Frost 4 - Hard Frost Read online

  They were passing a small isolated house when, suddenly, she slammed on the brakes. His head hit the windscreen. He had forgotten to put the seat belt on. "What the hell . . . ?"

  "Sorry," she said, getting out of the car. "That house. There was no reply this morning when I knocked to ask about the van. Someone's in now."

  "Oh - the non-existent bleeding van loaded up with naked tart," said Frost, rubbing the bump on his forehead. "Well, make it quick." He watched her walk up the path and knock on the door. An elderly man answered.

  "Control to Mr. Frost."

  He picked up the handset. "Frost. He listened. It wasn't good news.

  Liz was scribbling down the details the old man was giving her when the car horn blasted out repeatedly. She tried to ignore it, but it went on and on. Frost was waving frantically and yelling for her to return. Muttering apologies to the old boy, she raced back to the car. What was up now?

  Frost, now in the driving seat, had the passenger door open for her. "Get in," he yelled, and the car was away even before she had the door shut.

  "Why did you drag me away?" she protested. "I was getting details. The old boy saw the non-existent van going towards the Stanfield house late last night. Even gave me the colour - light brown."

  Frost skidded the car round a tight bend and removed several inches of hedge in the process. "I've had Control on the radio. Arthur Hanlon's search party - those old bungalows. They've found a body."

  Liz went cold. The boy?"

  "Life's not that bleeding simple," snorted Frost. "It's not a boy - it's a man, probably a dosser. It never rains flaming bodies, it pours!"

  The car wheezed its way up the steep gradient of Denton Hills, its engine making unhappy noises and giving off the smell of burning oil. They were behind the woods in a barren section of the district. Years ago a sprawl of pre-war bungalows and weekend shanties had occupied the area, their dwellers living in primitive conditions without mains drainage or electricity. These substandard dwellings were deemed unfit for human occupation and some twenty years earlier the Council had re housed the occupants and compulsorily acquired the land for a building project for which it had long since given up trying to raise the money. The empty properties were quickly vandalized and opened up to the weather and were now of no interest, even to the local tearaways. Roofless, windows smashed, doors torn off their hinges, the flimsy buildings cowered under the wind and weather. The whole area was overgrown with vegetation and stunk of damp, rot and decay.

  Arthur Hanlon and a uniformed man were waiting for them, hands in pockets, stamping their feet for warmth. The sun was a watery yellow in a clear sky. It was going to be a freezing cold night.

  Hanlon led them across what was once a front garden, overgrown grass slapping at their legs. It fronted the shell of an asbestos-walled bungalow, painted in now-faded pink. Frost peeked in through the glassless windows on to strewn rubbish and charred floorboards where someone, years ago, had tried to start a fire, but the wood was too damp to burn. "I wish my place was as tidy as this," he muttered.

  They trudged round the side to the rear. Other overgrown gardens could be seen, many of them with ramshackle wooden structures like sentry boxes. "Outdoor privies," said Hanlon. "The old bucket and wooden seat - there was no mains sewerage."

  "The body's not in one of them?" asked Frost apprehensively.

  Hanlon shook his head.

  A sigh of relief from Frost. "If he'd known I was going to be on the case he'd have died head first down an unemptied privy bucket."

  Hanlon grinned. Frost had an affinity for mucky cases. "He's in a bunker, Jack."

  "A bunker? It's not bloody Hitler, is it?"

  "A coal bunker. Over there." He pointed to where a uniformed officer stood guarding a taped-off section. The undergrowth was almost waist-high, but had been trampled down to form a path leading to an almost concealed brick-built coal bunker, four feet long, three feet high. A rusted sheet of corrugated iron that had once covered the open top was propped to one side. A strong smell of putrefaction drifted out to greet them.

  Frost wrinkled his nose. "Bloody hell, Arthur, what have I told you about changing your socks?"

  Hanlon giggled. "We reckon it's probably a dosser . . . crept in there to sleep and got hypothermia."

  Frost took a deep breath and looked inside. "Bloody hell!" He moved back and sucked in great gulps of clean, cold air. He passed his cigarettes around and moved a few steps back, but the smell seemed to be following him. Liz pushed forward to take a look, but Frost held out a restraining hand. "Best if you don't, love."

  Angrily she shook his hand off. "I've seen bodies before." She took a breath and looked down. Huddled at the bottom of the bunker, in some inches of soupy rain water, were the remains of a man. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition and the face, covered with black mould, was unrecognizable. She moved back, exhaled slowly, then took some deep breaths. She fought back the urge to be sick.

  "Are you all right?" asked Frost.

  "Yes," she snapped. "Perfectly all right."

  "Remind me to tell you of that dead tramp I found in a heat-wave," he said. "You could have poured him away. It made this one smell like Chanel Number 5 in comparison . . ."

  "Don't let him tell you that story, Liz," said Arthur Hanlon. "Not on a full stomach - I was sick for three days after I heard it."

  "You're thinking of the other one," said Frost. "The bloke who drunk the contents of the spittoon for a bet."

  Hanlon went white. "I'd forgotten all about that one." He pulled a face. "If you value your stomach, Liz, don't let him tell you that story either."

  A short tubby figure carrying a medical bag came puffing towards them. Frost waved. "Over here, doctor."

  Dr. Maltby beamed when he saw the inspector. "I thought you were on holiday?"

  "They couldn't do without me, doc." He jerked a thumb at the bunker. "There's your patient."

  Maltby took a quick look. "I confirm life is extinct."

  "Is that all we get for our bloody money? How long has he been dead?"

  The doctor shrugged. "No idea, Jack. Weeks - probably months. Was that corrugated iron sheeting on the top when you found him?"

  "Yes," confirmed Hanlon.

  "Sun beating down on that would make it like an oven - and there's a good two inches of water down there to speed things up. Decomposition could start in hours."

  "Cause of death?"

  "No idea. If you drag him out I'll take a further look, but if you think I'm going to climb down inside . . ."

  "Sod it!" sighed Frost. He pulled Hanlon to one side. "Pathologist, Forensic, SOCs, the works, Arthur. You know the drill."

  "You think it might be murder?"

  "There's water and broken bricks at the bottom of that bunker, Arthur. A dosser would have to be pretty hard up for a bed to sleep on that."

  "I'm off then," said Maltby, backing away.

  "Thanks, doc," said Frost. "If you hadn't told us he was dead we'd still be pushing aspirins down the poor sod's throat." He waved him off, then returned to Hanlon. "You'd better han ale this one, Arthur. It was your team who found him, you can suffer the consequences." He took one last look at the bunker and shuddered. "I'd hate to be one of the blokes who have to lift him out. Don't pull him up by his arms, they might come off in your hand . . . and for the same reason, don't lift him by his dick."

  Liz screwed up her face in distaste. She didn't find death the least bit funny.

  "We're going to need some more help, Jack," Hanlon called after them.

  "Our beloved Divisional Commander has it all in hand," said Frost. "We're getting another detective inspector."

  As they climbed back into the car, Liz had an awful thought and consulted Frost for reassurance. "You don't think Mr. Mullett is going to upgrade Sergeant Hanlon to acting DI?"

  "No," said Frost, wriggling down into the passenger seat. "Arthur's a lovely bloke, but, like me, he hasn't got the making of an inspector and Mulle
tt knows it."

  "Oh," said Liz. She smiled to herself. Then it would definitely be her.

  Bill Wells sipped his mug of tea and took a sly drag at his cigarette. His first chance to relax all afternoon. Mullett had been flapping in and out, wanting to know if anyone had been asking for him, but not explaining who he was expecting. A blast of wind as the main doors opened. With practised skill, he pinched out the cigarette and slid his mug of tea under the counter top. "Can I help you, sir?"

  The man, carrying a suitcase, walked across to the desk. Fair-haired, thickset and in his early forties, he gave a curt nod.

  A cry of recognition from Wells, 'Jim Cassidy! What are you doing back in Denton?"

  Cassidy put down the suitcase and twitched a wan smile. His manner was far less enthusiastic than the sergeant's. "Hello, Bill."

  "I've heard you've been in the wars - some bastard stabbed you?"

  Cassidy nodded, his expression making it clear this was something he didn't want to talk about. "I'm here to see Mr. Mullett."

  So this was why Mullett had been flapping. And not a word to a flaming soul! "May I ask what about?" said Wells, picking up the internal phone and dialling Mullett's number.

  Cassidy frowned. Surely the news should have been out by now? "I'm back in the division for a while. I'm going to be your acting detective inspector."

  Well's jaw dropped. Cassidy! Acting detective inspector? Cassidy who was a trainee constable while Wells was already a sergeant. Some people, if their faces fitted, would always rise in the ranks. While others who flogged their guts out, worked all the hours God sent, were bunged on the rota every bloody Christmas . . . He realized Mullett had answered and was barking angrily in his ear. "Detective Sergeant Cassidy to see you, sir . . . Yes, sir." He put the phone down. "Go straight through, Jim. You know the way."

  Cassidy nodded and slid his suitcase across the counter top for safekeeping. At the swing doors he paused. "Important point, sergeant. While I'm acting inspector, I want to be treated as such. Call me inspector, or sir - not Jim."

  Forcing a smile, Wells seethed inwardly. You bastard! Pulling rank on me! "Very good . . . sir," he said, through clenched teeth. "By the way . . . sir. I saw your wife - sorry your ex-wife in town the other day."

  Cassidy stiffened. He wouldn't turn round. He had no intention of letting the sod know how deeply that shaft had hit home. "Did you, sergeant? How was she?"

  "She looked great. Her new husband was with her. They both looked very happy."

  The swing doors closed shut behind him and Wells chortled with wicked delight. "Game, set and match," he beamed, retrieving his mug of tea.

  "What was that all about, Sarge?"

  Wells turned his head. PC Collier on his way up to his meal break had seen the little drama enacted.

  Normally Wells would have told him to mind his own business, but basking in the warm glow of his little victory he was only too pleased to explain. "That big-headed git you just saw go through is Jim Cassidy. He was a detective constable here some four years ago - before your time. Career mad . . . nothing was going to stop him getting on and he didn't give a toss who he stepped on to get there. Grabbed all the credit, even when it wasn't his, and worked all the hours going without claiming overtime, which made him Mullett's blue-eyed boy. Anyway, one night he'd promised to take his teenage daughter out to see a film she'd been dying to see, but a job came up so he cried off. She went out on her own and got knocked down and killed by a hit and run driver. He went to pieces and his marriage broke up. He started criticizing everyone here because we couldn't trace the hit and run driver and became impossible to work with. So he was transferred to Lexford, at which point we stopped hating him and they started."

  "And now we've got him back as acting detective inspector?"

  Wells nodded grimly. "And that will put the cat amongst the pigeons, I promise you." There was a bit more to the story, but Wells was keeping it to himself. He couldn't wait to see Jack Frost's face when he told him Cassidy was back. The internal phone rang. Mullett. Demanding two coffees.

  Wells looked round, but Collier had gone. "Sorry, sir, I've got no one to send."

  "And some biscuits," said Mullett, putting down the phone.

  "Come in, Jim, come in," said Mullett warmly, hand outstretched. "Good to have you back in the division."

  Cassidy shook the offered hand and noted with relief that there was a hard-seated chair in front of the polished mahogany desk. But to his dismay, Mullett waved him towards one of the two deep-cushioned armchairs reserved for important visitors. Damn! He could lower himself in it all right, but the effort of hauling himself from its depths would trigger off the pain again. He gritted his teeth and sat down. No-one must know he was still suffering from the after effects of the stabbing, not if his promotion to Inspector was to go through this time. He turned a grimace into a smile of thanks as a ripple of pain sizzled across his stomach. The seat was lower than he thought and there was no support and it was pulling on his wound.

  Mullett took the other armchair, concerned to see Cassidy looking so drawn. "Sorry to hear about the stabbing. Are you all right now?"

  "I'm fine," lied Cassidy. He was learning to mask the pain. He had fooled the police doctor and should have little difficulty in fooling Mullett and his pack of dummies. "I'm anxious to get started, sir. I understand Inspector Allen was handling a murdered boy enquiry. When can I take over?"

  "One dead boy, one missing boy," corrected Mullett. He paused as a sullen-looking Sergeant Wells came in with the coffees and banged them down on the desk, spilling some into the saucers. He waited until Wells had left before continuing. "You'll be working with Mr. Frost on this one."

  Cassidy's head snapped up. "Frost! Jack Frost?"

  Mullett saw something very interesting to look at through the window the blank wall on the other side of the road. "Er . . . quite so."

  "My understanding was - '

  "Circumstances have changed," interrupted Mullett. "I had intended you would be taking complete charge of Mr. Allen's cases and working on your own - '

  "That was the only reason I agreed to come back here," cut in Cassidy. "You will appreciate that Denton has many unhappy memories for me."

  "I understand that, but nevertheless you will be working under Mr. Frost."

  "Under? I'm an acting detective inspector. I didn't come all the way back here just to stay a sergeant."

  "The Chief Constable is a little concerned as to your fitness . . ."

  "I'm perfectly fit."

  ". . . and he has a much higher opinion of Frost than, perhaps, those who have to work with him have. He wants you to work under Frost's authority as he considers this is a case requiring the leadership of an experienced officer."

  With difficulty Cassidy pushed himself out of the chair, his anger overcoming the pain. "I am sorry, sir. I would find it impossible to work with Frost. The way he mismanaged the investigation into the death of my daughter . . ."

  Mullett gave a deep sigh. "I know you weren't happy at the way he handled the case. I agree he's unorthodox - "

  "Unorthodox," exploded Cassidy. "He's more than unorthodox. He's sloppy, lazy, inefficient, devious - '

  "That will do!" An angry Mullett pounded his fist on the desk. It was not that he disagreed with the views expressed - he, himself, might have gone further but he wasn't having this sort of talk from a sergeant, especially one from another division who could well carry a report of the conversation back. He was concerned that Frost's deficiencies should not be too widely known, otherwise his chances of dumping the man on another, unsuspecting division would be minimal. "Whatever your feelings, Cassidy, you will put them to one side. The Chief Constable has decreed that you will work with Mr. Frost and that he will be the senior officer."

  "I am not happy with this, sir."

  "I take note of your unhappiness," said Mullett, 'but would advise you to take full advantage of this opportunity." He gave his crocodile smile. "Any successes tha
t you achieve will be duly noted and, should the time come for Inspector Frost to be replaced . . ." He spread his palms significantly and let the option hang. "However, if you decide you cannot work with him, I am sure County can find some other sergeant who would be only too pleased to improve his promotional chances by acting as inspector."

  Cassidy grunted. "I'll work with him."

  "Good man," beamed Mullett. "Well, I expect you will want to get started. You'll be in Mr. Allen's office. You know where it is." He stood up to indicate the interview was over. "I'm glad we've had this little chat."

  A stab of pain caught Cassidy by surprise as he pushed himself up. He winced and gritted his teeth.

  "You all right?" Mullett asked.

  "Leg a bit stiff after the journey," explained Cassidy, forcing himself not to limp as he crossed to the door.

  "Oh - one other thing," said Mullett, making his carefully rehearsed speech sound like an afterthought. "That business with your daughter . . ."

  Cassidy turned slowly to face the Divisional Commander. "Yes?"

  "Over and done with - all in the past." Mullett gave Cassidy's arm a 'man to man' squeeze.

  "Yes," said Cassidy, tersely. "All in the past." There was no one in the passage outside so he was able to allow himself the luxury of a limp back to Allen's office.

  Thomas Arnold, assistant branch manager at Benning-ton's Bank, blinked nervously at Frost through thick-lensed glasses. By his side stood the cashier who had attended to Stanfield when he withdrew the £25,000 that morning. He waited for his secretary to give Frost and Liz a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, then nodded for the cashier to proceed.

  "Mr. Stanfield was waiting outside the bank when we opened at nine-thirty," the cashier told them. "He handed me his withdrawal request. I raised my eyebrows and said, "Rather a large sum!" And he said, "Just get it!" I obviously didn't have that amount of money in my till and it was more than I like to count out over the counter, so I took him round to Mr. Arnold's office to wait while we fetched the money from the vault."