R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

A beeping sound, then a woman’s voice:

‘I want to speak to the crime bloke.’

‘Speaking. Who is this, please?’

‘I ain’t telling you who I am. You know that kid who was murdered – the school kid?

‘What about her?’

‘Debbie. If you want a scoop, ask the filth about the video.’

‘What video?’

‘And ask them if they want a video of the other girl.’

‘But – ’

A click, the dialling tone, then silence.

Frost worried away at his scar. ‘Sounds like a real bit of low life.’ He turned to Morgan. ‘Not one of your girlfriends is she, Taff?’

Morgan grinned and shook his head.

‘She called the girl “Debbie”,’ said Frost, half to himself. ‘Almost as if she knew the kid personally.’ He leant back in his chair and fired a salvo of smoke rings up to the ceiling, watching them slowly disperse. ‘She wants publicity. She wants it in the press. Why?’

No one could come up with a reason.

‘A snuff movie?’ suggested Lane.

‘We’ve already thought of that. If it’s a snuff movie and they’re hoping to sell it, it’s only worth anything if it’s genuine.’

‘There’s no doubt it’s genuine,’ said Hanlon. ‘That was Debbie Clark all right.’

Frost sat up as a thought struck him. ‘Wait a minute… wait a flaming minute…’ He turned to Sandy. ‘The only photograph published in the press was that old school photo taken when she was about nine. Her father wouldn’t let her have her photo taken after that. It wasn’t a very good photo and it was nothing like the way she looked now.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Of course! The sods want to be able to provide proof it is Debbie and not some tart acting and pretending to be Debbie. Well, they’re not bloody well going to get proof from us.’ He spun round to the reporter. ‘She’s bound to phone you again, Sandy. When she does, tell her you’ve been to the police and they deny ever receiving a video. She’ll then have to send you – or us – another one, which might give us a bit more gen.’ He stopped suddenly as another thought hit him. ‘If I was them, I’d then send a copy of the video to the mother. There’s no way that poor cow would keep quiet about it.’ He jabbed a finger at Bill Wells. ‘Get on to the post office. I want them to hold all her mail until we’ve examined it. And let’s have someone on duty outside the house 24/7 in case they decide to deliver it personally. Mullett’s okayed limitless overtime. It’d be rude not to take full advantage of it.’

Wells nodded. ‘I’ll put it in hand right now, Jack.’ He scuttled out of the room.

‘Well,’ said Frost, ‘we’ve got her fingerprints and her voice. If only we had her telephone number and knicker size.’

‘I’ve got the phone number,’ said Lane smugly. ‘We’ve got caller ID. We hold the last ninety-nine calls dialled in to us.’ He pulled a sheet of notepaper from his pocket and handed it to Frost. ‘It’s a Denton number. I dialled, but got no answer. I imagine it’s a public call box. People are getting too smart these days. They know calls can be traced.’

Frost glanced briefly at the number, then handed the paper to Hanlon. ‘Get on to BT, Arthur. I want to know whose number that is and I want to know now, so no sodding about.’ He drummed his fingers impatiently as Hanlon made the call.

‘Thank you,’ said Hanlon, hanging up. ‘Sandy is right, Jack. It’s the public call box on the corner of Middleton Street.’

Frost spun round to Jordan. ‘Pick up SOCO and nip down there. There could be prints on the phone.’ But as Jordan reached the door, he called him back. ‘Hold it. She might be a creature of habit and use the same phone box to call Sandy again. I want it under constant surveillance.’ Back to Lane. ‘I’ll lend you one of our police radios, Sandy. If she sees there’s nothing in the papers she might phone you again from the same phone box. If she does, radio through right away.’

‘What if she doesn’t use the same phone box?’ asked Morgan.

‘Then we won’t bleeding catch her, will we?’ snapped Frost. ‘Mullett’s given us carte blanche so we’ll have twenty-four-hour surveillance on every flaming call box in the area. But I still want dabs off that phone before someone else uses it. I want someone to get them who looks too much of a prat to be a policeman.’

All eyes swivelled to Morgan.

‘OK, Guv,’ said Morgan sheepishly. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘No,’ said Frost. ‘Not only do you look too much of a prat, you are too much of a prat. I want someone with sense.’ He turned to Kate Holby. ‘Change into civvies, love, then get a fingerprint kit from SOCO and make sure no one sees you taking the prints.’

He rubbed his hands together. This was what he thrived on. Action. Getting things moving. Not sitting in a chair, twiddling his flaming thumbs. If their luck was in they’d get this cow. He stood up. ‘Let’s finish off that cat’s pee Sandy calls whisky. It would be a pity to let it go bad in the bottle.’

It was a cold night with rain slashing against the window, but with everyone packed into Frost’s tiny office, which was thick with cigarette smoke, and with a warm inner glow provided by the second bottle of Sandy Lane’s whisky, Frost was sweating. He had called off the stake-out of the building-society cashpoints. Beazley could scream and shout as much as he liked, but the killing of the two teenagers was taking priority. All public phone boxes in the town were under observation, but there was no message yet from Sandy Lane. Kate Holby had checked the phone the woman had used, but it had been wiped clean of prints.

A sudden mental image of Debbie Clark’s tortured face sent a shudder through Frost’s body. The silent scream. He banged his mug down and stood up. There had to be something on the tape that he had missed. He didn’t want to go through the harrowing ordeal of watching it again, but he had to.

He stomped back to the Incident Room where Taffy Morgan, detailed to check through the list of cars captured on CCTV around the times of the blackmailer’s withdrawals, quickly slid a newspaper under the computer printout.

‘You’re not fooling me one bit, you lazy Welsh git,’ snapped Frost. ‘Run that video again.’

He waited impatiently as Taffy opened shut drawers before locating the cassette.

Frost steeled himself, but found himself wincing, shuddering, sharing the kid’s pain and terror. ‘Hold it, Taff. Go back to the bit just before she screams.’ He moved closer to the monitor. She’s saying something.’

‘But we can’t hear her,’ said Taffy.

‘You have a gift for stating the bloody obvious.’ snarled Frost. ‘Maybe we can’t make out what she’s saying, but I bet a flaming lip-reader could.’ Frost buzzed Johnny Johnson, the night-duty station sergeant. ‘Johnny, this is urgent. I want a lip-reader here, now.’

‘Now?’ echoed Johnson. ‘You won’t get any one until the morning.’

‘Morning? What flaming office hours do they work?’

‘Jack,’ said Johnson patiently. ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning.’

Frost focused bleary eyes on his wristwatch to check. ‘Bloody hell. Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself?’

His mobile rang. Sandy Lane.

‘Yes, Sandy?’ asked Frost excitedly.

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Jack. She hasn’t phoned. It’s late. I’m going home.’

‘All right,’ sighed Frost. ‘I can’t see her phoning now.’

Back in his office, he killed the last drop of whisky, shrugged on his mac and walked unsteadily out to his car.

A traffic car stopped him on his way home.

‘Your car’s been lurching all over the road. I’ve reason to believe you’ve been drinking, sir.’