A Killing Frost (51 page)

‘I see,’ said Mullett. ‘Yes, I see., Thank you for telling me.’ He put the phone down. ‘That was my contact in County,’ he told Frost. ‘A bit of good news for us. They’ve just had the post mortem results on DCI Skinner. It seems he died instantly from the gunshot wound.’

   ‘So he was already dead when Taylor was asking for a hostage?’ said Frost.

   ‘Er - yes, it would appear so,’ conceded Mullett begrudgingly.

   ‘Which means that if I had sent in Kate Holby as you wanted, we’d have risked her life and got sod all in return?’

   ‘Ah - yes,’ mumbled Mullett, wishing Frost wouldn’t keep rubbing his nose in it. ‘But we weren’t to know that at the time, of course. With hindsight - ’

   ‘You don’t get the benefit of hindsight in this job,’ snapped Frost. ‘You have to use your common sense.’

   ‘Yes, quite,’ nodded Mullett. ‘My thoughts exactly.’ He quickly changed the subject. ‘Any news on the tractor driver?’

   ‘Nothing yet. So if that’s all . . .’ Frost was out of his chair and away before Mullett could reply. Back in his office, he snatched up the phone.

   ‘No, Inspector,’ said Lambert patiently. ‘Still no news. When there is, I promise you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Flaming heck, Jack. Are you still here?’

   Sergeant Wells’s voice woke him with a start. He blinked and scrubbed his face. He’d fallen asleep at his desk. ‘Damn. I must have dropped off.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘What time is it?’

   ‘Half past one in the morning.’

   ‘Has Allen been sighted yet?’

   ‘We’d have told you if he had. Look, Jack, go home and get some proper kip. If he’s spotted we can phone you.’

   Frost yawned again and shook his head. He didn’t feel tired any more and he certainly didn’t feel like going back to that empty house. ‘Do you know how much that smarmy estate agent reckons my house is worth? Eighty-five flaming K. He says it’s a tip.’

   ‘Estate agents always over-price houses they want to sell,’ grinned Wells.

   ‘What sort of a place am I going to get in Lexton for that sort of money?’

   ‘An even shittier tip than yours, Jack,’ said Wells, ducking as the inspector hurled a file at him.

   Frost reached for his cigarettes and rammed one in his mouth. A tip. It hadn’t been a tip when he was first married. His wife had kept it beautifully. He dribbled smoke through his nose. Why was he constantly harping back to those days? It must be that ancient Christmas Day murder and the girl Fielding killed. ‘I’ll hang on here for a while. Any chance of some tea?’

   ‘We’re not a flaming all-night café, Jack.’

   ‘And I wouldn’t say no to some toast.’

   ‘Bloody hell. What about a four-course dinner? You’d better leave a big tip.’

   ‘Leave my big tip out of this,’ said Frost.

He wandered into the Incident Room, where DS Hanlon and Taffy Morgan were on standby. His mobile rang.

   ‘Inspector. PC Williams - Traffic. I’m by the Dedham roundabout on the Denton Road. That car you asked us to look out for - it’s just gone past.’

   ‘You mean Allen’s car?’

   ‘Yes. It drove past here about two minutes ago.’

   ‘Didn’t you go after him?’

   ‘Inspector, I’m at the scene of a traffic accident . . . a car and a motorbike. Two teenagers killed and the car driver badly injured. I’ve got enough on my flaming plate.’

   ‘Sorry, sorry. Which direction was he heading?’

   ‘Away from Denton - going north. Man driving. Woman next to him.’

   ‘A woman?’ Frost was now excited. ‘Did you get a good look at her?’

   ‘Yes. They had to slow down. It’s single-lane traffic here at the moment.’

   ‘What did she look like?’

   ‘Dark hair, buck teeth - in her forties, I’d say.’ Frost was squeezing the phone so hard his hand hurt.

   ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody, bloody, hell! Thanks, Williams. I owe you one.’ He hung up, then looked round the room, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘You,’ he announced, ‘are looking at the biggest prat in Denton.’

   They stared open-mouthed at him.

   ‘Well look bleeding surprised. Don’t look as if you knew that all the time.’

   They grinned.

   ‘Why are you a prat, Guv?’ Morgan asked.

   ‘Millie . . . Molly . . . Maisie . . . Misty . . . It was none of those bleeding names. That wasn’t what the poor kid was saying. And it was under my flaming nose all the bleeding time and I never flaming twigged. The bitch who was videoing her was her form teacher, that toothy cow Janet Leigh. Miss Leigh. Miss bleeding Leigh!’

   Hanlon’s eyes widened. ‘Miss Leigh? Debbie was saying Miss Leigh?’

   Frost nodded. ‘Someone the poor kid trusted . . . her form teacher - Miss bleeding Leigh. When Bridget went on her nicking spree, she went down the staff lockers as well and I bloody missed it. That’s where she found the phone - in Janet Leigh’s locker.’

   DS Hanlon stood up. ‘Shall I run her through the computer, see if she’s got form?’

   Frost shook his head. ‘She won’t have form. Everyone dealing with kids has to be thoroughly vetted. If she had form she’d never be allowed to teach.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘The fingerprints on the wrapping paper that came with the video tape. I bet a pound to a pinch of poo they are hers.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Taffy - get on to Control. I want a message putting out. Allen’s car has been spotted on the Denton Road. I want all patrols to be on the look-out. If they see the car, they should stop it and arrest the occupants on suspicion of murder.’ He turned to PC Collier. ‘Get the Electoral Roll up on the computer. I want that tart’s address.’ He beckoned DS Hanlon over. ‘Arthur. Bit late for a social call, but we’re going to do her place over. She could have Jan O’Brien locked away there.’

   ‘We’ll need a search warrant,’ said Hanlon. Frost looked at the sergeant sternly and waggled a finger. ‘Wash your mouth out with soap, Arthur. I don’t want to hear that sort of filthy talk from you again.’

Morgan and Collier were sent to cover the back way while Frost, DC Hanlon at his side, hammered the door knocker. The sound echoed inside the house. Frost frowned. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone in, Arthur.’ He knocked again.

   Frost bent and examined the lock. ‘Do you know, Arthur, I think this is the sort of lock you can open with a credit card.’

   Hanlon looked alarmed. ‘Now watch it, Jack. You’ve already pushed your luck with the Kelly house.’

   Frost found his wallet and extracted his Mastercard. ‘I’ve got my Crime Prevention Officer’s hat on. I just want to check to see if I can open it with a credit card, then I’ll advise the good lady bitch to get a more secure lock.’ He slid the card in the side of the door and wiggled it. ‘Come on, you stubborn bastard,’ he hissed. A satisfying click. ‘There. What did I say? If I was up to no good, I could walk straight into this place and search it from top to bloody bottom.’ He pushed the front door. It creaked open. ‘Look at this. An open invitation for no-good coppers to exceed their authority.’

   Hanlon, looking very worried now, stepped back. ‘Shut it, Jack, for Pete’s sake.’

   Frost ignored him. He pushed the door open wider and called, ‘Anyone at home?’

   Dead silence.

   ‘Noise from upstairs,’ hissed Frost. ‘Must be a burglar. We’d better check, Arthur.’ He dragged Hanlon inside and shut the front door behind them.

   ‘I don’t like this, Jack,’ moaned Hanlon. 

   ‘If we get caught, I’ll take all the flak,’ said Frost. ‘I’m a better liar than you. But we won’t get caught.’ He tugged his mobile from his mac pocket. ‘Taffy, we’re in the house. Get round the front, keep out of sight and warn me if they come back.’ He turned to Hanlon. ‘You search downstairs, Arthur. I’ll do the upstairs. Don’t switch on lights, use your torch. Let’s see if we can find that kid.’

   They searched. No trace. Frost peeped out of the back window. ‘There’s a shed in the garden, Arthur. See if she’s in there.’

   Frost was beginning to feel despondent. He had been banking on finding Jan O’Brien in Janet Leigh’s house. Hanlon came back, shaking his head.

   ‘She’s not there, Jack. There’s no sign she’s ever been here. Let’s get the hell out of here.’

   ‘Don’t let’s waste a flaming golden opportunity Arthur. Do a more thorough search. See if we can find the video camera and the tapes or anything to tie her to the murders.’

   They went round each room methodically, looking everywhere where tapes could be hidden. There was a sideboard in the dining room which looked promising.

   ‘Quick, Arthur. You look in the cupboards, I’ll go through the drawers.’ They found nothing.

   The pantry. Nothing.

   The airing cupboard. Nothing.

   The bath was free-standing without panels, so no hiding place there.

   Frost flashed his torch to the landing ceiling. No trapdoor to a loft.

   ‘The bedroom, Arthur. Our last hope - don’t trip over the po.’

   Frost went through the dressing-table drawers while Hanlon poked about in the wardrobe.

   Nothing.

   ‘Shit!’ cursed Frost.

   He nearly missed the A4 manila envelope in the drawer of the bedside cabinet. He wasn’t interested in it - he was looking for videotapes - but something made him look inside.

   He whistled softly.

   ‘Bloody hell, Arthur. We’ve got them.’ It wasn’t the tape. It was two colour photographs of Debbie Clark, bound, gagged and naked.

   He pushed the photos back in their envelope and sighed with relief. ‘We’ve got the bastards, Arthur.’

   ‘But without a search warrant, Jack.’ Frost carefully put the envelope back in the drawer where he’d found it. ‘Then we’ll get one. Morgan can stay outside and arrest them if they come back. We’re going back to the nick to make out a search warrant, then I’m dragging old Miller out of her pit and getting her to sign it.’

They were halfway back to the station when a wailing siren made them pull over to one side to allow a fire engine to go roaring past.

   ‘Off to get some chips,’ grunted Frost, but then he saw a red glow cutting through the night sky way over to the north of Denton. He nudged Hanlon and pointed. ‘Look over there, Arthur - a fire, and a bloody big one.’

   His radio crackled. ‘Control to Inspector Frost.’

   He clicked on the mike. ‘Frost.’

   ‘999 call, Inspector. House fire.’

   ‘We can see it from here. Where is it?’

   ‘Dunn Street, Inspector. Number 23.’

   Frost frowned, and then he jerked back in his seat. ‘Twenty-three Dunn Street. Kelly’s house!’

   ‘Yes, Inspector. The fire brigade have recovered two bodies. They suspect arson.’

   ‘We’re on our way,’ said Frost, screeching the car into a U-turn.

There were fire engines and police cars with flashing blue lights, which gave a macabre tinge to the cluster of dressing-gowned figures woken by the noise who had come out to gawp. Most of the lights in the street were on and a uniformed officer was trying to keep the onlookers back.

   A traffic policeman flagged Frost’s car down. ‘Sorry sir, you can’t - ’ he began, before recognising the inspector and waving him through to park behind an ambulance, its rear doors wide open.

   The chief fire officer spotted Frost and hurried over. ‘Definitely arson, Inspector. Petrol doused everywhere.’ He looked across to his men. One team was rolling up their hoses, the other was spraying water as small pockets of flame re-ignited. ‘We’ve got the fire under control, but there’s not much left of the house.’

   ‘You found bodies?’ Frost asked.

   The fireman nodded. ‘A man and a woman . . . burnt to buggery The ambulance crew are taking them to the morgue now.’

   Two ambulance men were humping a body bag on to a stretcher. ‘Hold it a minute,’ called Frost, hurrying over. They put down the stretcher and waited.

   Frost knelt and unzipped the black body bag, turning his head at the smell of burnt flesh that seeped out. The face was twisted, distorted, blackened, the hair burnt off, but there was no doubt about the identification. It was Bridget Malone. He pulled the zip down further. The body was clad in the charred remains of a dress. Frost stared down, shook his head, then straightened up. ‘Let’s have a look at the other one.’

   One side of Patsy Kelly’s face had missed the flames, but the other was burnt away, showing blackened jaw and cheekbone. He was dressed in a charred jacket and trousers. ‘Has a police surgeon seen the bodies?’

   ‘Yes, Inspector,’ said the ambulance man. ‘He didn’t stop long. Said to tell you that they’re dead and could have been burnt in the fire and if you wanted to know more . . .’

   ‘. . . ask that bastard Drysdale,’ said Frost, finishing the sentence for him.

   ‘You’re a mind-reader, Inspector,’ grinned the ambulance man. Frost stepped back and told them to carry on, then returned to the chief fire officer.

   ‘What time did the fire start?’

   ‘About an hour ago. We got a phone call from a neighbour about fifteen minutes later. It was well alight by the time we arrived and we were here within minutes.’

   Frost checked his watch. ‘So it would have started around two o’clock. They’re fully dressed - bloody late to be fully dressed and not in bed. And if they were fully dressed, how come they didn’t raise the alarm themselves and get out of the place?’ A slamming of doors made him turn his head to watch the ambulance back out and drive off to Denton General.

   His mobile chirped. Taffy Morgan.

   ‘Allen and the woman have just returned, Inspector. We’ve arrested them, like you said. They’re yelling blue murder. They want to pick up some things from the house.’

   ‘Don’t let them in the house,’ warned Frost.

   ‘Cuff them, bung them in your car and wait for me. Don’t take them to the station yet.’

They were halfway there when Morgan phoned again. ‘The woman’s demanding to use the bathroom in the house, Inspector. Says she’s busting for a pee.’

   ‘She can pee all over your car seat if she likes,’ replied Frost, ‘but don’t let her into the house.’ He knew what she was after. The cow wanted to destroy those photos and flush them down the loo.
Well, hard luck, darling, it’s not going to happen.