R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Frost smiled sweetly at him and slurred, ‘Not only have I been drinking, officer, I have a funny feeling I’m pissed.’

The PC shone his torch. ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector Frost.’ He yelled back to his partner in the traffic car, ‘Follow us, Charlie. I’m driving the Inspector home. Move over, sir.’

After three attempts to get the key in the lock, Frost eventually managed to open the front door. There were two messages on his mat from estate agents wanting to make appointments to view the house. He kicked at them but missed, then stumbled upstairs and flung himself, fully dressed, on the bed. He fell instantly asleep.

He dreamt he was watching the video again, but this time there was sound, ghastly sound. The girl’s screams echoed and echoed round and round in his brain before turning into the shrill ringing of the alarm clock.

He was definitely not at his best when Sergeant Wells ushered in the lip-reader, a bird-like woman with a sharp nose and greying hair screwed back untidily into a bun. She sat uneasily in the offered chair, clutching a large handbag protectively to her chest, looking nervously at the liverish Frost, whose headache was giving him gyp. He palmed a couple of aspirins from a container and washed them down with the dregs of his tea. She declined the offer of a cup for herself, anxious to avoid anything that would delay her getting out of this dreadful place.

Frost forced a smile. ‘We’ve got a pretty rotten job for you, I’m afraid, love.’

He received a sour smile in return. ‘Miss Pelham if you don’t mind,’ she corrected. ‘I was told you wanted me to lip-read someone on a video tape without sound.’

‘It’s a pretty harrowing video,’ Frost warned her.

‘I’m not easily shocked, Inspector.’

Then I won’t show you my dick, thought Frost. Aloud he said, ‘Neither am I, but this shook me bloody rigid.’ He briefly explained what was involved.

She went white and shook her head firmly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m the right person for this, Inspector. There must be other people who can lip-read. I don’t think I could bear to watch it.’

‘Please,’ wheedled Frost. ‘Time is of the essence. We’ve got to catch the bastards who did this to a twelve-year-old kid. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely vital… Please…’

A reluctant nod. She stood up, still clutching her handbag, and followed him to the Incident Room.

Frost signalled to PC Collier, who switched the video player on and started the tape.

Miss Pelham gave a gasp of horror, turned her head away from the screen and stood up to go, inching towards the door. ‘I’m sorry I can’t watch this… I can’t…’

‘Then we’ll never catch the bastard,’ said Frost. ‘He’ll get away with it. He’ll be free to do this again to some other poor kid.’

She hesitated then sat down again, bit her lip tightly and nodded. ‘All right.’ She was shaking violently.

Collier restarted the tape. The woman’s face went chalk-white as she stared at the screen, her lips moving in sync with the girl’s. Frost, leaning over her shoulder, also watched, but even he had to turn his head away as the girl slumped to the floor.

The tape ended. Miss Pelham looked up at him. ‘Would you run it through again, please?’

When it finished again, she fished a tiny handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her eyes, then turned to the inspector. ‘Most of the time she is crying and saying nothing, but just before she is.. .’ She hesitated and forced her self to continue, ‘… strangled, she looks at whoever is filming and says, “Please… something.. . stop him.” ’

‘Something?’ snapped Frost. ‘That’s no bloody good.’

‘Her head jerks away… it’s difficult… Something like “Millie” or “Molly”. It isn’t clear.’

‘Could it be Maggie or Minnie or Maisie?’ asked Frost.

‘No – I am almost certain it isn’t any of them.’

‘ “Please, Millie… stop him,” ’ muttered Frost to himself. ‘ “Please, Molly… stop him.” You’re sure about that?’

‘Of course I’m not sure I can only say it’s something like that, Inspector. I can’t be definite. She moves her head away.’

‘Millie, Molly,’ mused Frost. ‘Mandy? What about Mandy?’

She thought this over. ‘It could be, but I don’t think so. There’s an “L” sound there. There’s lots of strange names for girls now that I don’t know, it could be any of them… but I still think it’s Millie or Molly or something similar.’

A woman operating the camera, thought Frost. Probably the same woman who made the phone call to Sandy Lane. He thanked her. ‘Send in your bill, love. I’ll see it’s paid quickly.’

She paused at the door and shook her head.

‘Just find the killer and lock him up for life, Inspector. That’s all the payment I want.’

Frost paced up and down the Incident Room in front of his assembled team, voicing his thoughts out loud. ‘Millie… Molly.. . first names. Someone she knew… someone she was on first-name terms with. Someone she bloody trusted and who was so flaming trustworthy she filmed Debbie being strangled.’

‘Could it be one of the girls at school?’ suggested DC Morgan.

‘The voice on the tape last night wasn’t that of a schoolgirl,’ said Hanlon.

‘Taffy might have a point,’ said Frost. ‘The caller might not be the only woman involved. And as far as the phone call is concerned, Forensic reckon the woman is disguising her voice and is not the low-life bitch she sounds like, so all of Taffy’s girlfriends are out of the frame.’ He sat on the corner of the desk and wished his head would stop aching. ‘This is what we do. I want someone to get a book listing girls’ names – they’re usually books for mothers with babies. See if there are any more names that would fit. Then I want someone to go on the computer and print out a list of all the people called Millie and Molly or something similar who are on record. Then I want all of those women visited and questioned about where they were and what they were doing the night Debbie Clark went missing. Any cocky cows who don’t answer, arrest them on any charge you can think of and bring them into the station. Sod civil bloody liberties. And someone go through the list of people who used to work at that office block and see if any of them have a name that matches.’ He nodded at DS Hanlon. ‘You organise that, Arthur. I’m going to get something to eat, then I’m off to Debbie’s school to see if any of the girls there are called Molly or Millie.’

He made it to the canteen, but the smell of greasy fried food made his stomach churn so he decided to skip breakfast – lunch as well, probably.

‘I’m off to the school,’ he called out to Bill Wells.

Wells held up the telephone, waving it urgently. ‘Mr Beazley’s on the blower. Wants to talk to you urgently – ’

He was talking to a swinging lobby door.

Miss Robins, the headteacher, a mannish, middle-aged woman in a tailored suit and sensible shoes, surveyed the dishevelled figure hunched up in the chair opposite her with frowning disapproval. ‘What you are asking is impossible, Inspector. The Data Protection Act – ’

Frost cut her short. ‘All right. When we find another kid raped and strangled like Debbie Clark you can say, “Too bad – but at least I didn’t violate the Data Protection Act.”

She flushed. ‘That’s moral blackmail, Inspector.’

‘Yes,’ snapped Frost. ‘I’ll use any means not to see another kid’s body on a slab in the morgue. I’m even prepared to break into your lousy school tonight and steal the bleeding records.’ He fumbled in his inside pocket. ‘Would you like to see a photograph of how Debbie looked when we found her?’ He didn’t have the photograph on him, but the bluff worked.