they send us the tape?’

Blank faces.

‘You’re a lot of bleeding help.’

‘We know there’s at least two of them,’ said Hanlon. ‘One to take the film, the other to kill the girl.’

‘The camera could have been on a tripod,’ suggested Wells.

Frost shook his head. ‘No. It was jerking about too much – in any case, the girl was talking to whoever held the camera, pleading for her bleeding life.’

A tap on the door and Jordan, Simms and Kate Holby came in, all looking shattered. ‘We’ve just seen the copy of the tape,’ said Jordan.

‘Then you’ll need some of this,’ said Frost, finding some battered polystyrene cups and slurping whisky in them. Even Kate didn’t refuse, coughing as she sipped it. It was a tight squeeze in his tiny office; some were sitting on chairs, others on the corners of the desks. ‘We keep this to ourselves,’ said Frost for the benefit of the newcomers. ‘No one outside the station must know about the tape. If the parents find out they’ll want to see it and I’m not going through that. Anyone got any brilliant ideas to add to my own sod all?’