Fatal Frost (DI Jack Frost) Page 2

  Mullett banged his papers on the lectern, signalling the end of the briefing. Chairs scraped back and officers began talking amongst themselves. Clarke watched as Simms approached DS Waters, extending his hand. Kim Myles nudged her again.

  ‘What d’you reckon there, then?’ Myles said slyly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bit of all right, him.’

  ‘What, Derek Simms?’ Clarke replied absently, noticing that Frost hadn’t done his usual trick of creeping in late at the back of the briefing room. Mullett hadn’t even remarked on his absence. Maybe she’d missed something.

  ‘No, stupid … the dark feller,’ Myles said over her shoulder, as both women made for the door.

  ‘Oh right – yeah, very cute.’ The girl’s a nympho, she thought. She changed the subject. ‘You know DS Frost – did you see him in there?’

  ‘Weren’t you listening?’ Myles said, lighting a cigarette in the corridor outside the Ladies. ‘Dead girl out by the railway track – Frost is out there with Maltby now.’

  DC Derek Simms shook the powerful hand offered with all the confidence he could muster. He’d only been in CID a month; having this thrown at him was all he needed. A commended officer from the Met. Jesus! And a black one at that. He’d be a laughing stock. The big man grinned amiably, or so it appeared, although Simms wondered whether he was taking the piss, like everyone else seemed to do since his promotion. They left the briefing room together and made for the exit, passing Baker, Simms’s ex-beat colleague, in the corridor. Simms caught the surreptitious snigger as Baker disappeared towards the canteen. Idiot, he thought.

  ‘So what brings you to Denton, John?’ Simms asked as they entered the car park.

  ‘Home Office initiative – they need a token black man in the provinces.’ Simms looked puzzled so Waters continued. ‘The powers-that-be want more ethnics in the force, the better to relate to the villains, so they’re farming us out in the hope of attracting recruits. Your man Winslow didn’t seem too pleased about it. Said there wasn’t much call for my type of qualities here in Denton.’

  ‘There’s none of your “type” here, that’s for sure – you’ll stand out like a sore thumb. As for your qualities, Sarge, I wouldn’t know,’ Simms said. Waters shrugged as they stood beside Waters’ green Vauxhall.

  ‘VX4/90 – nice motor,’ Simms commented. ‘Pretty pokey, too. Is that standard CID issue in Bethnal Green?’

  ‘Ha. Not standard – guess you could say there is no standard. Drove up this morning.’

  ‘Well, there is here. Would love to go for a spin sometime, if that’s OK with you? Better head off in mine for now until you get to know the area.’

  ‘I need to dump my stuff off at Fenwick Street. Know it?’

  ‘Yeah, Plod Park: coppers’ housing.’ Jesus, he’d be living with the guy, too. ‘You’d better do that later, Sarge; we’re heading for somewhere a bit more upmarket first.’

  Monday (2)

  FROST FOLLOWED THE pensioner down the footpath, his dog tugging at the leash as though eager to show off his discovery. This was the man who had reported the body to Desk Sergeant Bill Wells earlier that morning, and far from seeming distressed, there was an air almost of excitement about him. Maltby had yet to arrive, and sirens from an ambulance and area car were still in the distance, so Frost would be first on the scene.

  The early-morning sun was refracted in the dew on the tips of the sedge grass.

  ‘Bit overgrown down here,’ Frost said, brambles thwacking him in the wake of the dog-walker.

  The man turned round and grinned keenly. ‘Perfect place to hide a body, eh?’

  Frost ignored the comment. ‘Who else uses this path?’

  ‘Only me and Nelson this time o’ year. ’Orses sometimes, but usually in the winter when it’s not so o’ergrown … and blackberry-pickers in autumn. Tons of bushes, y’see.’

  ‘Yes, I can see,’ said Frost, momentarily losing the pensioner behind one of the aforementioned bushes.

  ‘Here you go,’ the man said proudly, the Labrador looking equally pleased as it stood next to the body, wagging its tail enthusiastically.

  Before he approached the corpse Frost appraised the location. The clearing in which it lay was covered with grass about 2 feet high, and the path they’d been following cut across it and disappeared over the rise. The railway embankment further off sloped up at a steep gradient to a height of about 15 feet. The body – or all that was visible at this point – lay 6 feet from the path.

  ‘You might have waited!’ a wheezing voice said from behind him.

  ‘Ah, Doc, I’d forgotten about you. All that clobber must be slowing you down.’

  Frost lit a cigarette as Maltby, sweating visibly, dumped his case and removed his Homburg. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket as he made his way towards the body.

  Frost always tried to get as much as possible from the body’s surroundings first before his senses were affronted by the corpse. He walked on past Maltby and the body, continuing up the path towards the railway embankment. He looked both ways before gingerly stepping on to the track – even though the line had been suspended since the report of the body’s discovery at 8.15 a.m. Was the victim pushed off a train, he wondered. Or perhaps it was coincidental that the body was within spitting distance from the line – the killer, or killers, may have had no idea they were next to the railway. Or maybe it was suicide, but a bridge or platform would be more usual. Keeping an open mind, he walked along the verge.

  The grass surrounding the body showed no sign of having recently been trampled, Maltby’s shufflings aside, but judging by the spider’s webs glistening in the sunlight, the girl was unlikely to have rolled the 15-or-so feet down the embankment in the last twelve hours or so. From his vantage point, Frost gazed down on Maltby fidgeting around the body and the man and his dog waiting patiently on the footpath, before making his way back down.

  ‘Well, Doc, what have we got?’ He peered over Maltby’s shoulder at a blonde teenage girl sprawled on her stomach, her head rotated unnaturally through 180 degrees. The Exorcist flashed through his mind. There was a trickle of dried blood beneath her nose.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Sergeant,’ Maltby said, getting up and dusting his hands. ‘I wondered when you might show some interest.’

  ‘Didn’t want to cramp your style, Doc. Just checking out the possibilities.’ Frost rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, glancing back up at the train track glinting in the bright sunlight.

  ‘Possibilities, eh? Not for her, she’s dead, no doubt about that.’

  Frost caught a blast of whisky breath. ‘You surprise me, Doc. Thought she was out to get an early tan. Time of death?’

  ‘Where are we now? Close to nine thirty? I’d say she’s been dead a day or more.’ Maltby paused. ‘Yes, at least thirty hours, I’d guess,’ he repeated, as if to convince himself. ‘Broken neck.’

  ‘Did it kill her?’

  ‘It certainly did her no good.’ Maltby grimaced. ‘You know as well as I do, the pathologists will have the last word.’ Frost knew there was no love lost between Drysdale, the county’s senior pathologist, and the crabby but dependable Scene of Crime doctor.

  ‘Of course, but you know what a stickler Drysdale is. He’ll be prodding around for days before telling me he’s found bugger all.’

  ‘If she was pushed off a train, it’s possible the fall could have broken her neck.’ Maltby took a cigarette from the packet Frost was proffering. ‘Of course, she could have had her neck broken elsewhere, and then been dumped here to make it look like something else … There’s no bruising on her face, in fact there’s barely a mark on her that I can see. She could almost be asleep. You need a proper examination.’

  ‘Do you often take a nap with your head in that position?’ Frost exclaimed, surprised.

  ‘You know what I mean, Sergeant,’ Maltby said, replacing his hat.

  Frost moved closer to the body. The girl was wearing jeans and a white T-s
hirt. No coat, Frost noted. Wait, what was that poking out of the back of her jeans? Frost bent down and delicately retrieved a train ticket. The coarse paper slip was dated Saturday.

  Frost turned to the man. ‘When did you last walk Nelson?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Yesterday?’ Frost said, puzzled, looking from Maltby to the ticket stub in his hand.

  ‘Yes.’ The man coughed. ‘But that were at the Rec.’

  ‘Here – I meant here.’

  ‘Saturday evening. It were getting dark.’

  If she came off a train, then given the time of death, it was probably the last one; they were few and far between on a Saturday night. He could check the times at the station.

  Frost turned back to Maltby. ‘Thank you, Doc. Well, I guess it’s over to Drysdale now.’ Two uniform had arrived and were cordoning off the area with tape. ‘Time we were off.’

  ‘What about me?’ the man with the dog said from the path.

  ‘What about you?’ Frost scowled.

  ‘We found, the, er, body. Well, it weren’t me – it were Nelson that did it.’ He patted the Labrador fondly.

  ‘Of course,’ Frost said, stepping over the dead girl. ‘Come with me. I’ll need a statement from you, and a paw print from Nelson.’

  ‘A paw print?’ The man looked worriedly at Frost.

  ‘Yes, a paw print – just to rule him out as a suspect.’

  * * *

  Frost decided to make a few preliminary enquiries before returning to Eagle Lane. Pulling up at Denton railway station taxi rank he put in a call to Control to get the line reopened.

  The taxi drivers, acknowledging who he was, shot him surly glances; the temporary line suspension was impacting on their business. He entered the ticket office and tapped his ID on the counter glass to attract the clerk who had his back to him.

  ‘Yes?’ the aged British Rail retainer said.

  ‘I’d like a timetable, please.’

  The man slid one through. ‘Passengers would like to know when the line will be reopened.’

  ‘Would they, now. All in good time. Depends on whether people help us out or not, doesn’t it?’ Frost smiled. ‘Any trouble on the last train on Saturday night that you’re aware of?’

  ‘How do you mean, trouble?’

  ‘Disturbances? You know, kids messing around, girls jumping off trains – that sort of thing.’ Frost squinted at the BR timetable, trying to work it out. Why the hell were these things so difficult to read?

  ‘Ticket office shuts at 4 p.m. Any trouble, you or the Transport Police at Paddington would know before me.’

  ‘So at’ – Frost ran his finger along the timetable – ‘at 12.45 a.m. no station staff would be on duty.’

  ‘Office shuts at four,’ the clerk repeated perfunctorily.

  ‘Yes. You said. But Denton, if I’m reading this right, isn’t the last stop. What happens to the train after that?’ Frost squinted harder. He could hardly read the print; spectacles were just around the corner for him.

  ‘It was this weekend,’ the clerk said. ‘Engineering works. The line was shut all the way from Denton to Swansea. Though the London-bound opened this morning …’

  ‘But it’s a bank holiday weekend?’

  ‘Exactly. An extra day to do the work without upsetting the commuters.’

  ‘Well,’ beamed Frost, slapping the timetable on the counter, ‘that’s a stroke of luck, isn’t it!’ The clerk stared back deadpan, not sharing his delight. But Frost was cheered by the thought that if Denton was the last stop, any witnesses would have got off here. He thanked the clerk and headed back outside.

  The heat soon began to make Frost feel irritable as he patted his mac for his cigarettes, finally taking it off and slinging it over his shoulder. He slipped on the Polaroids Sue had bought him and glanced over at the taxi rank where a bunch of drivers were shooting the breeze. A tall, fair, smartly dressed man was paying the driver of a Cavalier. As Frost ambled over, the cabbie’s fare rushed hurriedly past, his briefcase almost clipping the detective’s knee.

  ‘Morning, gents. In a hurry, that one. Won’t get far this morning, though.’ Frost watched the man disappear into the ticket office. ‘Light, anybody?’

  One of the drivers, a large man with lamb-chop sideburns, held out a box of Swan Vestas.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ Frost said amiably, and as an afterthought added, ‘DS Frost, Denton CID.’ The group nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘Farah Fawcett or Cheryl Ladd?’ one asked him.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You know, Charlie’s Angels. Just finished on the telly. Which one’s the coppers’ choice, then?’

  Frost trawled his mind for anything he knew about the programme. Three women; stunners by common consensus but to his eye a bit on the skinny side; he preferred something more fleshy. One of them divorced the Six Million Dollar man earlier this year, that he did know, the irony being the millions of dollars involved. All right for some.

  ‘Er … the one with the big …’ He gestured. Surely one of them was properly built? They looked at him blankly – clearly the wrong answer. ‘Any of you boys working Saturday night?’ They all shook their heads, muttering about the recession and general lack of business.

  ‘So what’s all this about, then?’ one piped up.

  ‘A dead girl. Found by the train line outside town. It’s possible that someone on the last train may have seen something.’

  A small, bearded driver in a leather jerkin pointed towards what could best be described as a shed.

  ‘’E’ll know who was on.’

  Frost approached the shed, the domain of the cab controller whose path he’d crossed before. He looked like he’d worked solidly through the entire weekend.

  ‘Saturday night. Any pick-ups from the 12.45?’

  ‘There were three cars working Saturday night,’ he said. The man looked weary, his red eyes sunken, heavily tattooed forearms lying lifeless like discoloured slabs of meat on the desk. ‘Two were here when the train came in. Charlie took a couple of young girls to Two Bridges, and Bill dropped a punter off at Market Square. You’ll have to ask them exactly where.’ The man scrawled two names on the back of a newspaper.

  ‘Phone numbers?’ Frost prompted.

  ‘Hold on.’ He leafed through a filthy address book, huffing as he wrote down a number next to Charlie’s name. ‘And here’s Bill’s address. Phone is the call box on Milk Street, though.’

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ Milk Street. Southern Housing Estate. Frost knew it well.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ The controller sighed, stubbing a cigarette out on the largest ashtray Frost had ever seen. ‘Don’t go knocking them up now, though. They’ll be asleep. Both worked last night too. Airport runs.’ The phone was ringing, but the man seemed oblivious to it.

  ‘So, three people got off that train?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four?’ Frost looked intrigued. ‘Who was the fourth?’

  ‘Woman. Saucy-looking. Poked her head in here, then disappeared.’

  ‘What, saw your ugly mug and scarpered, you mean?’

  For the first time the cab controller met his eyes. His expression didn’t change. He wore the look of the super-tired, one Frost was all too familiar with. ‘She wanted to know how long until the next cab. I said none were coming back to base, but I could call one in if she’d like. No trouble for a pretty girl like her. The other car was dropping off in Rimmington. She said, “No, thanks,” smiled and left.’

  ‘Thank you. Description?’

  ‘Early twenties. Brunette. Medium height. Tasty.’

  ‘Right, that’s it, then,’ Frost concluded. ‘Four potential witnesses.’

  ‘And, of course, anyone else who walked home,’ the controller said sullenly, his gaze now fixed on Frost.

  Frost stood on the steps of the controller’s hut mulling over their to-some-extent useful conversation. The rank shut at 1 a.m. on Sunday, after meeting the last train. N
aturally, some people might walk, if they lived within a reasonable radius, or indeed if they had no cash. He felt certain that the dead girl had been on the train. There was no concrete evidence, but even if it was murder and not suicide, why would someone bother to cart a body out there? The clearing was a good half-mile through all those brambles. Did they do it to fake a suicide? Easier, surely, to heave the body over a railway bridge. So did she jump, or was she pushed? The possibilities whirled through Frost’s mind as he opened the Cortina door. He nodded goodbye to the rank drivers.

  Chris Everett tried to keep calm as he fumbled in his wallet for the notes for his return ticket to Paddington. The heavy fabric of his suit and the unseasonably warm weather, which was more like July than the start of May, were making him perspire uncomfortably. The ancient clerk was slow to issue the ticket. Come on, he thought – if I miss this train I’ll never get there and back in time. The clerk was mumbling something he didn’t catch; he only caught the word ‘incident’ as he snatched up the ticket from under the glass. He hurried downstairs to the platform, and took refuge in the waiting room.

  As he’d been paying his taxi fare, he’d overheard the other drivers discussing the approach of a plainclothes policeman; apparently a well-known character, although Everett had missed the name. In his hurry to escape he’d almost collided with him – a scruffy individual in a raincoat and shades. Everett was shaken, but also strangely thrilled by the close encounter. He wondered what brought him to the train station; surely not enquiries into the weekend’s burglary at Forest View? Nevertheless, holding a briefcase containing several thousand pounds of stolen jewellery in close proximity to the law had given him an adrenalin rush.

  Everett tapped the brown leather case agitatedly. The sooner he offloaded this stuff with his Hatton Garden fence the better. He still had three VCRs at home in the garage; he wasn’t really interested in them, but it was hard to resist the latest technology when it was just sitting there. He even swiped a B&O amplifier on Saturday night. Mustn’t get too greedy, he thought, glancing around the waiting room. It seemed busy for 11 a.m. He turned to the elderly lady seated next to him, a wicker basket propped on her lap.