Night Frost (26 page)

   Frost flicked ash into his tea mug. "Clients? Are you back on the game, Belle?"

   "Thank you very much!" mouthed Belle to her daughter. To Frost she said airily, "I oblige the odd gentleman. Just for pin money."

   "Yes. Some of your clients are bleeding odd," said Frost, pushing his mug away. "I hope you disinfect your crockery." He swung round to Deidree. "No school today?"

   "Half-term," she replied laconically, helping herself to a strawberry cream.

   "What school do you go to?"

   "Denton Modern."

   The same school as Paula Bartlett. Frost asked Deidree if she knew her.

   Her tongue snaked out to catch a straying dribble of chocolate juice. "She was in my class. Bit of a drip. Nose always stuck in a book. Had no interest in boys or sex or pop music or anything."

   "What about the teacher, Mr. Bell?" asked Frost casually. "What sort of a bloke is he?"

   Deidree chomped and shrugged. "Boring. I think Paula had a crush on him. Two drips together."

   A brisk rat-tat-tat at the door made Belle frown and consult her wrist-watch. She beckoned Deidree over for an enigmatic message. "If it’s 'you-know-who' for 'you-know-what', tell him it’s inconvenient at the moment. Can he call back later?"

   Frost watched Deidree’s plump little bottom wriggle through the door and wondered how long it would be before she was invited to join the family business. "We’re going to have to search the place, Belle. Wally’s been naughty." He stood and signalled for Gilmore to follow.

   Belle leapt up to block their path. "I want to see your warrant, first."

   He pulled his car expenses from his inside pocket and flashed them under her nose. "Satisfied?" Before she had a chance to examine them, they were back in his pocket.

   "All right," she nodded reluctantly. "But don’t make a mess—and don’t pinch anything."

   A door in the hall led to the lounge. "We’ll start in here, son." They were about to enter when there was a sudden angry burst of protestations from the disappointed client at the front door. "If he won’t go away," called Frost, "tell him I’ll cut off his 'you know what' and stuff it up his 'he knows where'." Silence. The front door slammed.

   It was a smallish room jam-packed with Belle’s pin-money purchases of new furniture and dominated by an enormous 28-inch twin-speakered colour TV and a stereo video both housed in a mahogany-veneered, Queen Anne style cabinet. Frost nudged Gilmore and pointed. On top of the cabinet lay a familiar-looking box holding a video cassette. The box was white with a typed label which read:
Till The Blood Runs—Canings & Whippings
. The same title as one of the porno graphic videos removed from the newsagent’s. "Belle!" he yelled.

   "I know nothing about it," said Belle as she waddled in. "Something Wally brought home." She looked at the label. "Canings and Whippings? A bit too strong meat for my clients—it would give the poor old sods a heart attack. If you want to know about dirty videos, ask our Deidree. Some bloke wanted her to make one."

   The young girl was called in. "Pornographic videos," said Frost. "Your mother says you were approached. Tell me about it."

   Deidree leant against the door frame and eased some toffee away from her back teeth with her finger. "Nothing much to tell. We were coming out of a disco one night when this bloke came across from a posh car and asked me if I wanted to earn myself fifty quid posing in the nude with him for a video. I told him to stuff his video camera right up his arse."

   "I’ve always brought her up to be a decent girl," said Belle proudly.

   "What did he look like?" asked Frost. "Would you know him again?"

   "Old—about forty. Dressed to the nines—shirt and tie and all that stuff: Darkish hair. I might recognize him again, but I’m not sure."

   Frost dismissed them both with a flick of his hand. He couldn’t waste time on this—porno videos were very low on his list of priorities. A quick search of the lounge revealed nothing. "Right, son. Up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire."

   He sat on Belle’s soft-mattressed double bed with its plump purple eiderdown and watched Gilmore opening and shutting drawers. A packet of Hamlet cigars lay on the dressing table. Frost shook it hopefully. It rattled. There was one left. He lit it, stretched out on the bed and contentedly puffed smoke across to the detective sergeant.

   "Excuse me," said Gilmore huffily, annoyed that Frost wasn’t helping. He leant over to tug open the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Packets of contraceptives . . . small aerosol cans. He seized one of the cans and showed it to the inspector. "Look at this!"

   Frost sat up and blinked at the label. "Nipple Hardening Spray! I don’t believe it." He examined the can from all angles. "This could make a man’s thumb obsolete."

   "And this!" Gilmore flourished another can.

   "Bloody hell, son, don’t point it at me. It’s the last thing I need at the moment. What else has she got?" Happy now to join in, he was soon rummaging through the various sex aids and stimulants.

   The bedroom yielded nothing else of interest. The bed room next door was Deidree’s with its pop posters and record player. "Leave it, son," said Frost. "Wally wouldn’t have stuck any bent gear in here."

   "It still wouldn’t hurt to look," said Gilmore stubbornly, dragging out the wardrobe so he could see behind it.

   "Whatever turns you on, son," said Frost. He ambled over to the window and opened it so he could jettison the cigar. Below was the back yard, a miserable patch of concrete landscaped with oily rain-puddles, a couple of rusty, bottomless buckets, and two treadless car tires. Car tires! The blue van! He’d forgotten all about the bloody blue van. That was the next thing to search. He watched the cigar butt nose-dive to its death.

   An excited shout from Gilmore had him spinning round.

   Gilmore had found a crumpled bundle of blue cloth. He opened it out. A pair of men’s jeans, grubby and thickly spattered with dried blood.

   "Belle!" roared Frost, his bellow echoing down the stairs.

   "Won’t be a minute." She was talking to someone, her voice low and urgent.

   "I want you now!" he yelled.

   "Coming."

   The front door clicked shut and as it did a bell shrilled a warning deep in his subconscious. From outside, an engine coughed, then roared into life. A van engine.

   "Shit!" cried Frost, galloping down the stairs two at a time, Gilmore hard on his heels. At the bottom of the stairs was Belle, lumbering up very slowly, deliberately blocking their way. Frost almost pushed her over as they charged for the front door. Outside an empty street. A patch of oil where the van had been standing.

   "Double shit!" howled Frost.

   "There!" pointed Gilmore. Something blue disappearing round the corner trailed by a billow of exhaust.

   The Cortina shuddered as they hurled themselves in and roared off in pursuit. Round the corner, but no sign of the van. Up to the main road. "Which way?" asked Gilmore.

   "Left," said Frost. He had seen something blue jumping the lights. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Gilmore waited for the lights to change. The blue van ahead was getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

   What a foul-up, thought Gilmore. The van was there when they arrived, but they’d ignored it. "That bloody fat cow," he muttered. "We ought to run her in for obstruction."

   "He’s her husband, son," said Frost, mildly. "Your wife would have done the same to help you."

   Would she? thought Gilmore bitterly. She certainly didn’t help me last night when bloody Mullett phoned. Before he could follow the thought further, the traffic lights flickered. He jammed his foot down, passing car after car after car. The blue van was getting bigger.

   "Control to Mr. Frost. Come in, please."

   Gilmore braked abruptly as an estate car shot out of a side turning right in their path.

   "Control to Mr. Frost. Come in, please." repeated the radio.

   "Shut your bleeding row," said Frost to the radio as Gilmore swerved round the estate car. Frost twisted in his seat and jerked two fingers at the driver.

   More traffic lights ahead. The blue van had stopped.

   "Control to Mr. . . ."

   Frost snatched up the handset. "Hold on, Control. We are . . .Shit!"

   "Say again?" said Control.

   "I said, 'Tut tut'," muttered Frost bitterly and feeling like banging his head against the windscreen. The blue van they had been chasing had the name of a dress shop written on the side and was being driven by a woman. Gilmore glared poison darts at the inspector as if it was all his fault. Frost was philosophical. "He’ll turn up. He’s got nowhere to go." He was much more used to cock-ups than the sergeant. He raised the handset to his ear. "Put out a call to all units. I want Wally Manson brought in. Last seen driving a blue Ford transit van about ten years old . . . I don’t know the registration number, but you should be able to get it from the computer."

   "Will do," said Control. "Hold on, please. Sergeant John son wants to speak to you urgently."

   A rustling sound, then Johnson took over. "Jack. Forensic have matched up the paint on the newspaper. It definitely came from Greenway’s letter-box. Mr. Mullett wants you back here right away."

   "My one aim in life is to gratify Mr. Mullett’s every whim," replied Frost. "We’re on our way."

Mullett was almost dancing with excitement. He waved the Forensic report at Frost. "We’ve got him, Inspector. We’ve got him . . . and we can all take credit. A chance observa tion on your part, scientific skill and expertise from Forensic plus solid devoted team work under my supervision." He lowered himself down into his chair and swung from side to side in smug satisfaction. Frost thought this was a good time to hand over the forged car expenses.

   "Excellent," said Mullett, giving them barely a glance as he signed them with a flourish of his Parker and tossed them into his out-tray. "Things are really moving our way at last. How’s the inventory going?"

   "Almost finished it, Super," said Frost, trying to remember where he had hidden the damn thing.

   "Good," beamed Mullett. "I want this man Greenway picked up and brought in right now. How many men will you need?"

   "The fewer the better, Super. He lives out in the wilds. If he spots half the Denton police force converging on his cottage, he might do a runner."

   "Very well, but don’t let there be any foul-ups." He was itching for Frost to go so he could pick up the phone and casually let drop to the Chief Constable that, despite the appalling manpower shortage, Denton Division had once again come up trumps. Then his euphoria crash-dived as he remembered what he had originally wanted to see Frost about. He snatched up the Denton
Echo
and jabbed at the headlines. "Have you seen this? 'Granny Ripper! Town of Terror!' What are we doing about it? The press are screaming for our blood and County are breathing down our necks."

   "I might be able to give you a quick result," Frost said, filling him in on Wally Manson. "We’ve sent the jeans over to Forensic."

   Mullett could hardly contain himself. Wait until the Chief Constable heard about this. "I want Manson picked up and brought in," said Mullett, scooping up the telephone and dialling.

   "I’ll make a note of it," said Frost solemnly.

   "Chief Constable, please," said Mullett. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "That will be all, Inspector." As the door closed behind Frost, he straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. "Oh, hello, sir." He put on his weary voice. "Sorry if I don’t sound all that brilliant . . . lack of sleep, you know . . ." He gave a modest laugh. "Someone’s got to keep an eye on things, sir . . . Some double good news on the Paula Bartlett case and the senior citizen killings that I thought you should have right away . . ."

Wednesday afternoon shift

Harry Greenway dropped a tea-bag into a mug and drowned it with boiling water from the kettle. He felt uneasy. He didn’t know why. On top of the fridge the portable radio was tuned into the local station where The Beatles were singing 'Eleanor Rigby'. Greenway pulled a face and switched it off. A miserable, lonely song about death. He wasn’t in the mood for it. He was raising the mug to his mouth when his ears picked up the soft gentle click of a car door being carefully closed. Instantly, his hand shot out to the light switch. From the darkened kitchen he twitched back the curtains.

   Two men were walking up the path, one middle-aged and scruff the other in his late twenties with the look of a thug. Greenway cupped his hand to the window pane to see better. The older man, a maroon scarf hanging unevenly round his neck had a scar of some kind on his cheek. He didn’t recognize either of them, but they spelled trouble.

   A half-hearted knock at the front door which sounded almost too deliberately reassuring. The dog at his feet, a nine-month-old Dobermann, sprang up and started to growl, then to bark. He grabbed its collar and shut it in the lounge where it barked even louder. Another knock, a little stronger this time. Greenway reached for the heavy walking stick he kept on the hall table as he cautiously opened up. The scruffy man was smiling apologetically.

   "Mr. Greenway? Sorry to bother you so late, sir. We called earlier, but you were out." He held something up. Greenway’s heart faltered and skipped a beat. It was a police warrant card.

   "Police?" he stammered.
God, how had they found out?

   "Routine enquiry," purred the man who he noted from the warrant card was Detective Inspector Frost. "All right if we come in?" And without waiting to be asked, they were in the hall.

   Routine enquiry? They don’t send detective inspectors on routine enquiries, not even rag-bags like this one. He felt his hands trembling. He forced a smile of unconcern. "I was just going to cook my dinner."

   "This won’t take long, sir," said Frost.

   Hearing strange voices, the dog was barking and frantically scratching at the lounge door.