A Killing Frost Page 2

  Milk Street—a cul-de-sac blocked off at one end by the brick wall of a monumental mason’s yard—had more than its fair share of boarded-up windows and rusting abandoned cars waiting for the council to get round to towing them away. Black plastic dustbin sacks, put out days too early for the weekly collection, had been ripped open by dogs and their contents spewed over the pavement.

  Skinner stepped gingerly over a slurry of discarded Indian takeaway containers and rapped on the door of Number Thirteen with the flat of his hand.

  It took several raps before Sadie Rawlings, an over-bleached blonde in her late twenties, opened the door and squinted at the warrant card. “Took your bleeding time,” she said. “I’m at me wit’s end. I phoned bleeding ages ago.”

  “Five minutes ago, actually, madam,” said Skinner as they followed her into the house.

  “Broke in through the window,” she said. “Smashed half my crockery and took the kid. There’s blood all over the place.”

  “Blood?” Skinner’s head snapped up. It was the first time this had been mentioned.

  The woman was walking unsteadily and reeked of cheap gin. A cigarette with a tube of ash quivered from her lips. Her make-up had been trowelled on. “I woke up this morning and he was gone—bloody gone!”

  The house had a stuffy smell, the lingering aroma of past meals intermingled with stale cigarette smoke and cat’s pee.

  “Right, madam,” said Skinner. “From the beginning. What time did you put the baby to bed?”

  “Six o’clock. He went straight off to sleep.”

  “And what time did you go to bed?”

  “Questions, bleeding questions. Just bloody well find him. They’ll blame me. They’ll say I neglected him. I’m a bloody good mother.”

  “I don’t dispute that, madam,” said Skinner, trying to stay patient, “but I need some answers first. What time did you go to bed?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t study the bleeding clock. Just after ten—something like that.”

  “You heard nothing during the night?”

  “Not a sodding thing and I’m a light sleeper. The kid’s only got to cough and I’m in there like a shot. I’m a bloody good mother.”

  “So you said, madam. And what time did you go into the baby’s room this morning?”

  She tried to focus bleary eyes on her wrist watch. “About half an hour ago. When I phoned you. As soon as I saw he was gone, I phoned.”

  “So he must have been taken some time between six o’clock yesterday evening and nine this morning?”

  “Bleeding marvellous. I could have bloody worked that out for myself.”

  Skinner took a deep breath. She was beginning to get on his nerves. “Could I see the baby’s room now, please?”

  She led them down the passage and flung open the door to a small room, barely furnished with a chair and a white painted cot. A sour smell came from a heap of discarded Pampers nappies on the floor. She kicked them under the cot. “I was going to tidy up but with all this bleeding upset . . .” She pulled back the curtain and daylight tried to claw its way through a dirt engrained window. The bedclothes on the cot, which looked as if they hadn’t been washed for weeks, were pulled back. The pillow, which showed the indentation of the baby’s head, was splattered with blood.

  Skinner nodded grimly. This was looking nasty “Don’t touch anything.” He went to the door and bellowed down the passage to Jordan, “Get SOCO down here now!” Returning to the woman, he said, “Show me where they broke in.”

  He followed her back down the passage to a tiny kitchen. Below a shattered sash window, the battered draining board was smothered with pieces of broken glass. Glass and broken crockery scrunched underfoot. Skinner’s nose wrinkled. There was no way he would eat any food prepared here. The walls were dirty and greasy, unwashed saucepans and food-encrusted plates were piled in the sink, which was awash with cold, grey, greasy water. There were more dirty nappies in the corner, next to a heap of unwashed clothes.

  Treading carefully to avoid the mess on the floor, Skinner moved to the broken window and peered at it closely. Rivulets of blood had run down the jagged edge of the pane. He gave a sigh of relief. It looked as if the intruder had cut himself when he smashed the glass, so the splashes on the pillow probably didn’t come from the baby. He kicked aside a piece of cup. “You had crockery stacked up by the window?”

  “I was going to wash them up,” Sadie sniffed. “You never get any free time with a kid.” She flicked ash from her cigarette into the dirty water in the sink.

  “He would have knocked them over as he clambered through the window. Don’t try and clean up the blood. Our scene-of-crime team are on their way. They’ll take samples for analysis.” Fat chance of her cleaning anything up, he thought. He looked through the broken window to the yard. “How do we get out there?”

  A back door at the end of the passage opened on to a tiny yard, which contained an overflowing dustbin surrounded by a carpet of sodden disposable nappies. The door was bolted so the abductor obviously hadn’t taken the baby out that way. He would have had to use the front door. Odds were he’d have had a car waiting outside—he wouldn’t carry a baby through the streets. Skinner slid back the bolt and opened the door.

  “Hardly Kew Gardens,” muttered Simms.

  Skinner stepped carefully over the mess and studied the gardens on each side and those running back to back. “He would have to climb over quite a few garden fences to get here from the street.” He turned to Jordan. “Check with the neighbours. See if they saw anyone climbing over their fences during the night.”

  “If they had they’d have been straight on to us,” said Jordan.

  He received a paint-blistering glare from Skinner. “That wasn’t a subject for debate, Constable, that was a bloody order. Just do it. Comprende?”

  “Comprende,” muttered Jordan. He wasn’t taking to this new chief inspector.

  Skinner turned his attention to the adjacent gardens. “All those fences to climb,” he muttered. “Whoever did this was determined to get the kiddy.” He clicked his fingers for Simms’s attention. “Let’s cover the worst-case scenario—a paedophile. Radio the station. I want everyone on the sex offenders register checked, then visited. I want to know if any of them are wearing bandages or plasters to cover cuts from broken glass. And I want their premises searched—plasters or not. If anyone refuses, we get a search warrant.”

  Simms radioed the station.

  “And where are we supposed to get the flaming manpower to do this?” demanded Wells. “What prat authorised this?”

  Skinner snatched the radio from Simms. “Chief Inspector Skinner here, Sergeant. I authorised it and I expect my orders to be carried out without question. Just do it!” He clicked off and thrust the radio back at Simms. “There are going to be some changes here. Denton seems to be staffed by idiots.”

  “You don’t think it’s a kidnapping then, sir?” asked Simms.

  “Use your flaming common sense, Constable. How much money do you think the mother could raise? I’d say a tenner, top whack.”

  “Perhaps the kid’s father wanted custody?” suggested Simms. “He wouldn’t have been happy leaving his kid with her.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Skinner, although until then it hadn’t crossed his mind. His money was still on paedophiles. “Let’s ask her.”

  Back in the living room, Sadie was draining the dregs from a near-empty gin bottle which she hastily put down.

  “Has the child’s father ever tried to get custody of the baby?”

  “He only need bleeding ask,” slurred Sadie. “He could have it gift-wrapped.”

  “We’d better check him out anyway. What’s his name? Where can we find him?”

  “I don’t know his flaming name. Charlie something. I only met him the once and he hardly said a flaming word once his trousers were off.” A rat-a-tat at the front door made her look round. “Who the hell is that?”

  Skinner jerked a thumb
at Simms. “Get it. It might be SOCO.”

  Detective Inspector Jack Frost, maroon scarf dangling from his neck, pushed past Simms and made his way up the passage. “Strong smell of cat’s pee. Sadie must be in.”

  Sadie scowled at his arrival. “Oh, it’s you,” she sniffed.

  “Only the best for you, Sadie,” breezed Frost. He kicked at some of the broken crockery on the floor. “Had a Greek wedding?”

  Sadie scowled. “My baby’s been kidnapped and he’s making bleeding jokes.”

  Skinner pushed forward. “That remark is out of order.”

  Frost stared at him. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Skinner. Detective Chief Inspector Skinner.” He emphasised the ‘Chief’. This scruff was obviously Frost, the man Mullett wanted him to get rid of, the man whose days in Denton were numbered.

  “Pleased to meet you,” grunted Frost without conviction. “Thanks for keeping my seat warm. I’ll take over now.”

  “You are not taking over, Inspector,” declared Skinner. “This is my case.” But Frost had his back to him and was talking to the mother.

  “What’s this story about a kidnapping, Sadie?”

  “I’ve already told the fat bloke.”

  Skinner pushed his way between them. “I’ve got all the details, Frost, thank you. The abductor got in through that window some time during the night. He cut himself on the broken glass and knocked all this stuff on the floor as he clambered through. He then went to the child’s room. This way—” He moved to the door of the baby’s room, but Frost seemed to have something else on his mind and was showing no inclination to follow. “This way,” repeated Skinner. Was the fool deaf?

  “Oh—all right,” said Frost vaguely.

  In the baby’s room, Skinner indicated the cot. “Blood on the pillow, but I don’t think it came from the kiddy. I’m getting SOCO down to check.” He turned and realised he was talking to himself. Where was the idiot? “Frost!” he bellowed.

  “In here,” answered Frost from the next room. Skinner rolled his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. The silly sod was in the mother’s bedroom. As Skinner moved to drag him Out, Frost stuck his head round the door and yelled down the passage, “Fanny! I want you!”

  “Don’t call me Fanny!” she snapped.

  “Sorry,” said Frost. “Association of ideas, I suppose.” He nodded at the bed, which had clothes sprawled all over it. “This your bedroom?”

  “Well, it ain’t the bleeding scullery, is it?”

  “All those tatty clothes. It looks like an Oxfam shop’s remnants sale.”

  Fed up with the scruff’s time wasting, Skinner again tried to take control. “If you can tear yourself away, I want you in the other room, Inspector.” But Frost, completely ignoring him, poked a finger at the woman. “I’ve just realised what’s been bugging me, Sadie. Why are you all tarted up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Half past nine in the morning and you’ve got your glad rags on.”

  “I can wear what I bloody like!”

  Frost ambled over to the dishevelled bed and picked up a pair of jeans and a grubby T-shirt. “These are what you usually wear in the morning, Sadie.”

  “I never said they bloody weren’t.”

  “Then what are they doing on top of the bed? A bed you were supposed to have been sleeping soundly in all night? A nice tidy girl like you wouldn’t have left them on the bed before going to sleep—she’d have chucked them on the floor.”

  Sadie spun round to Skinner. “Do you know what the sod’s on about?”

  Skinner hadn’t the faintest idea, but before he could ask, Frost was off on another tack. “Did the bastard steal your hearing aid, Sadie?”

  “Hearing aid?” she shrilled. “What hearing aid? What would I want a hearing aid for?”

  “Well, you must be bloody deaf if you slept through all that crockery crashing down on the floor.”

  “I’m a heavy sleeper. I get so worn out looking after the baby, I sleep like a log the minute my head hits the pillow.”

  “Ah,” nodded Frost. “I thought there’d be a logical explanation. And what time did your head hit the pillow last night, Sadie?”

  “I already have that information,” intervened Skinner, who saw himself getting elbowed out of the investigation. But he was puzzled. He wanted to ask his own questions. The woman was now telling Frost she was a heavy sleeper, yet she had told him that the slightest noise woke her. He checked his notes. “Just after ten.”

  Frost ignored him, his eyes riveted on the woman. “Come off it, Sadie. At ten o’clock you were still in the bloody pub being bought gin and limes by some short-sighted git who thought he was on to a good thing.”

  Her eyes blazed. “How bleeding dare you!”

  “I bleeding dare because I know, Sadie. I’m not flaming guessing, I know!”

  Her eyes spat hatred. “All right. So I might have popped out for a quick drink. Where’s the harm in that? I slave for that kid. I’m entitled to a bit of relaxation. A quick drink, then I came straight back. I was in bed by half ten.”

  “But whose bed, Sadie?” demanded Frost.

  Furiously, she turned to Skinner. “Do I have to put up with flaming insults like this?”

  Frost answered for him. “Yes, you do, Sadie. You left that poor sod of a baby all alone in the house from around eight o’clock last night until you staggered back home, half pissed, still in your glad rags, just before you phoned to report him missing.”

  She clawed her hands, looking ready to scratch his eyes out with her long, red-painted finger nails. “All bleeding lies. I’ll have you up for defamation of character. What sort of a bleeding mother do you think I am?”

  Frost smiled sweetly. “I’m a policeman, Sadie, and we’re not allowed to use that sort of language, even to a slag like you.” His expression changed. “Now stop sodding us about. I’ve got better bloody things to do. I’ve got a rapist to catch and bits of leg to find. I know. I know everything. I even know where your baby is at this precise moment in time.”

  Sadie stared at him. “You know? I’m flaming worried sick and you know!”

  “Worried sick? You’ve been out all night. You didn’t give a sod about the kid. The poor little mite was screaming at four o’clock this morning. It woke up your next-door neighbour. He got out of bed, banged on your front door, then when he got no reply he climbed in through the kitchen window.”

  “The interfering bastard,” she shrilled. “He can pay for that smashed crockery.”

  “He banged and shouted at your bedroom door, just in case you were spending the night in with the kiddy for a change. He looked inside. The bed was empty. The kid was screaming and throwing up, so he and his girlfriend took it to Denton General Hospital, from where I’ve just come. Your baby is there now.”

  Sadie dropped down into a chair. “The bastards. They break into my house and take my kid. They don’t give a sod that I’d be worried sick.”

  “I doubt if they thought that was even an outside possibility. Anyway, they said they stuck a note through your letter box, telling you where the baby was.”

  She gave a scornful sniff. “What bloody note?” She frowned as a thought struck her. “Oh—that bloody note!” She flapped a dismissive hand. “They know I never read their flaming notes. They’re always complaining about something with their lousy notes. They’ve always got something to moan about—the noise . . . the smell . . . I didn’t read it. I tore it up.” She rummaged in the ashtray, found a dog-end and lit up, coughing as she exhaled smoke. “So all’s bleeding well that ends well. Thanks for your trouble. I collect my kid now. You going to give me a lift?”

  “A lift to the nick for wasting police time, Sadie. Now tell us exactly what happened last night, and keep the lies down to a minimum.”

  She dragged smoke down to her lungs, coughed and spluttered, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “All right. Forget what I said before. I was so upset with that tosser n
ext door nicking my baby, I wasn’t thinking straight.” She managed one last drag before the filter tip started burning. “Any chance of a fag?”

  “No,” said Frost. “They’re bad for you. It says so on the packet.”

  She flopped down on the bed. “Bastard! OK. Last night. I put the kid to bed around seven. He went straight off. He wasn’t bloody crying like those bastards said otherwise I wouldn’t have left him, would I? I thought I’d nip out for a quick drink. One drink—there and back, ten minutes, top whack! I didn’t intend to stay.”

  “But you tarted yourself up in your glad rags, just in case?”

  “I’m not like you, Mr. Jack bloody Frost. I don’t go out dressed like a tramp. Do you want to hear what happened, or are you going to keep chipping in with your stupid remarks?”

  “Both,” said Frost, waving a hand for her to continue.

  “Right. Like I said, one drink, straight back—that’s what I intended. Anyway, I was chatting to this bloke and the sod must have put something in my drink because when I woke up I was in his bed, it was eight o’clock in the morning and the bastard had gone to work. I didn’t have enough money for a cab so I had to wait ages for a bleeding bus.”

  “Is that what you charge these days, Sadie?” asked Frost. “Your bus fare?”

  Sadie spun round on him. “Shut your shitty mouth, you ignorant bastard.”

  “Kindly address those sort of remarks to my superior officer,” said Frost, nodding towards Skinner.

  Skinner glowered. Was the fool trying to be funny? He thought he heard PC Jordan sniggering in the background, but wasn’t sure. All right, Frost, he thought grimly, you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face, Sunny Jim, when you know what I’ve got in store for you.

  “Anyway,” Frost continued, winding the maroon scarf more tightly round his neck, “I’ve got bits of leg to find, so I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Detective Chief Inspector Skinner. It’s his case, not mine.”

  As Frost breezed out there was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” he called. “Probably that bloke from last night, Sadie, asking for his change.”