Winter Frost (31 page)

   
He sat and smoked and fidgeted, watching Harding's slow, methodical examination of the clothing. He couldn't stand people being methodical, it was so Alien to his own method of working. Sod it. He couldn't sit around doing nothing. He pinched out the cigarette that was annoying Harding and decided he would look in on Weaver's place to see how the search for the elusive toilet roll was progressing.

   
Two police cars were parked outside and lights blazed from every window. Frost thumbed the doorbell. "Could you spare a few moments to discuss the meaning of the scriptures?" he asked Jordan who opened the door to him. Grinning, the PC led him into the house. "We've found it," he announced triumphantly.

   
Through to the kitchen where a twelve-pack of supermarket toilet rolls lay on the table. "Ta-ra!" fanfared Jordan.

   
Frost's face fell. He did a quick check, just in case, then shook his head. "Sorry, son, these are no good. I'm after an almost new roll with just a couple of sheets torn from it." He explained briefly, annoyed with himself that he hadn't made it clear earlier.

   
He wandered from room to room, watching as drawers were wrenched open and the contents tipped out, cupboard doors opened and slammed shut. Lots of noise, much activity, but achieving nothing. He went back to the kitchen and took a peek in the bread bin. The half-used loaf inside was growing thick green mould like a decomposing body. He shut the lid quickly.

   
Jordan joined him. "We've looked in all possible places, Inspector. Shall we try the loft?"

   
"He wouldn't be such a twat as to hide it," answered Frost. "If he realized it might be important, he'd have destroyed it, but look anyway."

   
He was beginning to feel depressed again. They had practically nothing on Weaver that would stand up in court. The last-minute stroke of luck that at times came to his rescue was having one of its many off-days. He jabbed a finger at Jordan. "Have we searched the dustbin?"

   
"Yes, but the council emptied them yesterday—it was almost empty."

   
Simms returned, brushing dust and cobwebs from his uniform. "Nothing in the loft," he reported.

   
The other two PCs, Evans and Howe, joined them. They too had found nothing. Frost sent his cigarettes on the rounds and they all sat and smoked as he chewed things over in his mind.

   
"If it's that important," suggested Simms, "I suppose we could do a search of the rubbish sacks down at the council depot?"

   
"If he realized how important it was," said Frost, "he'd have destroyed the damn thing. If he didn't realize, then he wouldn't have binned an almost new bog roll with plenty of wiping space left." He stood up. "Finish your fags. Don't rush, you're on overtime—then call it a day."

   
Back to the car and a radio call to the station. "Is Perry Mason there yet?"

   
"The solicitor phoned, Jack," said Wells. "He's stuck on the motorway behind a lorry that's shed its load. He'll be at least a couple of hours."

   
"Another couple of hours?" echoed Frost. "Sod it, we can't wait. Tell Weaver he's got to come up with a brief who can turn up in fifteen minutes, otherwise he'll have to make do with the duty solicitor."

   
"We can't force him to do that, Jack."

   
"But he might not know that. Try it on." Frost waited patiently for Wells to radio back.

   
"He won't wear it, Jack."

   
"Then sod him . . . burn his bloody toast for breakfast." He had no sooner replaced the handset when his mobile phone rang and a voice he didn't recognize asked, "Inspector Frost?"

   
"That depends who's calling," he replied guardedly.

   
"We haven't met—Detective Chief Inspector Preston, Belton Division." Belton was the neighbouring Division to Denton.

   
"What can I do for you?" asked Frost, hoping there was nothing.

   
"It's what I can do for you, Inspector. You reported Bertha Jenkins, a big fat tom, missing. I think we've found her."

George Owen, Station Sergeant, Belton Division, clicked on his polite smile. "Can I help you, sir?"

   
"Chief Inspector Preston, please."

   
"Oh—you'll be Inspector Frost. Mr. Preston told me to expect you." Preston had said: If a scruffy bastard in a dirty mac turns up, it'll be Jack Frost from Denton. "Mr. Preston is at the incident site. I'll try to contact him." He popped into the Control room leaving Frost to mooch around the lobby, reading the tattered police notices about the Colorado Beetle and Foot and Mouth Disease. Suddenly he was staring at a familiar face. Vicky Stuart, smiling her gapped-tooth grin . . . "Missing Girl". He turned away. What had that bastard Weaver done with this poor little cow? He looked at his watch, anxious to get back to Denton before Weaver's brief arrived.

   
The station sergeant returned. "Mr. Preston says can you make your own way to the site? He's got no-one available to bring you." He gave Frost directions, adding, "You can't miss it."

   
He missed it, finding himself floundering down country lanes that led nowhere and the fog thickening. Eventually he managed to get back to the main road and spotted the turn-off guarded by a young constable who seemed glad to have a car to stop. "You can't go down here, sir." He wouldn't believe Frost was an inspector until he had studied the dogeared warrant card. "Just round the bend, sir," he directed, fumbling for his radio to let the chief inspector know.

   
It was a dark, bumpy, rutted dirt road, overhung with dripping trees, but as he turned the bend everything sprang into life with floodlights, cars double parked, radios chattering, men crawling over the grass verge and a small tent-like structure glowing orange from the lights within.

   
Heads turned as he approached the taped-off area to the tent which was well back from the road. One or two of the old hands recognized him and waved. The younger men wondered who the scruff was.

   
Detective Chief Inspector Preston, thin, balding and unsmiling, greeted him with a curt nod. "We could have done without this. It's your damn crime with the victim dumped in our Division."

   
"Stick her in the car and I'll take her back to Denton," grunted Frost, hating the man on sight. "Where is she?"

   
"Where do you think? We didn't put the tent up to go camping." He ducked through the flapped entrance and Frost followed.

   
She lay on her back, eyes open, like the others. Naked, her heavy sagging breasts sprawled over the rolls of fat on her stomach, a stomach disfigured with weals, bruises and burns. Dyed red hair, now blackened by wet grass, cushioned the head. Frost stared down at her. "That's her," he said. "That's Big Bertha." He knelt on the polythene sheeting spread alongside the body and lifted a cold, heavy, wet hand. Deep marks were grooved into the raw blooded wrist. "The poor bitch has had a right going-over," he muttered.

   
"Suffocated, probably with a pillow," said Preston. "The doctor reckons she's been dead a couple of days at least."

   
Frost straightened up and rubbed his hands together to get the chill of death out of them. "Who found her?"

   
"A motorist cut through to relieve himself and spotted her."

   
"Our last one was found by a motorist having a pee," said Frost. "He wouldn't give his name."

   
"Ours ditto," said Preston.

   
Frost consulted his watch. The solicitor should be well on his way by now. He lifted the flap and measured the distance to the road with his eyes. "If she was lugged all this way, whoever dumped her must have been a strong bastard."

   
"She was probably dragged," said Preston.

   
Frost dropped down on his knees again and lifted the body slightly, ignoring Preston's alarmed protests that Drysdale wouldn't like it. "If he'd dragged her there would be abrasions." He pointed. There weren't any.

   
"Needn't have been one strong man—could have been two men," suggested Preston, annoyed that he hadn't spotted the absence of abrasions.

   
"Or the seven bleeding dwarfs," snapped Frost. "We've got to get this bastard and bloody quick—he's got the taste for it."

   
A slamming of car doors and the murmur of voices sent Preston dashing over to the tent flap. He peeked out and signalled urgently to Frost. "It's Drysdale," he hissed. "If he thinks we've moved the body . . ."

   
"Don't panic," said Frost, lowering the body back to its original position. "All we've got to do is look innocent and lie."

   
Drysdale, followed by his blonde secretary, pushed through the tent flap, his warm smile of greeting to Preston freezing when he saw Frost standing behind him. "Twice in one day, Inspector," he sniffed.

   
"Some days you can't believe your luck," said Frost. He checked his watch again. "Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I must love you and leave you. I've a suspect to interview back at Denton."

   
Preston took Frost to one side. "We need to cooperate on this—pool our resources, share our information."

   
"I'll send over what we've got," said Frost. "It amounts to sod all: no descriptions, no leads, nothing, but it might help. I'm pinning my hopes on catching the sod in the act." With a brief nod he ducked through the flap on his way back to his car.

Bill Wells looked up as Frost marched over. "Solicitor's here. I've put him in No. 2 interview room. He doesn't like being kept waiting."

   
"He kept me waiting long enough," said Frost. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. "Any sign of the flaming Welsh wizard?"

   
Wells shook his head. "He never came back here, Jack. I even sent someone round to his digs, but no-one in. I reckon he's on the nest somewhere."

   
"He probably thinks having it away is more fun than having his goolies chewed off by me," said Frost. "If he does condescend to make an appearance, I want him." He pushed through the swing doors and made his way to the interview room.

Fosswick, the solicitor, had been to an official function and was still wearing evening dress under his thick black overcoat. He was annoyed at being dragged away and even more annoyed, after hurrying through that damned fog, to be dumped in a drab, cold interview room and told to wait. A scruffy little man who matched the scruffy little room came in and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Frost.

   
The solicitor acknowledged him mournfully. He was hoping for someone far more senior and impressive to make his evening less of a waste of time. "I don't know why you've dragged me down here, Inspector. We rarely do criminal work and I hardly know the man. We dealt with the purchase of his house about three years ago, and that's about it."

   
"It's not me dragging you down here, sir, it's your client. We're holding him for questioning in connection with the abduction, rape and murder of a seven-year-old girl."

   
The solicitor's face was expressionless. "I see. And what makes you think my client is involved in this?"

   
Fosswick listened intently as Frost outlined the details, a growing expression of concern and distaste on his face. This was not the sort of case he wanted to be involved in. He pulled out a gold fountain pen and made a few notes, telling himself that he would pass the details on to someone else first thing in the morning, someone more used to dealing with such sordidness. "You haven't actually charged him yet?"

   
"No, sir, but it is our intention to do so."

   
Fosswick replaced the cap on his pen. "I'd now like a few words with my client."

   
"I'll go and get him for you." Frost opened the door, then closed it again. "The other little girl might still be alive, sir." He held up a photograph of Vicky. "If you could persuade your client to tell us where she is . . ."

   
Fosswick scowled. "I am not here to do your job for you, Inspector. My first duty is to Mr. Weaver." He looked at the photograph and his expression softened. "However, I'll see what I can do."

   
Not such a bad old bastard after all, thought Frost as he made his way to the cell area.

   
The shrill, urgent ringing of a bell sliced through his thoughts. The alarm from the cell area, usually rung when an officer was being assaulted or a prisoner was taken sick. At first he took no notice. Probably the drunk causing trouble. The uniformed boys were quite capable of handling crises like that. He was aware of the sound of running feet and voices raised in panic and the other prisoners banging their cell doors and shouting. Over it all Bill Wells calling, "Cut him down, quick . . ." then, yelling up the corridor, "Get an ambulance."

   
Frost raced down to the holding area. The door to Weaver's cell was wide open. Two uniformed men were bending over a figure on the floor, one pummelling the chest, the other giving the kiss of life with Wells looking anxiously on.

   
Frost stared down at Weaver, skin blue, neck strangely elongated. "Bloody hell! What happened?"

   
"He's topped himself," said Wells, sounding furious | as if this was personally directed against him. "The silly sod has hanged himself." He pushed past Frost and yelled again down the corridor. "Where's that bloody ambulance?"