A Killing Frost Read online

  Morgan closed it carefully. “I’ve heard about Skinner from my old division, Guv. He makes everyone else do the hard graft, then he steps in and takes the credit.”

  “I know,” nodded Frost. “It’s like sweating away on the foreplay, then some other sod gets his leg over.” His internal phone rang. Lambert from Control.

  “PC Jordan wants you to get over to Denton Lake right away, Inspector. They’ve found something.”

  Frost’s heart skipped a beat. “The girl?” whispered. God, not the girl.

  “No, Inspector. Another piece of chopped-off leg.”

  “Shit!” said Frost.

  3

  Frost, DC Taffy Morgan at his side, gazed down gloomily at the muddy, evil-smelling piece of flesh, half-hidden in long, straggling, rain-beaten grass. Jordan and Simms looked on like two puppies wagging their tails at finding the ball for their master. Pity you didn’t chuck the flaming thing in the lake and say nothing, thought Frost. More flaming paperwork to no avail.

  “It’s a bit of leg,” said Jordan.

  “I know,” sniffed Frost. “I’m a leg man, but it doesn’t turn me on. There’s probably more choice bits lurking about for some silly sod to find, but we haven’t the time or the resources to look for them. Bag it up. See what Forensic make of it.” He was still hoping this was some medical student’s idea of a joke, but had the growing suspicion that it was going to turn out to be something a lot more sinister.

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette and looked around. They were on the outskirts of the lake which had been a magnet for dead bodies so many times in the past. He mooched over to the water’s edge and stared down into the green, slimy water which was being rippled by the cutting wind. At the far end a duck squawked and flapped its wings as it skimmed across the surface. He shivered. It was flaming cold standing here. No way Debbie would risk her brand-new bikini in this slimy muck.

  Another possibility kick-started—something he hadn’t considered before. Supposing the boy had done away with Debbie, then roared off in panic. She could have told him she was pregnant and would name him as the father. Possible but the unsubstantiated thought wasn’t getting him anywhere. Where the hell was she and where the hell was the boy? She would have come back for her birthday if she could. He kept trying to kid himself she wouldn’t, but . . . He stared again over the lake and shivered, this time not from the cold. He had one of his doom-laden premonitions.

  He nodded at the lake. “I think she’s in there,” he said flatly. He knew he would never get Mullett’s permission to call the underwater search team out just on the strength of one of his nasty feelings, when their past record had such a low success rate. But he felt strongly this time.

  He turned to Morgan and indicated a dilapidated rowing boat, half in, half out of the lake, its bottom awash with muddy water. “Feel like a row, Taff?”

  Morgan stared at the boat in dismay. “Flaming heck, Guv, look at the holes in the bottom. It’s like a sieve. I can’t swim.”

  “I can’t play the violin,” said Frost, “but I don’t moan about it.” He signalled to Jordan. “Push the boat out. Have a prod around with Taffy. She might be in there.”

  Jordan was equally unenthusiastic and surveyed the leaky rowing boat with apprehension. “Is that an order, Inspector?”

  Frost shook his head. “Of course not, son. You’ve both volunteered.”

  He sat in the car with the heater going full blast, sucking at a cigarette as he listened to the local news on the radio.

  . . . Denton Police are appealing for help in tracing the whereabouts of two teenagers, Debbie Clark and Thomas Harris, who did not return home after a cycle ride yesterday evening. Anyone with information . . .

  Bleeding Mullett, jumping the gun. Appeals to the public always brought an abundant crop of false sightings which some poor sod had to follow through. And I’ll be that poor sod, he thought ruefully.

  His head jerked up. What was that? It sounded like Jordan calling. He groaned. God, they’d found her. They’d found the girl. He clicked the radio off and flung open the car door. The cry was repeated. But it wasn’t Jordan. It was the squawk of a flaming duck flying overhead. He sank back in his seat in relief. He didn’t want them to find her. He wanted Debbie to be safe and well. But she was dead . . . He just knew it.

  He started to fidget. Sitting, doing nothing, wasn’t his way of working, so he mashed out the cigarette and climbed out of the car.

  Another cry. But it wasn’t the duck this time. It was Jordan. “Inspector!” It was the urgent cry of someone who had found something nasty.

  The two men were near the far side of the lake, the boat tilting over at an alarming angle as they both leant over one side to try to pull something out of the water. They were in grave danger of capsizing the rowing boat. They were dragging something out of the lake. Not a body. It was a red cycle, which didn’t seem to have been in the water for very long.

  Frost’s heart sank. Debbie’s bike was red. It had to be her bike.

  For once, he didn’t want his gut feeling to be proved correct. Then he heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Debbie’s. It was a man’s bike. And the boyfriend’s bike was blue, so it couldn’t be his.

  “Chuck it back,” he called. “It’s a man’s bike . . . Women’s bikes don’t have bars in case it snags their bloomers.”

  “You’re behind the times, Inspector,” yelled Jordan. “Bikes are unisex now.”

  Frost went cold. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  With a final heave they hauled the dripping bike into the boat. Jordan bent and examined it. “Same make and same serial number, Inspector. It’s Debbie Clark’s bike.”

  Frost turned his back against the wind and lit up another cigarette. Shit and double shit. He waited impatiently while they rowed across, stepping back as they humped the bike out of the boat and laid it on the grass. He double-checked the serial number, but Jordan was right. He took another look at the murky, icy water. If her bike was there, the girl’s body could be there, caught up in jettisoned debris somewhere—perhaps the boy’s body as well. Why had he been so bloody cocksure in assuring the parents they’d soon be back home again, safe and sound. He shook his head to dispel the morbid thought. They’d found the bike, that was all. Debbie could still be alive and well, shacked up with the boy somewhere, miles away. But that didn’t make sense. Why dump the bike? She’d need it to get home again. And why chuck it in the lake so it wouldn’t be found? No. She had to be in that lake. There was enough evidence now for him to ask Mullett to call the police frogmen in and do a thorough search.

  “Get it over to Forensic,” he told them. “I doubt if any prints have survived submersion, but don’t confuse them by adding your own.”

  He pulled the mobile from his pocket and rang Mullett.

  “I’m at Denton Woods, Super. We’ve just fished Debbie Clark’s bike out of the lake. I think her body’s in there. We’re going to have to call the underwater search team in.”

  He watched impassively. It was just a matter of time before they dragged the kid’s body up. Her thirteenth bleeding birthday. All her cards waiting to be opened. He dreaded going back to the house and breaking the news. Not many bloody laughs in this job.

  The underwater team waded out and plunged under the surface. His heart juddered skipped a beat each time they hauled something up and dumped it in their rowing boat. As the boat filled it was rowed to the shore and its contents dumped. Soon the shore round the lake was littered with retrieved debris, including supermarket trolleys, a DVD player and a video recorder whose serial numbers tallied with goods stolen during an ancient burglary, and a long-dead fox.

  Morgan and Jordan, in the small rowing boat, were keeping well out of the way of the frogmen, and were prodding the bottom with a large pole. “Over here,” called Morgan, waving frantically at the frogmen. “I think it’s a body . . .”

  “Don’t let it be,” pleaded Frost to himself “Please, don’t
let it be.”

  He had to force himself to look as two of the frogmen broke the surface, hauling up a bulging dustbin liner, water streaming from holes in the bottom. With difficulty, Morgan and Jordan got it into the boat and rowed over to where Frost was waiting.

  “Not heavy enough to be a body, Guv,” reported Morgan.

  “Don’t sound too bleeding disappointed,” snapped Frost. The sack was tied with string, secured by tight knots. He slashed the string with his penknife, stepping back quickly as evil-smelling lake water belched out. “You found it, Taff. To you the honour of looking inside.”

  Very gingerly, Morgan slipped his hand inside and pulled out a sodden item of clothing. “Men’s trousers, Guv,” he announced.

  “They’re girls’ slacks, you Welsh git. You’re so busy pulling them down from the scrubbers you go out with, you don’t notice they haven’t got a fly opening.” But Debbie hadn’t been wearing slacks when she left the previous night, so unless she’d changed somewhere . . .

  Morgan delved inside, again and pulled out more women’s clothes: a sodden yellow sweater, a bra, black tights, and a pair of trainers with half a brick wedged inside to make the plastic sack sink. Frost shook his head. “These aren’t Debbie’s clothes.” He prodded the sodden sweater with his foot, then picked it up to examine it more closely. It was turned inside out as if it had been dragged off over the head. He then held up the bra. The fasteners were hanging by a thread as if the bra had been ripped off. This wasn’t looking too happy. It looked as if the clothes had been forcibly removed.

  “Any other girls reported missing recently, Guv?” asked Morgan.

  “Girls are always being reported missing,” grunted Frost. “And as far as ‘recently’ goes, these clothes could have been dumped here months ago.” He dropped the sweater on top of the rest of the clothes. “Stuff them back in the sack and let Forensic have a sniff. And when we get back to the station you can go through the records to see if the clothes match the description of any girl reported missing.”

  “Inspector Frost!”

  He turned round. One of the underwater team on the far side of the lake was splashing to the shore, holding something aloft in his hand. At first Frost couldn’t make out what it was, then he cursed vehemently. “Shit!”

  It was another chunk of chopped-off foot.

  An hour and four cigarettes later, the frogmen called off their search. “Nothing else there, Inspector.”

  “Good,” beamed Frost, nodding towards the debris that littered the ground. “Put all this stuff back where you found it, then you can go home.”

  The senior frogman grinned. “Wouldn’t want to do your chaps out of a job.” He made his way back to the van.

  Frost kicked at a rusting petrol can. “So where’s the boy’s flaming bike?” he muttered “He’ll be our prime suspect if we find the girl’s body.” He looked out again over the lake. Jordan and Morgan had retrieved the bike from somewhere in the middle. So how did it get there? It couldn’t have been thrown that far. Of course! The flaming leaking rowing boat. There could be prints on the oars. But damn! Everyone had been using the boat. It would be smothered in prints by now, covering up the originals. A waste of time sending it to Forensic. Still, it would give the lazy sods something to do. “And get the boat and oars over to Forensic,” he called.

  His mobile chirped. Bill Wells from the station again. “The girl’s father has phoned, Jack. Wants to know the latest.”

  “Knickers,” cursed Frost. “He’s bound to want to take me out and buy me a drink and I haven’t got time. I’ll go round and see him on my way back and tell him we’ve found his daughter’s bike. Get the main Incident Room ready, Bill, I’ve got one of my nasty feelings about this.”

  “You’d better tell Superintendent Mullett first. He hates to find these things out by accident.”

  “I know, I know,” sighed Frost. “As soon as I get the flaming time—bits of legs, blackmail at the supermarket, missing teenagers and that bloody rape. Where’s Skinner? It’s about time that fat sod did a bit of work.”

  “He’s in with Mullett. The red light’s on, we mustn’t disturb them.”

  “Red light? They’re having a love-in.”

  Wells chuckled. “Oh—something else, Jack. The boy’s parents have returned from holiday. They’ve found your note and want to know what it’s all about.”

  Frost groaned again. “Right, leave it to me.” He rang off and turned to DS Arthur Hanlon, who had just arrived. “Job for you, Arthur. Go and see the boy’s parents. Just tell them we think he’s run away with the girl and we’ve got everyone out looking for them. Don’t tell them we’ve found Debbie’s bike. I’ll be round with that news after I’ve seen the girl’s father.”

  “Right, Jack.”

  “One other thing. Do a wee for me when you get the chance—I’m busting—and do one for yourself.”

  Hanlon grinned and hurried off to his car. As Frost slid into the driving seat of his own car, the flaming mobile rang yet again. It felt hot as he pressed it to his ear. It was an angry sounding DCI Skinner.

  “What’s this about the Incident Room being prepared?” he barked.

  Frost told him about the discovery of the bike. “Then who gave you permission to turn it into a murder inquiry?” hissed Skinner. “In future you make no decisions without checking with me first and obtaining my express permission. From now on, I do the murder cases. You’re off this one. I’m taking over. Comprende?”

  “Jawohl, mein herr,” said Frost, giving a Nazi salute as he clicked off the phone. One less case for him to sod up. He was thinking about the luxury of doing a wee and having something to eat when the flaming mobile rang again.

  “Billy King!” said Wells as soon as Frost answered.

  “Billy King?” echoed Frost, frowning. The name rang a distant bell. His brain riffled through its data bank and came up with scraps information. “Tubby little sod. Didn’t I nick him years ago? House-breaking, petty larceny . . .”

  “That’s him,” said Wells.

  “Then what about him?”

  “You asked me to check with the building society about that account number. It belongs to Billy King.”

  “Bloody hell!” exclaimed Frost happily. “We don’t often get luck like this. He’s used his own flaming card. The man’s a prat. I’ll put my wee on hold and pay him a visit right now.”

  “Before you do, Jack, DCI Skinner wants you to go round to the Clarks’ and break the news that we’ve found Debbie’s bike. He hasn’t got time to do it now.”

  “As long as he said ‘please’,” said Frost sweetly, before ending the call and hurling obscenities into the air.

  Clark glowered at him. “What the hell do you want, Frost? I was told you were off this case.”

  “I’m no longer in charge,” explained Frost, “but Detective Chief Inspector Skinner asked me to call with the latest developments.”

  “And they are?”

  “I think I’d better come in,” said Frost.

  He followed Clark into the lounge, where Mrs. Clark sat huddled in an armchair. She looked up in alarm as Frost entered. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Frost. “It could mean nothing. I just don’t know. We’ve found Debbie’s bike.” He gave them the details.

  “Why was her bike thrown in the lake?” shrieked Mrs. Clark. “Something’s happened to her. I just know it.”

  So do I, thought Frost, but he kept his face impassive. “There could be all sorts of reasons, Mrs. Clark. She could have left the bike somewhere, someone stole it, rode off, then dumped it in the lake. That sort of thing often happens.”

  “She could be drowned in that lake.”

  “That’s the only thing we’re positive about at the moment. We’ve had the frogmen out. She isn’t in the lake, that I promise you.”

  “Then where the bloody hell is she?” demanded Clark.

  “She could be holed up with the boy somewhere,
too frightened to come home.”

  “If she is, I’ll wring that lad’s neck,” snarled Clark.

  Mrs. Clark had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing convulsively. “She’s dead. I just know it. My little Debbie . . . she’s dead.”

  “We’ll find her,” said Frost, hoping he sounded convincing. “Try not to worry. We’ll find her.”

  Clark showed him out. “You’d better bloody find her,” he snarled. “And if your procrastination has caused my daughter any harm, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  Thank God that’s over, thought Frost as he climbed into his car. If we do find her body, I hope bloody Skinner is the one to break the news. So now for Billy King.

  Billy King’s house was a shabby-looking, two storey property, standing all on its own on disused farmland. Parked in front of the house was a dilapidated caravan, its flaking cream and green paint showing large patches of rust, the wheels sunk deep in muddied ruts.

  PC Collier watched Frost pound on the front door with the flat of his hand and rattle the letter box. They could hear sounds from inside, but no one came to the door. Frost banged again, emphasising his knocking with a couple of hefty kicks.

  At last the door was opened by a squat little double-chinned man in his shirtsleeves.

  “Give us a flaming chance! Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it!” Then recognition dawned. He poked a podgy finger at the inspector. “Detective Sergeant Frost! Cor, haven’t you aged?”

  “Detective Inspector,” corrected Frost.

  “Inspector?” gasped King incredulously. “They’ve never made you a flaming inspector!” He turned to PC Collier. “Frost was always a scream—a pleasure being arrested by him cos he always made you laugh!”

  “Then this will make you flaming wet yourself,” Frost told him. “I’ve got a warrant to search your premises.”