Night Frost (14 page)

   Waiting until the door closed behind his Divisional Commander, Wells permitted himself the luxury of an impotent, two-fingered gesture.

   "I saw that, Sergeant!" rasped the unmistakable voice of the Chief Constable.

   Wells spun round, horrified, then flopped into his chair, almost sweating with relief. Grinning at him from the lobby doorway was Jack Frost who had been hovering in the background, waiting for Mullett to leave.

   "You frightened the flaming life out of me, Jack."

   "The man of a thousand voices but only one dick. So what’s been happening?"

   "Well, I’ve been working all bleeding night . . ."

   "Excuses, excuses, Sergeant . . . give me the facts, man." He pushed a cigarette across and lit it for Wells.

   "Rickman’s given us a statement."

   "Who’s he?"

   "The porno video merchant. Says he bought them from a man in a pub . . . didn’t know his name. We’ve released him on police bail."

   "What about my plumber?"

   "Interview Room number two."

   "Thanks," said Frost, making for the swing doors. He paused. "This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant."

   "I’ll get you a broom," grinned Wells. The internal phone rang. Bloody Mullett again. Wells’ expression changed. "The canteen’s closed, sir. I haven’t got anyone who can make your tea." He jiggled the receiver, then slammed the phone down. Not interested in excuses, Mullett had hung up.

Outside the interview room an excited Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon ran forward to meet Frost. "We could be on to something here, Jack." He opened the door a crack so the inspector could see inside. A fat, balding man with shifty eyes in his mid-forties was slouched in a chair. He wore dark blue overalls over a beer belly.

   "He’s guilty," said Frost. "Never mind a trial, just hang him."

   Carefully closing the door, Hanlon continued. "Bernard Hickman, forty-four years old, married, no children. The day Paula went missing, Hickman was supposed to be working in the cemetery, installing that new stand-pipe by the side of the crypt. His time sheet says he started work at eight, but the vicar is positive he didn’t arrive until gone nine." He opened a folder to show Frost the time sheet.

   "Where does he live?"

   "63 Vicarage Terrace, Denton."

   Frost chewed this over. The area where Paula went missing was north of Denton Woods. Vicarage Terrace was some four or five miles to the south. "Has he got a motor?"

   "Yes. It’s in the car-park."

   Then Hickman could have driven and forced the girl into his car, raped and killed her and got to the cemetery by nine. But what was he doing north of the woods in the first place? The cemetery was in the opposite direction.

   "It wasn’t a chance encounter," suggested Hanlon. "It was planned. He’d seen the girl before and lusted after her. He knew where she’d be and waited for her."

   "Lusted after her?" said Frost, doubtfully. "Why her? The poor cow was a pudding."

   "There’s no accounting for taste, Jack. Some men lust after the ugliest of women."

   Frost looked reproachful. "That’s no way to talk of the Divisional Commander’s wife." Hanlon froze in mid-laugh, alerting the inspector to danger.

   "Inspector!"

   And there was Mullett charging down the corridor. Please don’t let him have heard, pleaded Frost as he slid into his guileless smile. "Sir?"

   "Where’s your report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two."

   "Just about to interview a suspect now," said Frost, jerking his head at the interview room.

   Mullett’s eyes gleamed. "A suspect? Already? Marvellous. That’s just marvellous. If we can tie this up in time for the press conference . . ." He beamed at the two men, then his expression hardened as Hanlon took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "I hope you’re not going down with this flu thing, Hanlon?" he snapped accusingly. "We’re enough men short as it is." He turned on his heel and stamped off down the corridor.

   "You can’t even blow your blinking nose, now," moaned Hanlon.

   "Don’t breath your filthy germs over me," said Frost. "Let’s question our suspect."

Hickman shifted his position in the hard, uncomfortable chair and stared unblinkingly at the nervous young uniformed constable, forcing him to look away. He smirked to himself, proud of his small triumph. "I could smash you with one hand," he leered.

   "Not if we handcuffed you first and gave him a truncheon," said a voice.

   The tubby bloke had returned with a grotty-looking man in a shiny suit.

   "Detective Inspector Frost," announced the man, dropping into the chair opposite Hickman. "Like to ask you a few questions."

   "I’d like to ask you one," said Hickman. "Why am I here? Or is it a state secret?"

   "You’re here," Frost told him, "because we’re investigating a very serious matter. I hope we can eliminate you from our enquiries, but if we can’t, you’re in dead trouble. So just answer my questions."

   "Then ask," said Hickman. "Let’s get this bloody farce over."

   "September 14th. I want to know everything you did. From when you got up, to when you went to bed."

   "That’s over two months ago. How the hell can I remember that?"

   "Perhaps this will jog your memory," said Frost, pushing over a sheet of paper.

   Hickman took the time sheet and stared at it in disbelief. "So this is what it’s all about? I fiddle an hour on my time sheet and the bastards call in the flaming Flying Squad! They can stuff their job . . ."

   "Your firm didn’t call us in," Frost told him, "and it’s a dam sight more serious than fiddling your time sheet. ? Tell me what you did on that day."

   "I was working at All Saints Cemetery, fitting a new stand-pipe. They were extending the burial section so the old piping had to be rerouted. On that day—it was a Thursday, I think—I’m ready to drive to work when the flaming car dies on me. I fiddle about with it—no joy. So I have to call in a mobile mechanic and walk to work. I got there an hour late, but it wasn’t my fault so why should I let the firm have the benefit?"

   "We’ll want the name and address of the mechanic." said Hanlon.

   "I’ve got it at home. Anyway, I worked until half-past twelve, nipped across to the pub for lunch, came back for more work and finished at six."

   "So you were at the cemetery from nine until six," checked Frost. "Then what?"

   "In the pub for a few more drinks, home for dinner, then back to the pub until closing time. Supper at eleven, then bed, a bit of the other, and sleep."

   "How can you be so sure about the bit of the other?" asked Frost with genuine interest.

   "I’m a creature of habit. Every night without fail whether she wants it or not."

   Frost lit a cigarette and dribbled smoke from his nose. "How old is your wife?"

   "Forty-two."

   "Ever fancied a younger bit of stuff?"

   "Like bleeding hell, I have," giggled the man. "Trouble is, they never fancy me."

   "Big chap like you," said Frost, "that shouldn’t be a problem. You could force them to do what you wanted—whether they wanted to or not."

   Hickman’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t think I’m getting your drift."

   From a green folder Frost removed a colour photograph and slid it across the table. "Do you know her?"

   Hickman stared down at the serious, unsmiling face of Paula Bartlett. "Never seen her before . . ." Then he recognized her. "Bloody hell! It’s that kid!" Then he realized the implication and sprang up, sending the chair flying. "Just what the flaming hell are you accusing me of?"

   A nervous PC Collier moved forward to restrain the man and was relieved when Frost waved him back. Frost snatched up the photograph and thrust it under Hickman’s nose. He spoke slowly and calmly. "I’ve just come from her post-mortem. I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell her parents what’s been done to her. So, no matter how loudly you scream and shout and bluster, you’re going to answer my bloody questions. Now sit down!"

   His face sullen, Hickman pushed the photograph away and lowered himself into the chair.

   "That’s better," said Frost, beaming disarmingly. "Now tell us why we found fingerprints all over the inside of the crypt which match the fingerprints on your time sheet." No fingerprints had been found inside the crypt, but Hickman wasn’t to know.

   "The crypt? Is that where you found her?" He leant back in his chair and smirked. "If I wanted to rape someone, I’d pick somewhere more romantic than a flaming coffin store."

   Frost’s eyes narrowed. "Who said she’d been raped?"

   "I’m not stupid. What have you been asking me questions about sex for if she hadn’t been bloody raped?"

   "And what were you doing in the crypt in the first place?"

   "About eleven o’clock we had this dirty great bleeding thunderstorm. Didn’t last long but it was bucketing down. There was no cover and I was getting drenched. I thought the crypt was a tool shed or something, so I forced out the screws with a claw hammer and stood inside the door. When the rain stopped, I hammered the screws back in and went on with my work."

"What do you think, Jack?" asked Hanlon while Hickman’s statement was being typed, ready for his signature.

   "I’ve got an awful feeling the sod’s innocent. We’ll have to let him go for now, but check every bit of his story out. I want confirmation that his car was up the spout that day, witnesses who saw him working in the bone yard that day, and I want you to find out if it was peeing down with rain like he said."

   "He knew about the rape," said Hanlon.

   "He thought she was raped in the crypt," said Frost, "but she was already dead and bagged when she was dumped there. He’s our only suspect, but I don’t think he did it—so let’s go and wipe the smile off our Divisional Commander’s face."

Mullett pulled his overflowing in-tray towards him and flicked through the contents. No sign of the promised amended car expenses from Frost but a complicated-looking batch of multi-coloured forms from County requesting a detailed inventory of the station. He shook his head in dismay. County did pick the worst possible time for their returns. A tap at the door. He straightened his back, smoothed his hair and called, "Enter."

   A disgruntled-looking Sergeant Wells came in with Mullett’s cup of tea which he banged down rather heavily on the desk. "Could I have a word with you, sir?"

   Mullett’s face fell. No more moans from the sergeant, he hoped. Everyone was overworked, but the solution was to buckle down and do that little bit extra, not keep whining about it all the time. He forced a creaky smile and pointed to the chair for Wells to sit.

   The phone rang. Mullett glared at it, then frowned at Wells. He had specifically asked that all his calls be held. Wasn’t there anyone capable of obeying a simple order? "Mullett," he snapped, but immediately his expression changed, his back went straighter than straight and his free hand was adjusting his tie. The caller was the Chief Constable. "How are we coping, sir? Well—you’ve seen our manning figures . . . Yes, I appreciate Shelwood Division are in the same position as us . . . I see, sir . . . Well, if Shelwood can cope, then so can we . . ."

   Wells gave a silent groan. The Chief Constable was playing Denton off against neighbouring Shelwood, knowing both Divisional Commanders were at daggers drawn in rivalry, each striving to be next in line for promotion.

   Mullett swarmed on. "Yes, sir, this epidemic has hit us pretty badly too, but thanks to . . ." and he gave a modest cough, "good leadership, marvellous team work and . . ." He raised his voice and shot a significant glance across to Sergeant Wells. ". . . uncomplaining co-operation from the full team, we’re coping extremely well." He swivelled his chair around and lowered his voice. "Sorry if I sound a mite ragged, sir, but I’ve been up half the night. You’ve heard we’ve found Paula Bartlett’s body?"

   "Stinking to high heaven and raped."

   Mullett cringed. He hadn’t heard Frost come in. He spun his chair round and signalled frantically to the inspector to be silent. "Apparently the poor child was sexually assaulted, sir, although I don’t have the details at the moment." He glared to let Frost know whose fault this was. "However, we do have a suspect . . ."

   "No, we don’t," called Frost. "I’ve let him go." Mullett clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and his eyes spat fire. "Keep quiet," he hissed. Back to the phone. "Events seem to be moving faster than I thought, sir. I’ll come back to you." He smiled sycophantically until the receiver was safely back on its rest, then the smile snapped off. "You will not make comments when I am on the phone," he snarled at Frost.

   "Sorry, Super. I didn’t want you to make a prat of yourself with the Chief Constable."

   The inspector didn’t sound sorry and Mullett was irked to note the lighted cigarette wiggling in the man’s mouth. He expected people to ask permission before smoking in his office. In Frost’s case that permission would have been refused, but that wasn’t the point. However, he would see what Wells wanted first.

   "Sergeant Johnson is still away. I’m doing double shifts and I’m on again tonight, sir. It’s getting a bit much."

   Mullett tried to look sympathetic. "Don’t talk to me about double shifts, Sergeant. It goes without saying that no-one works harder than I do . . ." He paused. He thought he heard a snort of derision from Frost. But the innocent look on the man’s face suggested he was wrong. "If Shelwood Division can cope without extra help, then so can we." He raised a hand to silence the sergeant’s protest. "A little extra uncomplaining effort and we’ll come out with flying colours. If you’ve got any problems, any worries, come straight to me. My door is always open." He beamed at the sergeant. "Perhaps you’d close it as you leave."

   Wells opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it and accepted his dismissal. He resisted the temptation to slam the door behind him.

   Without waiting to be asked, Frost slid into the vacated chair and yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth. What a pig the man is, thought Mullett. "How are you coping?" he asked.