A Killing Frost Part 31

Yes, so Mullett could give him a b.o.l.l.o.c.king. He switched the radio off and coasted the car down a back street, past a row of boarded-up shops, their doors scrawled with ancient graffiti. The area was dead. Even the graffiti writers had stopped coming.

The butcher's shop was on a corner, its facade completely boarded up. The key clicked in the lock and turned easily. As he pushed open the door, the smell of death hit him like a wall. The sickly, cloying, stomach-churning stench of a long-dead body. He stepped back and closed the door. s.h.i.t. Just what he b.l.o.o.d.y feared. He took a lungful of fresh air, then pushed the door wide open, steeling himself before moving tentatively inside. With everything boarded up, the place was in pitch darkness. He fumbled for a light switch and clicked it on. Nothing. Of course, the supply would have been cut off long ago.

Scrabbling in his mac pocket, he located his torch. At first it wouldn't work - he'd been meaning to change the battery - but a couple of shakes and a bang made it flicker reluctantly to life and give out a feeble yellow beam which threatened to die at any minute. He steered the beam around the shop. The light bounced off white tiled walls, then picked out another partly open door which led to the refrigeration room. That was where the smell was coming from. He wished he still had some of that Vicks to shove up his nose, but all he had was an inadequate handkerchief which he clasped to his face. Gritting his teeth, he took a tentative step into the dark, watching thetorchbeam creep across a blood-smeared, tiled floor, then his stomach heaved. In the corner was a heap of rotting, green, slimy putrescent flesh, crawling with maggots and dotted with bloated bluebottles.

He crashed his way outside and was violently sick, leaning against the wall of the shop as his stomach churned and churned. Even out in the open he could still smell and taste that stench. It was much worse than the first girl's body they had found. That had been out in the open. This was in a confined s.p.a.ce. So he was right: Lewis was a nutter. He had killed his wife and cut her up as he would an animal carca.s.s. He shakily lit a cigarette, but after one puff threw it away. The smoke reeked of death. Wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, he fished out his mobile to call the station. Let the boys from SOCO and Forensic throw up their dinners. Why should he have all the fun?

Bill Wells answered the phone. 'Flaming heck, Jack, where have you been? We've been calling and calling - '

Frost impatiently cut him short. 'I know, but - '

But Wells wouldn't listen. 'She's here, Jack.'

Frost frowned. 'Who? Who are you talking about?'

'Mrs Lewis. The butcher's wife. She's alive and well. The Met managed to trace her. She wants to talk to you.'

Frost stared at the phone in disbelief. 'Say that again.'

'Mrs Lewis isn't dead . . . and to prove it, she's here! She wants to see you about her husband.'

'On my way,' croaked Frost, his mind in a whirl. If she was alive, then who the h.e.l.l was rotting away in the refrigeration room, stinking the place out? He lit up another cigarette to delay the moment when he would have to go back and take a closer look. He shuddered. Maggots. How he hated maggots.

This time the smell seemed even stronger and the beam from his torch even weaker. He had almost to stick his nose in the rotting mess to see what it was. A quick flick of the torch on to the heap told him. Stupid b.l.o.o.d.y fool!

He hurried out, slamming the refrigerator-room door firmly behind him and staggering out to the street to suck down lungfuls of fresh air. He shook his head and laughed at his flaming stupidity. He would have expected Morgan to make such a mistake - but not that he himself would have jumped to the wrong flaming conclusion. The remains weren't human. They were fly-blown animal carca.s.ses - just what he should have b.l.o.o.d.y well expected from a butcher's shop that had been abruptly closed. A shiver ran down his back as he realised what a prat he would have looked had he called out the full murder team to look at a couple of dead pigs.

Even with the car windows open and the wind blowing through, he could still smell the reek of rotting meat on his clothes.

Mrs Lewis was overweight and in her late forties,with dark-brown hair and a raw-meat complexion; she looked like a typical butcher's wife. Nicotine-stained fingers circled her third cup of police tea and the ashtray was full of cigarette stubs.

'What the h.e.l.l is going on?' she demanded as Frost came in. 'b.l.o.o.d.y police knocking on my door. The neighbours must think I'm a prost.i.tute or something.'

Only if they need gla.s.ses, thought Frost. Aloud he said, 'Sorry about this, Mrs Lewis. Didn't the Met explain what it was all about?'

'No they b.l.o.o.d.y well didn't. Dumped me in a police car and drove me straight here.' She pushed her cup away. 'And after all that I'm left sitting here drinking cat's pee.' She s.n.a.t.c.hed at the cigarette Frost offered her. 'I never used to smoke, but he drove me mad. So what the h.e.l.l is this all about?'

Frost lit up for both of them. 'Your husband came in here and told us he had killed you and cut you up into little pieces.'

Her mouth sagged, the cigarette clinging to her lower lip. 'Again? And you b.l.o.o.d.y well believed him?'

'He was most insistent,' said Frost. 'Trouble was, he couldn't remember where he had dumped all the bits. We didn't believe him, but we had to take it seriously, just in case . . .'

'He's round the twist,' she said. 'He always was a bit weird, but he went right over the top when we lost our little boy.' Her voice faltered and she stared hard at the table top. 'My lovely little Matthew . . .' She shook her head, pulled a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her eyes. 'Might not have been quite so bad if I could have had any more kids, but I couldn't. I was as upset as he was, but I didn't get any comfort from him. He started blaming me for Matthew's death. Said I should never have let him go to the hospital. Meningitis - he had meningitis. So what was I supposed to do - leave him at home? He reckoned it was the hospital that killed him. All right, I know he loved Matthew - loved him a bit too much, if you ask me - but he was taking his death out on me. Then he started being rude to the few customers we had in the shop, and when the landlord kicked him out he really went weird muttering to himself, sharpening his b.l.o.o.d.y knives over and over. I used to be friendly with the woman next door. She was a paediatric nurse and that was enough for him - he blamed nurses for Matthew's death. She soon stopped coming over, he frightened her so much.'

Frost nodded sympathetically. 'You've had it rough, love.'

She dropped her sodden handkerchief into her handbag and snapped it shut. 'Can I go now?'

Frost nodded. 'Yes. Thanks for coming.' He held the door open for her.

'So how do I get back to London?' she asked.

'See the nice sergeant in the lobby,' Frost told her. 'He'll either arrange a car or give you the money for your train fare.'

At the doorway she paused. 'I used to love him once. But he changed . . .'

Frost nodded. Hadn't this happened with his own wife? G.o.d, how they had loved each other at the beginning and how they had hated each other at the end. He shook his head and wiped his hand over his face. It was all my fault, It was all my fault, he told himself. he told himself. If only If only . . . He mentally compared the beautiful young cracker he had married with the drawn figure, her lovely dark hair now streaked with grey, dying in the hospital side ward, where she could be wheeled out on a trolley and taken down in the lift to the mortuary without alarming the other patients. . . . He mentally compared the beautiful young cracker he had married with the drawn figure, her lovely dark hair now streaked with grey, dying in the hospital side ward, where she could be wheeled out on a trolley and taken down in the lift to the mortuary without alarming the other patients. All my sodding fault All my sodding fault.

As he pushed his way through the swing doors, he could hear Bill Wells explaining to Mrs Lewis that he just didn't have the transport or the cash allocation to get her back to London, while she was explaining to Wells that that scruffy inspector had told her he would do it, so he had b.l.o.o.d.y well better do it, and b.l.o.o.d.y soon. Frost backed out and decided to use the rear exit.

Mullett's gleaming blue Porsche was parked by the exit, reminding Frost that he should have reported to Hornrim Harry ages ago. There was a gleaming pearl-grey Mercedes sprawled across two parking places next to the Jaguar, with the registration number BEA 001. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. He must be here, chewing the privates off Mullett. Frost quickened his step. He nearly made it. He was climbing into his battered Ford when Mullett's voice roared out from an open window: 'Frost! My office - now!'

Sod it!

Beazley, his face brick-red with anger, was chomping on one of his outsize cigars, and the corpses of two other cigars lay in Mullett's ash tray. The office reeked of cigar smoke.

Mullett was equally angry 'I sent for you ages ago, Frost!'

'I was just about to come in when you called,' lied Frost, drawing himself up a chair as far from Beazley as possible. He lit up and flipped the spent match in the general direction of the ashtray.

'Coming to see me?' shrilled Mullett. 'You were getting into your car.'

'Just checking the mileage for my car expenses,' said Frost. 'You know I like them to be dead accurate.'

'Never mind your bleeding car expenses,' snarled Beazley. 'What happened to that brilliant suggestion of yours to catch the sod who's pinching my money? You said it was bleeding foolproof. Another five hundred quid up the Swanee last night. I might as well leave the bleeding money in the street for him to pick up.'

'I'm sorry Mr Beazley,' said Frost. 'We now have other priorities. I've got three kids' bodies in the morgue and another teenager gone missing.'

'Sod your other b.l.o.o.d.y priorities,' roaredBeazley. 'I'm your number-one priority. I want the blackmailer caught, I want all my money returned and I want it done now.' He poked a finger at Mullett. 'I'm holding you responsible as well, Superintendent. Your Chief Constable is in the same lodge as me and he'll be interested to learn how incompetent Denton Police Force is.' your number-one priority. I want the blackmailer caught, I want all my money returned and I want it done now.' He poked a finger at Mullett. 'I'm holding you responsible as well, Superintendent. Your Chief Constable is in the same lodge as me and he'll be interested to learn how incompetent Denton Police Force is.'

Everyone seems to be chummy with our flaming Chief Constable, thought Frost, flicking ash on the carpet.

Mullett, white as a sheet, tried to calm the man down. 'No need for that, Mr Beazley. Inspector Frost will have a full surveillance team round those cashpoints tonight.'

'OK,' said Frost, pushing himself up from his chair. 'But I'll nip round and see the dead kids' parents first and tell them Mr Beazley wants priority over the search for their killer, and I'll try and talk them out of going to the press, because it would be bad publicity for Mr Beazley and his supermarket . . .'

Beazley leapt up, sending his chair flying. He mashed his cigar to death. 'If you dare - '

'I wouldn't dare,' cut in Frost, 'but I can't speak for the murdered teenagers' parents.'

The muscle at the side of Beazley's mouth kept twitching. He was breathing deeply, trying to contain himself. 'All right. I'll give you until the end of the week. If you haven't caught the sod by then I'll see both of you are kicked out of the force.' He stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut after him.

Mullett looked at Frost. 'I want the blackmailer caught, Frost.'

'Give me more men, more overtime.' Mullett fluttered a hand. 'Anything . . . anything . . . only get him caught.' He flopped back in his chair and mopped his brow. 'This is all your fault, and he's blaming me as well.'

Frost beamed back at him. 'There ain't no justice, Super. I'll go and see about the extra men and overtime . . .'

Never any peace. There was always someone waiting in his office. This time it was PC Collier, clutching a computer printout.

'Whatever it is, bin it,' said Frost as he sat down. 'We're all on overtime tonight watching the cashpoints again.'

'It's that child-modelling agency you asked me to try and trace, Inspector. I think I've found it.'

Frost took the computer printout. 'Delmar Model Agency, 39 High Street, Melbridge.' He looked up at Collier and nodded. 'Well done, son. This could well be the one.'

'Turn the page, Inspector,' said Collier. Frost flipped the sheet over and whistled softly. They used to have a studio in the office block on Denton Road. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' He unhooked his scarf and wound it round his neck. 'Come on, son, let's pay them a visit.'

'They went out of business a couple of years ago, Inspector. The owner died. No list of employees, no records anywhere.'

's.h.i.t!' said Frost. He drummed his fingers onhis desk. 'Whoever worked there must have paid tax. Go to the tax office. Tell them it's a murder inquiry. They should have a list of employees somewhere.'

'They could be filed under name, Inspector, not workplace.'

'You're probably right, son, but ask them any way.'

Leaving Collier, he nipped up to the canteen for a quick cup of coffee and a bacon roll and spotted DS Hanlon nursing a cup of tea at a table with other members of the search party that had been scouring Denton Woods for Jan O'Brien. They all looked tired and fed up. Frost dumped his tray on the table beside the sergeant. 'I take it you haven't found anything, Arthur? Any body - especially Skinner's - would be a bonus.'

Hanlon gave a weary grin. 'We've searched those flaming woods so many times, Jack. I know every blade of gra.s.s off by heart.'

Frost found it hard to swallow the bacon in his roll. It reminded him of the maggoty carca.s.ses in the butcher's. He pushed the plate away, took a swig of tea and lit a cigarette. He filled his lungs with smoke, then slowly exhaled. 'She's not there, Arthur. We're wasting our time. Send most of the team home and let them have a kip. I'll be wanting volunteers to stake out the cashpoints again tonight.'

'You've got the overtime agreed, I hope?' asked Hanlon. 'Only last time . . .'

'Mullett's agreed,' nodded Frost. 'He's terrified Beazley's going to report him to hisMasonic buddies, so the sky's the limit.' Then he remembered the modelling agency. 'Go and see Jan's parents, Arthur. Ask them if their daughter ever wanted to be a model, or was ever contacted by the Delmar Model Agency. She went to the same school as Debbie Clark. Talk to the teachers, the kids . . . did she ever say any thing about modelling or about a modelling agency?' He filled Hanlon in on the details. 'Not much of a lead, Arthur, but it's all I've got.'

Frost staggered up the stairs to bed just after three in the morning. The stake-out had been a complete waste of time. They had waited, shivering in the wind and rain until a couple of minutes before midnight, when the Fortress computer people phoned to say that five hundred pounds had just been withdrawn from a cashpoint at Frimley, a small town some three miles from Denton. Frost had phoned the Frimley police who sent a car round, but far too late. They had staked out the cashpoint in case the blackmailer returned after midnight to make a second withdrawal, while Frost and his team covered the Denton cashpoints. At two o'clock, cold and dispirited, he had decided to call it a night.

In his dream Frost was running for dear life. The figure chasing him had a knife. A long knife. He crashed through a door, heart pounding, and found himself inside the refrigerator room at the butcher's. The light was on, the white-tiled wallswere smeared with fresh blood and crawling with maggots. On the floor were newly slaughtered lambs, their throats bleeding on to the white tiles. His pursuer was at the door. There was no way to lock it. He leant against it. The man out side started pounding at the door, which shook with the blows. The door crashed open . . .

He awoke, dripping with sweat and panting, his heart hammering. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, you can stick these sort of dreams, he thought. What about the ones with the naked nymphos, which have been missing from the agenda for far too long? b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, you can stick these sort of dreams, he thought. What about the ones with the naked nymphos, which have been missing from the agenda for far too long? He clicked on the bedside lamp to check the time. Half past four in the morning. He had been asleep barely an hour. He clicked on the bedside lamp to check the time. Half past four in the morning. He had been asleep barely an hour.

Suddenly the pounding started again. He sat up in bed. It was coming from his front door.

He staggered from the bed to swish back the curtains and look out into the darkened street below. The blue light of an area police car was flashing. s.h.i.t! What the h.e.l.l had happened now?

He padded down the stairs and opened the front door. He vaguely recognised the officer standing there - it was someone from Traffic, but he couldn't think of his name.

'Sorry to knock you up, Inspector, but your phone's off the hook.' He pointed to the hall table.

'So it is,' grunted Frost, replacing the phone on its base. 'So kind of you to wake me up at half past flaming four in the morning just to tell me that.'

The officer grinned. 'PC Lambert from Control is anxious to talk to you, Inspector. He says it's urgent.'

'At half past four it had better flaming well be,' snarled Frost.

It was cold in the hall. Frost slipped his mac over his pyjamas before phoning the station. 'This had better be good, Lambert,' he yawned into the mouthpiece. 'Who's dead, Mullett or Skinner? Please say it's both.'

'The charge nurse from Denton General Hospital has phoned, Inspector, worried about one of their nurses. She hasn't reported for duty 'Then tell them to sack her,' grunted Frost.

'She's always been conscientious, loves her job, this is the first time she hasn't turned up for night duty and she's not answering her phone. They sent someone round to her house - it was in darkness.'

'There's a surprise. At four o'clock in the morning I'd expect every bleeding light to be on.'

A token chuckle from Lambert, who pressed on. 'Three pints of milk on the doorstep and papers stuck in the letter box. They fear some thing might have happened to her.'

'Like she's gone off drinking milk and reading papers? Why the flaming h.e.l.l did you wake me up to tell me this? It would be just as bleeding pointless at nine o'clock.'

'She lives next door to Lewis, the butcher,' said Lambert.

Frost's knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone tighter. 'A nurse?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'A paediatric nurse?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'Get back to the hospital and check if she was one of the nurses who looked after Lewis's kid.'

He sat on the stairs and smoked. Lambert was back in five minutes.

'Yes, Inspector, she was.'