A Killing Frost Page 11

  Frost took the photograph back. “Christmas morning. Christmas bloody morning. Get your coat, Taff. We’re going to arrest the bastard who killed her.”

  He let Morgan do the driving, his brain still in the past.

  Reinforcements were still being drafted in, so he had to make the call to the girl’s house on his own. He had parked outside, in the road, for some fifteen minutes, smoking to delay the moment when he would have to knock at the door. Get it bloody well over and done with. He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it out of the window, stepped out of the cur and knocked at the front door.

  From inside the house came the sound of cheerful music on the radio—Frank Sinatra singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” . . . Casey’s mother opened the door, looking happy and excited . . .

  “That’s the house, Guv.” Morgan’s voice snatched him roughly back to the present and he had to shake his head to get rid of the ghosts of the past. It was like waking from a realistic nightmare.

  Taffy parked the car in front of the driveway. Frost studied the house. A nice-looking, three bedroomed property no more than ten years old, fronted by a small, neat lawn, in the centre of which an incongruous palm tree flourished. In honour of the palm tree, the house was called The Oasis.

  As they scrunched up the gravelled path, a dog barked frantically inside. Frost stood back and let Taffy thumb the doorbell. The dog sounded hungry.

  From inside the house a child’s voice yelled at the dog to shut up. The door opened. A dark-haired boy, about ten years old, frowned up at them.

  “Who is it?” called a man from upstairs.

  “Is that Mr. Fielding? Could we have a word, please?” called back Frost. “Denton police.”

  A dark-haired man in his late forties thudded down the stairs. “Police? Who am I supposed to have raped now?” he grinned.

  “Casey Turner,” said Frost.

  A puzzled frown, then the man’s head snapped back as if he had been hit. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in shock. He shook his head as if to compose himself, his tongue flicking over dry lips. “Who?” he croaked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Might be a good idea if we came inside for a few minutes,” answered Frost. “Rape isn’t something you discuss on the doorstep.”

  “Yes, of course, but I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”

  “Who’s at the door, Graham?” called a woman from the back of the house.

  “It’s the police, Mum,” the boy answered before Fielding could stop him. “They say Daddy raped a girl.”

  “It’s all right, dear,” cut in Fielding hurriedly. “Just that old business again.”

  “But they cleared you of that,” she called.

  “I know,” he replied. “They’re just tidying up the paperwork. Just routine.” He snapped at his son, “Go out and play—now!” He waited as the boy sullenly shuffled off, then beckoned the two detectives into the lounge and firmly shut the door. “Now, perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell this is all about.”

  “You know what it’s all about, don’t you, son?” purred Frost, giving his deceptively friendly smile. He took the black-and-white photograph from his mac pocket and held it up to Fielding’s face. “Casey Turner, fifteen. Never got her Christmas presents. You stripped her, raped her, beat her up and killed her. Christmas Day, thirty years ago.”

  “This is preposterous. Me? You’re trying to make out I killed this girl?” blustered Fielding, pushing the photograph away. “I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her.”

  Frost sank down into one of the armchairs. “Before you tell us any more porkies, let me tell you what we’ve got.” He balanced the photograph on the arm of the chair, then pulled out a photostat of the DNA test report. “As you know, you very kindly gave my Welsh colleague here a DNA sample following that rape in the car park.”

  “And I was cleared. The test said it wasn’t me.”

  Frost nodded. “Very true. But we’re pugnacious bastards, I’m afraid. We compared your sample with an old semen sample taken from the body of Casey. It matched perfectly.” He proffered the DNA test result. “Here it is, if you don’t believe me.”

  Fielding stared at the sheet, then dropped down in the armchair opposite Frost. “I never raped her. I never killed her. It was so long ago.”

  “Look, on the bright side, son,” said Frost. “You’ve had thirty years of freedom. Take that as a bonus you didn’t bleeding well deserve. And now I’m going to take you down to the station for further questioning.”

  The man remained in the chair. He bowed his head and spoke to the floor. “We had sex. She was alive when I left her. Someone else must have killed her.”

  Frost shook his head sadly. “I’m pretty gullible, but even I can’t swallow that. Still, don’t waste time explaining to me. It isn’t my case, thank God. I’m just here to take you to the station.” He stood up. “Graham Fielding, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Casey Turner on the twenty-fifth of December 1977.” He jerked his head to Morgan, who intoned the standard caution. Frost still hadn’t got the hang of the new wording.

  There was a hesitant tap at the door. Fielding’s wife, an attractive woman with chestnut hair carrying a baby in her arms, came in. She looked at the three men and felt the tension in the air. “Graham—what’s wrong?”

  Fielding looked up at Frost. “Could I have a few words with my wife in private, please, Inspector? In the kitchen?”

  “Of course,” said Frost.

  When they left, he let his eyes travel round the room. There were wedding photos, family photos, holiday photos, baby photos: everyone smiling, everyone happy. He picked up a picture of Fielding’s wife in a very brief bikini and nodded admiringly. “The poor cow’s in for a shock.” He carefully replaced the photograph on the shelf. “I bet he’s cursing the day they invented DNA.”

  “I almost feel sorry for him,” said Morgan.

  “Feel sorry for the poor girl he raped and killed on Christmas bleeding Day,” said Frost. “Feel sorry for her mother, who was so grief-stricken she chucked herself off the top of the multi storey car park. Her father only lived a couple of years after that. The entire family, dead, and all because of that shit-bag.”

  “How the hell is he going to explain it to his wife?” asked Morgan. “ ‘Sorry, love. I raped and murdered a girl umpteen years ago and I’ll probably go to prison for life. Sorry I haven’t mentioned it before.’ ”

  “If he’d confessed at the time, he’d be out by now,” said Frost. Yells and cries from the back of the house made him look up. “I think he’s making a run for it, Taff. Go and give Collier a hand.” He lit up a cigarette and waited. After a few minutes the door opened and PC Collier led in a handcuffed Graham Fielding, followed by DC Morgan.

  “I forgot to tell you, son,” said Frost. “Us cops are not very trusting, so I had a PC waiting round the back just in case you wanted to leg it.”

  From the kitchen came the heart-rending sound of a woman sobbing bitterly and trying to comfort a crying baby. The dog, sensing something was wrong, was barking ceaselessly. Fielding, white-faced, looked as if he too was ready to burst into tears at any minute.

  Frost sighed. There were times when this bloody job wasn’t a bundle of laughs. He wound his scarf round his neck and chucked his cigarette end into the empty grate. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Fielding paced up and down the holding cell. “I want bail,” he told Frost. “I’m self-employed. If I don’t work the family get no money. I can’t let my customers down. I need bail.”

  “The magistrate might grant you bail, but I doubt it,” Frost told him. “You rarely get bail in a murder case, even one as old as this.”

  “I never killed her,” insisted Fielding.

  “I’m not the jury, son, just your bog-standard ‘don’t believe a word the bastard is saying’ common or garden cop. Anyway, like I told you, this isn’t my case. Detective Chief Ins
pector Skinner should be here shortly. You can tell him you didn’t do it. He’s a miserable sod and could do with a good laugh.”

  As he was closing the cell door, he thought of the man’s wife and kids. “Get a solicitor, son. He might wangle bail for you.”

  Fielding, who had slumped down on the bunk bed, looked up, his face a picture of despair. “I can’t afford a solicitor.”

  “If you ask for one, we’ll get you one free,” Frost told him. “We’ve got a whole list of dead-beat lawyers who don’t mind losing a hopeless case just to gain experience.” Fielding’s abject expression almost made him feel pity for the man. “Joking, son. They’re all quite good. Just ask for one.”

  He was mounting the stairs to the canteen when Wells came running after him.

  “Jack!”

  “Unless it’s a multiple murder or some big-busted tart streaking, it can wait. I’m having my dinner,” said Frost.

  “More important than both of them, Jack. Beazley’s phoned about eight times. He’s doing his nut.”

  Frost stopped in his tracks. “Shit!” He had forgotten all about Beazley. With a wistful glance at the canteen door, Frost turned and descended the stairs. “Let’s go and break the good news that I let his blackmailer get away with a thousand quid.”

  Beazley leant back in his chair and stared at Frost, wide eyed, mouth gaping in disbelief. “Am I hearing you right or do I need to get my bleeding ears syringed? You let the bastard get away with a thousand quid of my money? A thousand bloody quid? You don’t do a flaming thing right. That Fortress cheque you asked for—it would have taken four days to clear so I had to transfer the money electronically. You never told me that, did you?”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Beazley.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s flaming sorry for listening to you in the first place. You were supposed to be watching the cashpoints. Where the hell were you?”

  “As I explained, Mr. Beazley—” began Frost.

  Beazley cut him short. “I don’t want your bloody explanations. That’s not going to get my flaming money back, is it?”

  “As I explained,” repeated Frost patiently, “the man whose card had been stolen had a spare card which he hadn’t told us about. When we got the message that the card was being used, we naturally went after him.”

  “He was probably a bloody decoy,” said Beazley, “and you fell for it.”

  “No, Mr. Beazley. It was just our rotten luck this stupid sod presented his card a few minutes before the blackmailer.”

  “Talking of stupid sods, what are you going to do about it?”

  Before Frost could answer, there was a timid tap at the door.

  Beazley scowled and grunted, “Yes?”

  A grey-haired lady wearing steel-rimmed glasses and carrying a shorthand notebook came in. Beazley completely ignored her. “So what are you going to do about it?” he repeated.

  “We’re resuming the stake-out tomorrow night. We’ll get him this time.”

  “Tomorrow night? What about tonight? Are you just going to let him help himself to more of my money?”

  “He’s already collected today’s five hundred pounds so he’s got to wait until tomorrow.” Beazley glared at Frost and tugged his lower lip. “No. I’m pulling out. I’ve no faith in you. Get the rest of my money back.” Then he realised the woman was standing there. “What the hell do you want?”

  “You asked me to come in for dictation at twelve, Mr. Beazley.”

  “How can I give you dictation when I’ve got the bleeding plod here, you stupid cow? Piss off!”

  As she left and Beazley turned his attention back to the DI, Frost’s mobile rang.

  “You asked me to ring you, Guv,” whispered Morgan.

  “Bloody hell!” Frost exclaimed loudly for Beazley’s benefit. “I’m on my way.” He clicked off. “Sorry, Mr. Beazley, we’ll have to talk about this later. We’ve got a paedophile on the loose.”

  “If you’re after him, it’s his lucky day. He’s as safe as bloody houses,” sniffed Beazley. “And I want my money back.”

  But Frost had gone.

  In the outer office, the grey-haired lady was hammering away at a keyboard. She paused and smiled up at Frost as he was passing through. The door to Beazley’s office crashed open and Beazley jabbed a finger at the woman. “You, Fanny. In here. I want you.” He glared at Frost. “And stop wasting my staff’s time. She’s here to work, not to listen to your rubbish.” The door slammed.

  “I keep getting the urge to smash your boss in the kisser,” Frost told the woman.

  She gathered up her shorthand notebook and smiled sweetly. “In the kisser, Inspector? What’s wrong with in the goolies?”

  He clattered down the stairs to the car park. His stomach was rumbling. A foot-down drive back to the station and up to the canteen for dinner.

  He was opening the car door when his mobile rang again. It was Taffy Morgan. “It’s all right, Taff,” he said. “It worked. I’m on my way back to the station.”

  “No, it’s something else, Guv,” said Taffy, sounding serious. “The embankment next to the railway tunnel just before Denton station. A bloke’s just phoned in. He reckons he’s found a body.”

  6

  The man who had found the body—sharp-nosed, in his late fifties and wearing a scruffy railway-company jacket and cap—was waiting for them at the side of the road on the bridge crossing the railway line. He flagged them down. “Are you the police? I’m Fred Daniels. It’s down there.” He pointed over the side of the bridge, down to the overgrown railway embankment that hugged the railway line. He was excited, anxious to make the most of his moment of fame. “As soon as I opened my eyes this morning, I knew something awful was going to happen, I just knew.”

  I don’t want your bleeding life story, thought Frost, shutting his ears and staring down at the track. He shuddered. He was sharply reminded of an earlier occasion when he’d clambered down this very embankment to view a woman’s decapitated body, and the farce of having to call the police surgeon in to certify death. They never found the head. It must have been pulverised by the engine. He couldn’t remember any other details—one of so many cases—but the picture of that mangled, headless body was embedded in his brain.

  “You all right, Guv?” Taffy Morgan was looking at him anxiously.

  “Yes.” Frost turned to Daniels. “So where is the body?”

  “I’ll show you.” The man scrabbled over the bridge wall and dropped down to the embankment on the other side. “Follow me.”

  Frost left Morgan to wait for the rest of the team and heaved himself over the wall.

  “This way,” urged the man eagerly. “And be careful. It’s very steep. You could slide down to the railway line if you don’t watch it.” He slithered down the incline, stopping at a clump of bushes and pointing. “Behind there.”

  Frost didn’t need any further guidance. His nostrils twitched and he felt the first stirring of a protesting stomach. A too familiar smell: the rancid, cloying, decaying reek of death. Gingerly he made his way round the bushes. The smell hit him hard, making him gasp. He lit up a cigarette, but the smoke tasted of decomposed flesh. He tore the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it down on to the railway line.

  The body was almost hidden by the overgrown vegetation. The smell was unbearable. Frost held his breath and parted the grass to look down on rotting slime that once was flesh. Human, but too decomposed to immediately ascertain the sex. It had been there some time so, thank God, it wasn’t Debbie Clark or Jan O’Brien. It wasn’t easy to make out if the body had both feet, but it looked too decayed for the bits they had been finding to have come from it.

  Stepping back, he yelled up to DC Morgan, who was in animated conversation with a young woman who seemed anxious to know what was going on. “I don’t want any bloody sightseers, Taffy. Get rid of her and come on down here.” He switched on his mobile and called the station. “Seren-bleeding-dipity,” he told Sergeant Wells. “When you look for one b
ody, you find a different one. It’s neither of our missing girls. Get the duty doc and the full murder team down here—and tell them an empty stomach is advisable.”

  He turned his attention to the railway worker. “It’s well hidden. How come you spotted it?”

  “I’m working on the line down there. I wanted a slash so I nipped up here to do it behind the bushes and that’s when I found it. Flaming heck. It was the last thing I expected.” His nose quivered and he screwed his face up in disgust. “When the wind changes, you can’t half smell it, can you?”

  “Smell what—your pee?”

  “No—the body.”

  “Right. Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” said Frost, anxious to get rid of him. “When you get a chance, would you call in at Denton police station and give us a written statement—just for the record.”

  “My pleasure,” said Daniels enthusiastically. “I’ll do it now. If they think I’m coming into work after this, they’re flaming well mistaken. Shaken me up rotten, this has. Like the time I tripped over a flaming body at the side of the line. Three trains had gone over it and the drivers hadn’t noticed . . . How could they bleeding miss it?” He glanced at the bushes. “At least this one is in one piece and not all mashed up in bits.”

  “Yes, there’s always a bright side,” agreed Frost.

  A blue plastic marquee—erected with some difficulty because of the sharp slope of the embankment—had been set up over the body. Frost stuck his head inside and withdrew it quickly. The rotting-flesh smell was now concentrated inside the enclosed space. He turned his attention to the team from Forensic, backs bent, white-overalled, painstakingly doing a fingertip search of the surrounding area and coming up with masses of junk . . . spent matches, scraps of paper, rusty tin cans, plastic carrier bags. All absolutely useless, but all would have to be logged and grid-referenced. All a complete waste of bleeding time.

  “Jack!” Dr Mackenzie, the duty police surgeon, was making his way down the slope with much difficulty. Frost steadied him as he slid to a halt outside the marquee. “What have you got for me?”