Winter Frost (43 page)

   
He switched his ears back to Mullett, who was droning away about everything having to be paid for and money not growing on trees. "You're not even sure he's the killer, are you?"

   
"He's our number one, prime suspect," said Frost firmly. He was their only bloody suspect, of course.

   
Mullett drummed the mahogany desk top with his pencil. He hated being pushed into making these sort of decisions. "Surely there's another way not involving overtime?"

   
"Sure," said Frost. "We could wait until he murders a few more, hope someone spots him doing it, then, if the budget allows, we could send someone down to arrest him."

   
Mullett was impervious to Frost's sarcasm. He shook his head and again looked at the list Frost had handed him. "Do we need all these men? Why a twenty-four-hour surveillance? All the murders so far have taken place at night."

   
"He picks up his victims at night and dumps their bodies at night, but he holds them somewhere during the day. I want to find out where he takes them."

   
"All right. So you follow him and you see him picking up a prostitute. Then what? Do you arrest him?"

   
"For what—kerb-crawling? We'd have to follow him and see where he takes her."

   
The pencil drummed some more. "No, Frost, I don't like it. Supposing you lose him and he kills the woman anyway? If it came out that we suspected him, watched him collect his victim, but did nothing to stop it, I shudder to think what County would say . . ." And just the thought of County's reaction made him visibly shudder. Mullett waved the overtime figures at Frost again. "All of your investigations seem to require an inordinate amount of overtime and I'm not prepared to sanction any more."

   
"Without twenty-four-hour surveillance, you can start clocking up more killings," said Frost grimly. "He's got the taste for it and he's not going to stop just because you won't sanction the overtime." Seeing Mullett wasn't swayed by this argument, he played his trump card. "I shudder to think what County would say if he killed again because you turned down my request." Frost offered a silent prayer that this would do the trick as he had already sanctioned the overtime himself and would be in dead trouble without Mullett's authorization.

   
But the suggestion of County's disapproval tipped the scales. Mullett gave a grudging nod. "All right, Frost, against my better judgement, but you are going to have to scale down the number of men involved. You can't have twelve; six at the very most."

   
"Six?" shrilled Frost. "That's bloody useless. To make sure we don't lose him we need two cars, two men in each. With eight-hour shifts that's twelve, minimum."

   
"I don't care what your figures say, we haven't got the man power to spare. Apart from DC Burton, we won't be getting anyone back from County now until Monday. They're needed for the drugs operation."

   
"And what about our bloody operation?"

   
Mullett winced. "Please don't swear at me, Frost. Six men, maximum, and for four days only, not a second longer."

   
Frost stared in disbelief. "Supposing the silly sod doesn't co-operate? What if he decides to wait until the fifth day before killing another tom?"

   
"Then it will no longer be your responsibility, Frost, because you will be off the case."

   
Frost gaped at him. "I beg your pardon?"

   
Mullett twiddled with his pencil. "County are very unhappy at the way you have conducted your investigations. Too much money expended without any sign of a result, and the suicide in the cell didn't help. Next week Chief Superintendent Bailey is coming down from County and will be taking over the investigation."

   
Frost's eyes hardened. "And you let them do it?"

   
Mullett clasped his hands together in mock sincerity. "Believe me, Frost, even though you didn't give me any ammunition, I fought your corner . . ."

   
Frost stared at Mullett, not bothering to disguise his contempt.

   
The superintendent flushed and found the wording on his pencil of consuming interest. "I fought your corner, Frost,"he repeated, "but I was overruled."

    
Fought my corner? thought Frost. The lying four eyed bastard. That confidential memo he had be trying to read started: 'In accordance with your request . . .' Mullett had asked for him to be replaced and hadn't the guts to admit it. All right. He'd show the sod. Six men . . . four days. He'd get it all tied up before fat-guts Bailey could push his stomach through the door.

   
The curtest of nods to Mullett as he left. Outside in the corridor the doubts crept in. Face facts, he told himself. Mullett was right. What had he achieved? Sod all! He wasn't getting anywhere on any of his bloody cases. He was out of his flaming depth. But sod it, he'd try, he'd bloody well try.

DC Burton wriggled and tried to make himself comfortable in the darkened car. He brought his wrist-watch up to his face. Nearly midnight. He yawned, and knuckled his eyes. Constant surveillance duty was taking its toll. This was his third, freezing cold night of watching outside Ashby's house, waiting for something to happen.

   
He poured the last of the coffee from the thermos and sipped without enthusiasm. He was dying to do a pee, but knew the minute he left the car, the dentist would come roaring out. He chucked the thermos on the back seat and listened to the burble of police messages over the radio, all from people sounding more alert and wide awake than he did. For three nights he had staked out the dentist's house and each night, dead on eleven, the front door would open, an empty milk bottle was deposited on the step then the house lights would go out one by one. Tonight had followed the same pattern.

   
His personal radio crackled. "Frost to Burton. Any joy?"

   
"Not a damn thing, Inspector. Quiet as the grave." But as he spoke a light came on briefly in the hall. "Hold it, something's happening." The light went out, then the front door opened. Burton's eyes flicked down to his watch. "Time 23.59. Target leaving house . . . opening garage doors."

   
A metallic grey Honda Accord rolled down the sloped driveway and coasted out into the road where the engine coughed into life and the car moved off. Burton waited a few seconds before following at a discreet distance, making sure he didn't lose sight of the Honda's red tail lights. Back to the radio. "He's proceeding north towards die town centre. Am following."

   
"Don't let him know he's being followed and don't lose him," ordered Frost.

   
Burton grinned. What the hell did Frost expect him to do? But he knew the inspector was under pressure with Mullett breathing down his neck as the overtime figures mounted up. "Target turning into Bath Road," he reported, spinning the wheel to follow.

   
"We're in Bath Road," said Frost, "Drop back, we'll take over." With so few vehicles on the road at that time of night it was important Ashby didn't realize the same car was behind him all the time.

   
Morgan slowed down to let the Honda get ahead of them. The night mist that had hampered previous operations was creeping back again, so he didn't want the dentist to get too far in front.

   
They drove in silence, Morgan squinting through the dirty windscreen of Frost's Ford, keeping the pin-pricks of red in sight At one point, just approaching a turn-off, he thought he'd lost him, but spotted the lights again in the distance. "He's put on a bit of speed, guv," he muttered.

   
"Eager for the bleeding kill," grunted Frost. He frowned and scrubbed at the windscreen with his cuff. "That's the wrong bloody car!"

   
"It can't be," said Morgan.

   
"Well, it bloody well is," snapped Frost as the mist thinned a little. "It's a green Citroen."

   
"Knickers!" spluttered Morgan, slamming on the brakes. "He must have taken the turn-off. I lost him for a while, saw the rear lights and assumed it was him." He squealed into a U turn and headed back to the side road. "Sorry, guv."

   
Frost sat fuming. Bloody Morgan. They reached the turn-off. A long, clear road with no other vehicle in sight. "Sorry, guv," mumbled Morgan again.

   
"If he's after toms, let's try the red light district," said Frost.

   
A bitter night with very few toms still about and the ones they asked hadn't seen a grey Honda. Frost radioed to Burton to report they had lost the target.

   
It was Burton who spotted the car parked down a side street to the rear of the red light district. It was locked and empty. "Shit!" said Frost.

   
"Now what?" Morgan asked.

   
"You and Burton take a walk around, see if you can spot him, I'll watch his motor. He's got to come back sometime."

   
A cutting wind made him shiver and he was glad to get back to the warmth of his car. He found a half-smoked cigarette in his mac pocket and lit up, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the Honda straight ahead. The night had all the makings of one of his first-class cock-ups.

   
A tapping at the driver's window made him turn. A woman in silhouette against the street lamp behind her. He wound down the window and a tatty, ginger-tinged fur coat opened to show a low-cut dress and yards of cleavage. "Want to see the twins undressed, love?" asked a husky, sex-promising voice. "Twenty pounds as it's cold."

   
Frost's eyes moved quickly from the unappetizing twins to the face, heavily plastered with make-up, and the dyed red hair poking out from under a knitted bobble hat . . . "Still on the game, Sarah? Can't you live on your old age pension?"

   
Sarah jerked back in dismay. "The fuzz, just my flaming luck." She backed away, but he reached out and grabbed her arm. "Get in."

   
He opened the door and she thudded down on the passenger seat, filling the car with the overpowering smell of cheap, musky perfume. "You ain't going to run me in, are you, Mr. Frost?" she pleaded. "Not on me birthday?"

   
"Your birthday? Show us your telegram from the Queen!"

   
"Very funny." She took the cigarette he offered and sucked at it gratefully. The glow from his lighter lit up a raddled face, heavily caked with make-up, and the smoke she exhaled was tinged with the smell of gin.

   
"You're getting a bit too old for this lark, aren't you, Sarah?"

   
She shrugged. "The landlord wants his rent and I've got to pay it somehow."

   
"Ever been approached by a bloke, mid-forties, little moustache, stinks of aftershave and drives a Honda?"

   
She shook her head. "All I get is old men in Reliant Robins stinking of wintergreen." She paused. "A Honda? You don't mean the bloke who was in that Honda over there?" She indicated the dentist's car.

   
"Yes," said Frost. "Why?" 

   "I offered him my services and he told me to piss off."

   
"And you took that as a 'No'?"

   
"Supercilious bastard. Politeness costs nothing."

   
"You didn't see where he went, by any chance?"

   
"Yes." She pointed. "In that house on the corner."

   
Frost couldn't believe his luck. "Are you sure?"

   
"Positive. He took out a key and let himself in."

   
Frost beamed happily. "I owe you one, Sarah." He radioed for Burton and Morgan to return, then opened the car door for the woman to leave. "On your way, love."

   
She shivered as the cold hit her. "I won't get much more trade tonight. I'm never going to get enough for my cab fare home." She gave a pleading look. "I suppose you couldn't see your way—"

   
Frost didn't let her finish. "Sorry, love, you never paid me back the last time, or the time before that. . ." It was a waste of time giving the woman money. She'd go straight to the nearest pub and pour it down her throat.

   
She shrugged. "Ah well. Thanks for the fag."

   
He watched her lumber off into the darkness and waited for the two DCs to return.

"What do you reckon, then, guv?" asked Morgan for the eighth time. He was beginning to get on Frost's nerves. What did he expect—instant flaming solutions?

   
"We watch and when he comes out, we follow him."

   
"What do you reckon he's doing in there?"

   
"How the flaming hell do I know?" Frost had taken a prowl around the house, but the curtains were all tightly drawn and there was nothing to be seen. He had squinted through the letter box into a darkened hall. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. He had asked the station to find out who lived there. The information supplied was that the premises were occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. F. Williamson who had lived there for some three years. Nothing was known about them.

   
"He could be in there with a tom now," said , Morgan. "Got her tied to the bed and torturing the poor woman."

   
"I know, I bloody know," Frost snapped. "If we burst in and he's just popped in to use their toilet, we've blown it. I don't think that's where he takes them. It's too public. He'd risk someone seeing him."

   
"But you can't be sure, guv."

   "I know I can't be sure. For all I know it could be packed floor to ceiling with dead toms. All we can do is wait until he comes out, then wherever he goes, we follow." He yawned. "No point two of us staying awake. I'm having a kip. Wake me in half an hour then I'll take over from you." He pulled up his coat collar, hunched down in the seat and closed his eyes.