Winter Frost (15 page)

   
"Can I see her?"

   
Frost stepped back. Liz knelt by the body and studied the burn marks on the stomach, comparing them with the photograph of the earlier victim, Linda Roberts. "Identical," she muttered.

   
Frost nodded. He didn't need a photograph to tell him that.

   
"There's no dispute about it now," insisted Liz. "The same killer as Linda Roberts. This is my case." She stared at him, her eyes hungry and pleading.

   
"You can have it with pleasure," Frost told her, "but you'd better clear it with Mullett first. Have a word with him in the morning."

   
"I'll phone him now." She hurried back to her car and dialled the Divisional Commander on her mobile. Mullett wouldn't be pleased being woken up at three in the morning, but this case was important to her. A successful murder investigation would clinch her promotion to inspector. She'd cancel her appointment at the clinic, even if it meant losing the hefty deposit. "Come on, come on," she muttered impatiently as the ringing tone droned on and on in her ear.

   
At last a sleepy voice answered. "Mullett."

   
"DI Maud, sir. Sorry to bother you, but it is important . . ." She quickly explained. A second prostitute murdered, identical to the Linda Roberts case—her case. She wanted to take charge; it was her right . . .

   
She could sense the ice crackling down the line as Mullett's annoyance grew.

   
"This could, and should, have waited until the morning," he snapped.

   
"I'm sorry, sir, but I thought it was important—"

   
He didn't let her finish. "It is not important, and the answer to your ill-timed request is no."

   
The ice now crackled from her direction. "Might I be permitted to ask why, sir?"

   
"I was going to tell you in the morning. Inspector Allen is returning to Denton the week after next so you will be reverting to your normal rank. There is absolutely no point in Frost handing over to you, then in ten days' time you handing back to Mr. Allen. Inspector Frost must handle it."

   
"But, sir—"

   
Again Mullett didn't let her finish. Didn't the damn woman have any consideration? "That's enough, Inspector. And if you hope to get on in the force, you will never phone me at this hour again with routine matters." A click and the dialling tone. She switched off and stared at the dead phone, wanting to relieve her feelings by hurling it through the car window. The bastard. Ten days. With luck she could have had this tied up in ten days. She felt like bursting into tears, but wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction. She rammed a cigarette in her mouth, then spun the car around and drove back to Denton.

The bright blue marquee protecting the body from the elements flapped and whip-cracked in the wind. Frost, hands thrust deep in his mac pocket, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, watched as Harding and the forensic team poked about in the grass. He felt redundant and wished the pathologist would hurry up and arrive so he could get back to the warmth of the station.

   
"Inspector!" PC Simms had returned. He had been sent out with a photograph, knocking on doors of known prostitutes to see if any of them could name the dead girl. "One of them recognized her. Her name is Angela Masters—new kid on the block."

   
"When was she last seen alive?"

   
"Two nights ago. The other toms were surprised she wasn't on her regular beat. They thought she was ill."

   
"The poor cow was bloody ill all right," muttered Frost. He shivered and rubbed his hands together. Come on, bloody Drysdale. There was nothing the pathologist could tell him about the body that he couldn't see for himself and the post-mortem wouldn't be until the next day, preferably not at the crack of dawn like last time.

   
Headlights painted the sides of the marquee orange and the purr of an expensive car engine could just about be heard above the scream of the wind. The pathologist had arrived.

   
Drysdale, followed by his faithful blonde secretary, squeezed through the flap of the marquee, his expression souring at the sight of the loutish Inspector Frost. He should have guessed it would be him. Frost's cases always seemed to involve bodies in appalling weather conditions in the middle of the night. He nodded curtly. Frost stamped his cigarette out and waved a hand to the body. "All yours, doc."

   
Drysdale's lips tightened at the 'doc'. "Another prostitute?"

   
"Yes, doc, and we've got a name this time so you can put a tag on her toe."

   
The pathologist bent over the body and nodded his recognition. "We had one like this a couple of months ago—one of Inspector Allen's cases, if I recall." He knelt on the plastic sheet covering the grass and peered at the burns and wounds on the stomach. "Exactly the same." He stared hard at the face. "She'd been gagged—you can see where the cord bit into her mouth."

   
"Yes," agreed Frost. "The bastard who did this didn't want her screams to disturb the fun of his cigarette stubbing."

   
Drysdale snapped his fingers as an order to his secretary to provide him with surgical gloves, which he slipped on for a brief internal examination. "Sexual activity took place shortly before death . . . From the bruising around the thighs I'd say she resisted it."

   
"I wouldn't expect her to welcome the bastard with open legs," said Frost. "DNA sample?"

   
Drysdale shook his head. "I don't think so. He seems to have used a condom." He straightened up. "Can we turn her over, please?"

   
Frost nodded to the two uniformed men to do this. The girl's white back and buttocks were marked with a criss-cross pattern of blooded weals and cuts and mottled with yellowing bruises.

   
"Buttocks and back beaten with a thin cane . . . exactly like the other girl. As before, I'd say you're looking for some kind of sexual pervert."

   
"Well, that lets the vicar off the hook," grunted Frost. "Cause and time of death?"

   
"Cause—suffocation, like the other one, probably a pillow held over the face. Time of death?" He shrugged. "Twenty-four to forty-eight hours." He peeled off the surgical gloves and dropped them into the plastic bag his secretary was holding out. "I'll do the post-mortem tomorrow—eleven o'clock. You can move the body when you like."With a jerk of his head for his secretary to follow, he marched back to the Rolls-Royce.

   
Frost stuck a cigarette in his mouth and watched as the body was lifted into a cheap coffin by the two undertaker's men, one of whom shuddered as they lifted her.

   
"Someone's given her a right going-over."

   
"She wouldn't answer our questions," grunted Frost.

   
Morgan ambled over. "Who would treat a woman like that, guv?"

   
"A bastard who likes inflicting pain," said Frost. "She might have been willing, up to a point—let herself be tied up, but then it went too far. He was enjoying himself too much to stop." He looked at his watch. Three thirty in the morning. "Let's get back to the station."

He pinned up the photograph of Angela Masters alongside the others on the wall of the murder incident room and waited while Morgan handed out copies. "I'm sorry it's so late. If that bleeding motorist could have controlled his bladder, she might have been found at a more convenient time. I'm briefing you now so you can go off home for some kip then go straight out tomorrow morning knocking up toms. We need to know if they've had any kinky clients who wanted to tie them up and welt them with a cane. If so, we want details. When did they last see Angela Masters? Did anyone see her go off with a punter?" He turned to the pin-board. "She was killed, beaten and used to stub out fags in exactly the same way as Linda Roberts, eight weeks ago. Inspector Allen questioned all the toms about Linda without any luck, and we're probably going to have the same flaming luck, but that won't stop us from asking all over again. Warn the girls they should only go with customers they know. This bloke did it once, he liked it and did it again. We're no longer looking for a punter who went too far. We're now looking for a serial killer." He nodded to Arthur Hanlon who was waving a hand. "Yes, Arthur? Not going to confess, are you?"

   
Hanlon grinned. "The girl who was killed in Clayton Street—do you think there's any connection?"

   
Frost shook his head. "No, Arthur. We're pinning that one on Mickey Harris. Mickey likes using women as a punch bag. He hits them with his fists and he doesn't tie them up first." He turned back to the Pin-board and pointed to Big Bertha. "We've now got to start worrying about Bertha. If a torn goes missing, from now on, we fear the worst, so ask around, find out when was the last time anyone saw her, who was she with. You know the drill." He looked at the other two photographs on the wall; the skull dug up under the shed and the gap-toothed Vicky Stuart. Two cases that would have to be pushed into the background until they caught the torn killer. "Right, off you go."

   
As they filed out, he jabbed a finger at Morgan. "You be here at nine tomorrow so we can pick up Mickey Harris. He's been known to put cops out of action when they try to arrest him and you can be spared more than anyone else."

9.10 a.m. Morgan was late. Frost chomped tastelessly at the fatty bacon sandwich, dropping crumbs all over the lead story as he skimmed through the Denton Echo.

   
HOUSE OF HORROR REVEALS ITS GRISLY SECRETS, screamed the headline. The news about the dead prostitute had arrived after the paper had gone to press, so they were making a meal of a lesser story. The phone rang. "Young lady to see you, Inspector," said Bill Wells. "I've put her in No. 1 interview room." Before Frost could ask who it was, Wells had rung off. Damn. He hoped this wouldn't take long; there was more than enough to get through as it was.

   
No sign of Wells in the lobby, but the swing doors banged open and Morgan, just finishing knotting his tie, charged in and looked shamefacedly at Frost. "Sorry I'm late, guv, but—"

   '
I'll hear your lies in a minute, Taffy—we've got a young lady to see first." He pushed open the door of the interview room, Morgan following quickly, running a comb through untidy hair as he did so. Shit! Sitting there, grim-faced, handbag clasped to her chest, was old mother bloody Beatty. "I'm being stalked," she said.

   
"Oh," said Frost, trying to sound concerned. "Give the details to the sergeant outside and we'll look into it." He backed to the door.

   
"No," she snapped. "The sergeant said I was to talk to you."

   
With a resigned sigh, Frost slumped down in the chair opposite her. "Describe him."

   
She leant forward. "That's just the point," she said earnestly. "He never looks the same. Sometimes he's thin and clean-shaven, sometimes he's fat with a moustache."

   
"Sounds like Laurel and Hardy," said Frost.

   
She glared. "This is not funny, Inspector. He was outside my house last night, walking up and down the street, staring up at my window, hoping to see me undressing. I feel his eyes on me as I go to the shops. I turn, but there's no-one there. He's too clever for that."

   
"Right," said Frost, nodding gravely, "I think I know who it is." He stood up. "Leave this to us. He won't trouble you again."

   
She didn't look too convinced as he ushered her out. "That bastard Wells!" he snarled.

   
"You said you know who he is?" said Morgan.

   
"Yes, I do, Taff. He's a figment of her bleeding imagination. See her getting undressed? I'd pay a hundred pounds not to." He opened the door a crack to make certain she had left. "Come on. Let's go and arrest Mickey Harris."

Still no car parked outside and the milk on the step hadn't been taken in. Just to make sure Frost hammered at the door and gave it a couple of kicks, then crouched down and peered through the letter box at the morning paper with its HOUSE OF HORROR headlines lying on the mat.

   
"Where now, guv?" asked Morgan, hoping the inspector would say 'Back to the station' so he could calm his rumbling stomach with a canteen breakfast. But Frost had other ideas.

   
"We're going to call on super-ponce Harry Grafton. He's the one who tells Mickey which toms to beat up."

The wages of sin had definitely paid off for Harry Grafton. Denton Grange was a large brick gabled house in mock Tudor, set well back behind a small spinney which sheltered it from the vulgar gaze of people driving along the main road—probably on their way to one of Harry's prostitutes. They passed a 'Warning!!—Guard Dogs' sign and coasted through the spinney and on to the main entrance. Four expensive cars were parked in front of the house. The doors of a mock Tudor garage were open and a heavily built man, carefully polishing an already gleaming silver grey Rolls-Royce, looked up as Frost's Ford juddered to an exhaust-coughing halt. He put down his chamois leather and walked over to them. "If you haven't got an appointment, piss off."

   
"I've got something better than an appointment, Jeeves," said Frost. "I've got this." He flashed his warrant card. "Kindly inform your master the fuzz want to see him."

   
The man scowled at the card, then led them inside the house to an oak-panelled hall. "Wait," he grunted as he disappeared down the passage.