Frost 4 - Hard Frost Read online

  "The kiddy was screaming and she could hear someone moving about. She thought it was burglars. Anyway, she came running in to us and George went straight back with her and managed to kick the door open."

  "Let me tell it now," said the man. "I kicked the door open. That window was wide open with the wind roaring in. I nipped across and looked out, but there was no sign of him. The kid was crying fit to bust, so she picked him up and then she spotted the blood and next she was yelling and screaming louder than the bleeding kid. I got my wife to phone the police and the doctor. The rest you know."

  Liz walked over to the window and looked out on to a small back garden. There was a gate in the rear fence leading to a lane. Easy to get in and out without being spotted. The window had been crudely levered open, exactly the same as the other three stabbings. "Do you know if she's noticed anyone watching the house, or following her?"

  "We're not on speaking terms," said Armitage. "We wouldn't be in here tonight if it wasn't an emergency. I was one of the people her old man nicked a car radio from, so we're not coming in for tea and biscuits and a chat, are we?"

  Liz snapped her notebook shut. She would have to come back again tomorrow when the mother had calmed down. "Well, thank you very much. Try not to touch anything. There'll be a fingerprint man here in the morning."

  Mrs. Armitage walked with her to the front door. "Do you think you'll catch him?"

  "We'll get him," said Liz. She wished she shared her spoken optimism. A maniac who had a thing about seeing blood on children. They had no description, no fingerprints - they didn't even know if it was a man or a woman, and all of the known sex offenders she had painstakingly questioned had cast-iron alibis. "We'll get him all right." The front door slammed shut behind her, but she could still hear the mother wailing.

  In the car she switched her radio back on and they told her about the dead boy. She fished out the map and tried to find how to get to Patriot Street.

  "She had her damn radio off!" said Wells incredulously. "What does the silly cow think we give her a radio for - just to keep in her bloody handbag?" The phone rang. "Yes?" he snapped.

  It was Mullett and he sounded just the tiniest bit drunk. "My wife tells me you've been trying to reach me, sergeant."

  Wells clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and yelled for Lambert to call back the area car. Then he told Mullett about the murdered boy.

  Mike Packer stamped his feet and flapped his arms. It was damn cold. He wished he could go back on his beat and walk around to keep warm, but he had been delegated to stand with a cupboard and record details of everyone who approached the body. So far he had recorded himself, PCs Simms and Jordan, DC Burton and the two Scene of Crime officers in their white overalls who had screened off the area, plus, of course, the police surgeon who was in and out in a flash, simply confirming the boy was dead and the circumstances were bloody suspicious. Across the road Jordan and Simms, in the warmth of the area car, were waiting to be told what to do. No sign yet of the pathologist, nor Detective Inspector Allen who should be in charge.

  An old Ford Escort wheezed round the corner and shuddered to a halt. Simms nudged Jordan who climbed out of the area car, ready to send the newcomer away. But the man getting out of the car, maroon scarf streaming in the wind, was Detective Inspector Jack Frost. What was he doing here? He should be on holiday.

  Burton, kneeling by the body, heard the car draw up and swore softly. Control had told him that Detective Sergeant Liz Maud was on her way over, so this must be her. The pompous little cow would soon start taking charge, lording it over everyone and barking out her orders. But that raucous laugh that came slicing across the gloom had him hurrying out. There was only one person with a laugh like that.

  Frost took a quick look round the scene. Everything seemed to be in order. The street was cordoned off and a tent-like structure erected around the shop doorway. A small generator installed by the SOCmen chugged away, providing the emergency lighting, and everyone seemed to be doing what they ought to. He nodded happily to himself. DC Burton was competent enough to handle all the fiddling details.

  "Right," he said, after lighting up one of Mullett's cigarettes for Burton, "I'd better know what we've got, just in case some nosy bastard asks."

  "Dead boy, aged about seven," said Burton, leading him to the body. "Believed to be Bobby Kirby, reported missing from home. Mother separated from husband. She and her boyfriend nipped out to the pub for a couple of hours leaving Bobby watching telly. When they got back around ten o'clock, Bobby wasn't there."

  The body was still in the plastic sack and wouldn't be removed until the pathologist, a stickler for insisting on things being left exactly as found, had examined it. Frost knelt down and looked at the white face, the brown plastic masking tape round the eyes and mouth still in place. He shook his head sadly. "Poor little sod. Have the parents been told?"

  "Not yet," Burton told him. "We're waiting for Mr. Allen."

  "Rather him than me," said Frost. He peered more closely, his face tight with compassion. "What dirty bastard did this to you, sonny?" He examined the tape binding the mouth, and the dribble of vomit. He sniffed. That smell. What the hell was it? He knew it from somewhere . . . Of course, the hospital. It was always lingering around the ward when he went to visit his wife, when he sat by the bed for hours on end to watch her slowly dying. He worried away, trying to identify it, but gave up. It wasn't his case, so it wasn't his problem. "Cause of death?"

  "The police doctor thinks he might have choked to death on his own vomit."

  "How long dead?"

  "Wouldn't commit himself. He said ask the pathologist."

  "Helpful bloody bastard." Frost straightened up and squinted at his watch. "Where the hell is Allen?"

  "He and Mr. Mullett are on their way over now, sir," Burton told him.

  "Mullett? Don't let him see your fag, son . . . he might recognize it as a long-lost friend." Frost took one last look at the body. "I'm only the token inspector, so just carry on until Smart-arse gets here." He found a dustbin to sit on while he waited.

  Detective Sergeant Liz Maud skidded round the corner. She knew she was driving too fast, but she was in a state of high excitement. A murder case! Her first. And Inspector Allen unavailable. Now was the time to make her mark.

  As she parked tight into the kerb behind a police car, she glanced across the road and frowned. The area was supposed to be cordoned off, but there, sitting on a dustbin, hunched up against the wind, was an old tramp dragging on a cigarette. How had the fools let him get so close? Heads would roll for this. She flung open the door of her car and sprang out. "Hey - you!" The man, who was in the process of flinging his cigarette end into the gutter, looked up briefly, then, ignoring her, rose to walk towards the canvas enclosure where the body was. She frowned in disbelief as the two fools in the police car in front of her just sat and watched.

  Liz raced across the road, fumbling in her shoulder bag for her warrant card. "You in the mac hold it!" She shoved her warrant card in his face.

  Frost barely gave it a glance. "No thanks, love - I've already got one." Then he was yelling at two uniformed men who were starting to shift the sacks of rubbish out of the way. "Leave them be! I want them checked for prints and examined." He turned to Liz and introduced himself. "Detective Inspector Frost. You must be new?"

  She managed to keep her voice calm, but inwardly she was boiling. Her one big chance and this idiot had to come back from holiday early. "Detective Sergeant Liz Maud. I was transferred from Fenley Division last week."

  Frost eyed her. In her late twenties, a bit on the thin side, her dark hair scragged back emphasizing her sharp features. But she wouldn't be a bad looker if she took a bit of trouble and wore something different from that drab grey and black striped skirt and jacket.

  "All right if I have a look at the body, inspector?"

  Frost spread his hands. "Be my guest, love. I'm only keeping it warm until Allen turns up."

  She winc
ed at the 'love' but tried not to show her annoyance. Before she could move, a sleek black car slithered round the corner. A Rolls-Royce. The pathologist had arrived.

  "Shit!" muttered Frost. "It's Dr. bleeding Death. I'd better take over. He's insulted if he has to deal with sergeants." He looked longingly up the road, hoping to see the headlights of Allen's car roaring to the rescue, but no such luck. Lighting another of Mullett's specials, he mooched across to the tented area, Liz following hard on his heels.

  A man in white overalls stopped them. This was PC Reg Evans, a Scene of Crime officer. "There's about twenty rubbish sacks there, Mr. Frost. Do you want us to fingerprint them all?"

  "Better than that, Reg. I want you to take them all back to the station and open them up as well. The killer might have dumped the kid's clothes in one of them."

  Dr. Samuel Drysdale, Pathologist for the Home Office, had wasted no time. He was out of the car and kneeling by the body before Frost returned. He studied the face very closely, watched by his female secretary who was directing a torch to augment the spluttering emergency lighting. "Steady," he snapped as the beam wavered. Above him, the canvas flapped angrily in the wind, almost drowning the constant radio chatter from the police car in the street.

  The dribble of vomit from the nostrils and the corner of the mouth held his attention. He lowered his face until his nostrils were almost scraping the boy's cold flesh, then sniffed carefully. He nodded. He was able to place the smell which had baffled Frost. Next, he transferred his attention to the taped mouth. Behind it, the skin round the lips was an inflamed red and there were tiny filaments of white fibre.

  "How's it going, doc?"

  Drysdale stiffened. He didn't have to raise his head to identify the speaker and the shower of cigarette ash which floated down confirmed it. He flapped the ash away angrily and slowly looked up. There he was. Detective Inspector Jack Frost in the same battered mac, a button hanging loose, a maroon scarf trailing from his neck. Drysdale glowered. "I thought this was Mr. Allen's case . . . and kindly put that cigarette out!"

  "We're trying to find Allen," said Frost, pinching out the cigarette and crouching down beside the pathologist. "He's attending a piss-up somewhere." He jabbed a finger at the boy's face. "What are those bits of white?"

  "Cotton wool," said Drysdale. Before he could elaborate there was a scurry of activity outside with car doors slamming and the buzz of voices. Detective Inspector Allen, in evening dress, a white scarf round his neck, made a slightly unsteady entrance into the tent, bringing with him the strong reek of cigar smoke and whisky. He nodded curtly to Frost as he made his apologies to Drysdale. "Sorry for the delay, sir. I was off duty." He stared down at the body, shaking his head sadly. "What can you tell us?"

  The pathologist straightened up. "The child was anaesthetised." He pointed to the lips. "Those white fibres are from the pad of cotton wool which was used to apply the anaesthetic. It was clamped over his mouth and nose. When he was unconscious, a gag of cloth was inserted into the mouth, then the plastic tape was applied to keep it in place. Unfortunately, this meant that when the boy was sick the stomach contents couldn't escape and he choked to death on his own vomit."

  He moved to one side so Allen could examine the mouth, which he did with difficulty, his eyes trying hard to focus. He nodded. "I see."

  Must have been a bloody good booze-up, thought Frost.

  "Any sign of sexual assault?" asked Allen.

  "I haven't been able to examine him in detail. This isn't the place. Get him to the mortuary. Don't remove him from the sack and leave the plastic tape in place."

  "We'll need the sack for fingerprints," said Frost.

  "After I've removed it from the body."

  "Time of death?" asked Allen.

  "It's a cold night, which tends to slow rigor down. I would suggest he has been dead somewhere between seven and eight hours. I can be more precise once I get him to the mortuary."

  Allen studied his wrist-watch very carefully, holding it much closer to his eyes than he usually did. "Which makes the time of death . . ." Brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving, he did mental sums.

  "About five or six o'clock this evening," offered Liz Maud.

  "I can do my own sums, thank you," snapped Allen, who was a long way from calculating the answer. "Did he die here, Mr. Drysdale?"

  "No," said Frost, buttoning his mac, ready to leave them to it. "He wasn't dumped here until six at the earliest."

  Drysdale scowled. The question had been addressed to him. "Share your medical expertise with us, inspector."

  "You don't need medical bleeding expertise," said Frost. "The shops don't shut until six and that's when they put their rubbish sacks out."

  A grudging nod from Drysdale. "Yes. He died elsewhere and was dumped here probably four hours ago."

  A burst of wind rattled the canvas and creaked the metal stays. Frost wound his scarf round his neck and lifted the canvas flap. "I'll leave you to get on with it. I'm off home."

  "Hold it, Jack." Allen followed him to the street where the wind was like ice on his flushed, sweating face. "You couldn't do me a favour, I suppose?"

  No way, thought Frost. When have you ever done anything for me? "A favour?" he asked warily.

  "Flaming hell, Jack - I've been drinking. Look at me. I'm in no state to take over tonight."

  Hard bloody luck, thought Frost. You knew you were on call. You sweat it out, mate, I'm on holiday and I'm off home.

  "Just for tonight, Jack. I'll take over again first thing in the morning."

  No way, decided Frost. You wouldn't lift a finger if it was me asking you. But he said nothing. He stared at Allen, his face impassive.

  "And look at me, Jack. Evening bloody dress . . . half drunk . . . How can I break the news to the kid's parents looking like this?"

  Frost dropped his gaze. Allen had him there. A man stinking of whisky and cigars, in evening dress, swaying, speech slurred, telling you that your seven-year-old son was dead . . . murdered and probably sexually assaulted. Bloody hell. The bastard had got him. "All right," he grunted.

  Allen squeezed his arm. "You're a good 'un, Jack. I owe you one." He walked unsteadily towards the police car that had brought him from Felstead.

  There was another passenger in the car, a man also in evening dress sitting bolt upright in the back seat. Frost managed to get there before Allen opened the driver's door. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose, winking at the driver. "What a stink of cheap booze in here, driver. Get your prisoner to the drunk cell and then come straight back." He paused and reacted as if he suddenly realized who the 'prisoner' was. "Mr. Mullett! Sorry, super - didn't recognize you in the monkey suit."

  Mullett kept his face expressionless, not giving Frost the satisfaction of showing his annoyance. He stared straight ahead at the back of the neck of the police driver who was almost choking as he tried to suppress a snigger. A curt nod to Frost as Allen clambered in and dropped heavily on the seat beside him. A few muttered words to the driver and the car sped away.

  Liz Maud, seeing Allen make his exit, had renewed hopes that this would mean she would be in charge, but was disappointed to see Frost, grinning all over his face, return to the tented area where Drysdale was pulling on his leather gloves. "There's something you should see." He took the torch from his secretary, crouched by the body and shone it inside the bag. "Take a look."

  Frost squatted down beside him. There was something white, covering the boy's right hand, fastened around the wrist with yet more masking tape.

  "What is it?" asked Frost.

  "It looks like a small plastic bag," replied Drysdale. "I can't make anything of it at the moment, but once we get him on the table, I can take a better look." He straightened up and clicked off the torch. "You can remove the body now, inspector. I'll do a brief examination at the mortuary tonight, then a full post-mortem at ten tomorrow."

  "I'll let Mr. Allen know," said Frost. This was getting too complicated for him and he would be
glad to dump it back in Allen's lap. He beckoned to Burton. "Whistle up the meat wagon."

  As the Rolls-Royce slid away, its place was taken by the undertaker's plain, unmarked van. Frost checked that the undertaker and his assistant were wearing gloves before they touched the plastic sack and watched as it was lifted and zipped in a black body bag.

  PC Evans, the SOC officer, squeezed past to take photographs, and to examine the area on which the body had been lying.

  Frost drew Liz to one side. "Get back to the station and open up the murder incident room. Then ask Bill Wells for our list of known child molesters."

  "I've already got it," replied Liz. "Some pervert has been breaking into houses and stabbing toddlers in their cots."

  "Good," said Frost. "Round them all up . . . any with their dicks out still warm and throbbing, treat with suspicion. Burton, you come with me."

  Liz hesitated. "Wouldn't it be better if I came with you and Burton opened up the incident room?" If Frost was leading the enquiry, she wanted to stay with him.

  "You're not missing any fun," said Frost. "We're going to break the news to the parents - a job that Mr. Allen wriggled out of. You're welcome to come if you like."

  Liz shook her head. She couldn't face any more hysterical mothers tonight. "I'll get back to the station."

  It was easy to spot the boy's house in Lacey Street. It was the only one with its lights still on. Even before Frost's Ford had scraped its tyres to a stop along the kerb, the front door was flung open and a woman came rushing out.

  Wendy Kirby, the boy's mother, aged around twenty-five, eyes swollen from crying, had wrenched open the door. "Have you found him yet?"

  "Let's go inside, love," said Frost, lighting up the cigarette he needed to bolster up his courage.

  "We only went out for a quick drink. We hardly ever go out.".

  Frost nodded sympathetically. A man in his mid-twenties was at the door. He wore a black, imitation leather zip-up jacket. "Have you found the little sod? I'll wring his bleeding neck . . ."