Even the lamp-post had been vandalised: a jumble of coloured wires dangled forlornly from the switch box. The Council had obviously seen no need to spend money on repairing it in a deserted street, so the road was in total darkness as his car slithered to a halt outside the boarded-up butcher’s shop. His headlights picked up the shape of an abandoned car further up the road. That’s all this place was now – a dumping ground for unwanted junk and, perhaps, unwanted bodies. It was a bitterly cold night, but warm inside the car with the heater going full blast. He leant back in his seat. Couldn’t this wait until the morning?
Frost poked a cigarette in his mouth and smoked to delay making a decision. Sod it, he had no flaming choice. He’d come this far and he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep not knowing whether or not bite-sized chunks of the missing nurse were rotting away in there.
Chucking his cigarette away, he stepped out into the cold street. He patted his pocket. The key! Sod it, he’d forgotten the flaming key! The perfect excuse to go back home and leave it until the morning. But he’d opened countless doors before when he didn’t have a key.
Clicking on the torch, he studied the lock. It didn’t look too substantial. A couple of well- placed kicks might be the Open Sesame. He gave the handle a tentative turn, just in case, and to his surprise the door swung open, creaking like something from a Hammer horror film. Frost paused, screwing his face in thought, trying to remember if he had locked up when he was here earlier. He could swear he had. He seemed to remember turning the key, then trying the door to make sure it was properly locked. Well, it wasn’t locked now, so he clearly hadn’t. Pushing the door open further, he stepped into the foul-smelling, hostile dark.
Bang on cue, just when he needed it most, his torch gave a death rattle, flickered and died. Sod it! He knew it was on its last legs, so why the hell hadn’t he changed the battery? Another good excuse for leaving the search until later – perhaps even sending Taffy Morgan in. He shook the thought away. One of the penalties of rank was that you didn’t ask your subordinates to do things you wouldn’t do yourself.
Frost gave the torch a couple of slaps against the side of his leg and frightened it into spitting out a feeble, quivering beam, which waited until he was inside the refrigeration room before cutting out completely. All his shakings and bangings failed to give it the kiss of life.
A clunk. The damn door had shut itself behind him, enclosing him in pitch blackness you could cut with a butcher’s cleaver. His shoe slithered on something slimy and nasty and the smell in the enclosed space was making him gag. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette lighter and flicked it on, hoping the gas would last out. The flame threw out hardly any light, but at least he could now locate the heap of rotting meat. How the hell was he going to examine it? One thing was sure – he wasn’t going to touch that heap of smouldering putrescent muck with his bare hands.
He gave a rotting carcass a tentative kick and it tottered to the floor with a squelch, exposing something white behind. What the hell was it? He bent and held the cigarette lighter closer, then his heart skipped a beat before hammering away at top speed. Marble-white and stained with blood.
It was a hand. A severed human hand.
Frost stepped back in horror and disgust, then suddenly he felt his feet give way from under him. As he tried to regain his balance, the lighter and the torch dropped from his grasp, landing with a squelch in the heap of putrid filth. There was a thud as his back hit the floor, then a louder thud as his head cracked on a tile. He was momentarily stunned. White dots did a frantic dance in the darkness. His hand, which he had automatically used to try to break his fall, was hurting like hell, firing up bursts of teeth-gritting pain. He must have broken his flaming wrist.
He tried to move his head but a stab of pain made him stop. It hurt. Bloody hell, how it flaming hurt, and his back wasn’t much better. He was smothered in muck which stank to high heaven, and he was in agony. He couldn’t see a bloody thing and he wasn’t going to delve down blindly in the heap to try and find his lighter.
At first, pushing himself up with his good hand didn’t work. His feet slithered from under him and he was once more on his back. The pain almost made him sick. His clothes were a sodden mess and he tried not to think of the fat, bloated maggots he had seen crawling over their food supply earlier that day, the sodding maggots that had made him return for another look. Why the bloody hell had he come back? More importantly, why the bloody hell had he come back on his own?
At last he managed to scramble unsteadily to his feet. His head spun. He had lost all sense of direction. Where the hell was the door? He wanted to get out bloody fast. The back of his head was still stabbing with pain. He touched it gingerly, but didn’t know if the sticky mess he felt was from his own blood or the animal remains. A shake of the head to try and clear it made it ache even more.
Completely disorientated, he stretched an arm out in front of him and carefully moved forward, inch by inch, to avoid stepping on anything that would send him crashing down again, trying to locate the wall. Where the hell was it? It seemed miles away. Then his fingers touched cold tiles. The wall – but which way was the door? Pressing a sweat-soaked hand on the tiles, he followed the wall in a clockwise direction.
He stopped dead.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
There was someone else in the pitch-dark room with him.
He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything. But he knew. He just bloody knew…
That flaming car parked up the road. What a stupid prat he was. Of course the sodding thing wasn’t abandoned. It was in too good nick to be abandoned… and the unlocked door…
Lewis! Who else would be lurking around at this time of night? It had to be Lewis, standing there in the dark, probably running a testing thumb along the blade of his butcher’s knife to make sure it was sharp enough to chop up a nosy-parker, flat-footed copper.
Frost cleared his throat. ‘I can see you. I’m a police officer
… Let’s have a bit of light, please.’
The tiled walls flung his words back. All he could hear was the hammering of his heart.
‘Don’t sod me about, Mr Lewis. I know it’s you. Let’s get out into the open and talk about this.’
Nothing… unless… Breathing – he thought he could hear breathing…
He held his breath until his lungs ached and listened, ears straining to detect the slightest sound… Nothing. There was no one there. His bleeding imagination was playing tricks again.
He expelled his breath in a sigh of relief and gulped down a lungful of fetid air. Frost slid his sweaty hand along the tiles, still seeking the elusive door that would let him out of this stinking hell hole and into the fresh air.
Then the blinding beam of a torch hit him in the face.
He couldn’t move. The shock made him freeze. He tried to say something. The words wouldn’t come.
A voice broke the silence. ‘What are you doing here?’
Frost screwed his eyes up against the blinding glare. Through half-closed eyes, with torchlight bouncing off the wall, he could just about make out the figure of Lewis. And his worst fear was realised – the bastard had a knife in his other hand.
‘We had a report someone was trying to break in, Mr Lewis. They sent me to check it out.’ He tried to sound convincing.
The torchbeam shifted from his face over to the heap of carrion in the corner. It lit up the severed hand before flashing back to Frost’s face.
‘She killed my son,’ said Lewis sadly. ‘You’ve seen too much.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ said Frost. ‘I’ve already phoned for back-up. They’re on their way now.’
‘Liar!’ said Lewis. ‘You haven’t used your phone since you’ve been in here.’ Then he choked back a sob. ‘Lies! Everyone lies to me. The hospital told me lies. My little boy never told lies.’ Then he lunged at Frost with the knife. Frost side-stepped to avoid the blow, but felt his feet shoot from under him again and crashed to the floor. The impetus of the missed knife blow made Lewis plunge forward and lose his balance. As he thudded to the slippery tiled floor, his arm jerked up, sending his torch soaring in the air, to comet-tail down before hitting the floor. A tinkle of broken glass and the room was in complete darkness again.
Frost rolled desperately away from Lewis, who was struggling to get back on his feet and making chilling moaning noises.
As Frost rolled, his hand felt a gap… a space. Thank God! He’d found the bloody doorway. But as he staggered unsteadily to his feet, Lewis was at him again. The knife whistled past Frost’s head, just nicking his ear – warm blood trickled down his ice-cold cheek. Scrabbling frantically, Frost located the door handle, but his blood-slippery hand couldn’t get a grip. He snatched at his mac and wrapped that round the handle. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge. He charged it again and again with his shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but the door stayed firmly shut.
Sounds indicated that Lewis had regained his footing. Although Frost couldn’t see him, he could hear the rasp of his breath. He hurled himself in the general direction, managing to hit Lewis in the chest and sending them both down to the floor again. They rolled, one on top of the other, Frost grunting with pain as their combined weights pressed on his injured wrist. He tried to grab the arm holding the knife, but again couldn’t get a grip and Lewis easily managed to wrench his hand free. Frost was just able to roll to one side as the knife again cut through the darkness, this time slashing his cheek. Blood poured into his mouth. With a heave, he managed to send Lewis crashing back, giving himself time to stagger to his feet. He remembered where the door was, even after all the rolling about, threw himself towards it and again wrestled with the handle. It still wouldn’t budge. He shook his head and tried to think. Of course, you flaming fool! It opens inwards. The bloody door opens inwards. He pulled and sighed with relief. It opened easily.
He charged through the gap as Lewis made one final lunge. Frost slammed the door shut behind him. He heard a sickening scrunching sound, a scream of agony and a clatter as knife dropped to the floor.
‘My hand – you’re crushing my hand!’ shrieked Lewis.
Frost opened the door and dragged Lewis out, kicking the knife well out of his reach. He winced as the pain from his injured wrist intensified.
In the early-morning light he could see that the butcher’s hand was a mangled mess. ‘As if we haven’t got enough bleeding blood,’ he muttered, fishing a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and locking Lewis’s good wrist to his own good wrist. A couple of bleeding walking wounded, he thought. Everything hurt – his head, his back, his wrist – and blood was trickling down his face and neck from his slashed ear and cheek. He was totally exhausted. He didn’t think he could make the journey across to his car without a rest. He slid down to the pavement and leant back against the shop front, sucking in lungfuls of clean air. The butcher was now sobbing softly.
‘Is that how that nurse screamed when you cut her up?’ asked Frost.
Lewis stopped sobbing. ‘She killed my little boy,’ he said, as if that explained everything.
‘Let’s get you to the car,’ said Frost, pushing himself to his feet and bending as he tried to drag Lewis up. Suddenly, catching Frost off balance, Lewis plunged back into the shop, dragging Frost with him, and made a desperate lunge for the knife on the floor, almost toppling Frost as he grabbed it. One hand handcuffed, the other out of action, Frost swung out his foot, catching Lewis on the side of his head. Lewis went limp and the knife clattered to the ground. The butcher was out cold.
Totally drained, Frost slithered down beside the unmoving Lewis and rummaged in his pocket for a cigarette. Then he remembered that his lighter was buried amongst the offal. Sod it. His matches were in the car, so was his radio. He lifted one of Lewis’s eyelids and just saw the whites of his eyes. The man was definitely unconscious. He unlocked the handcuffs, made it to the car and radioed for back-up.
The little Asian pharmacist in the twenty-four-hour chemist’s was anxious to get Frost – and the smell of him – out of his shop as quickly as possible. ‘Your wrist is not broken, only badly sprained,’ he said, strapping it up tightly and selling Frost some extra-strong painkillers. ‘Should be prescription only, but for you, Inspector Frost, I make an exception. Do not take more than six in any twenty-four hours.’
The pharmacist cleaned the cut on Frost’s face with something that stung like mad; then slapped a sticking plaster on it. He held open the shop door and ushered Frost out, before hastily snatching an air-freshener from a shelf and spraying it liberally around.
The tablets, extra flaming strong or not, didn’t seem to be having much effect on the pain, neither did a shower and change of clothes have much effect on the aroma. The smell of death clung tenaciously.
Frost got back in the car and drove to the butcher’s to see how things were going. It was bloody painful driving, but it would be just as painful sitting behind his desk.
He parked behind the generating van that was pumping electricity to light up the inside of the butcher’s so that Harding and his forensic team, plus SOCO, could see what they were doing and what it was they were smelling.
He’d had more than enough of the inside of the place so he stayed in the car and smoked, gritting his teeth against the throbbing agony of his sprained wrist. Bloody hell – it wouldn’t have hurt as much as this if it had been broken.
After the second cigarette, Harding, the head of Forensic, staggered out, tearing the white filter mask from his face before being violently sick in the gutter.
‘I hope you’re going to clean that up before you go!’ called Frost. ‘Someone’s dog might eat that!’
Harding raised a green, sweaty face and forced a grin, mopping his brow as he approached the car, talking to Frost through the open window.
‘It’s the body of a woman, Inspector – bits of one foot missing – almost certainly the bits you’ve been finding in Denton Woods. Throat cut, stab wounds all over her. Been dead a couple of weeks, I reckon.’
‘That fits!’ nodded Frost. ‘It’s the nurse who lived next door.’ He turned his head at the lights of an approaching car, which slid to a halt behind him. Sandy Lane of the Denton Echo got out. ‘Put a bit of rotting meat out and the bleeding vultures soon arrive,’ muttered Frost as Lane approached the car.
‘Understand you’ve found a body, Jack?’ He sniffed and screwed up his face. ‘What’s that bloody awful smell?’
‘It’s my new aftershave,’ said Frost. ‘It stops randy reporters from putting their hand on my knee.’
‘Well, it’s working for me,’ said Lane, flapping a hand in front of his nose. Who is it, Jack? Is it the other missing teenager?’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Sod it. Too flaming late to make the London dailies.’
‘If you’d given me some decent whisky,’ replied Frost, ‘I’d have kept the body on ice until a more convenient time.’
‘But is it the missing girl’?’ insisted Lane.
Frost shrugged. ‘She hasn’t been identified yet.’
‘Don’t sod me about, Jack. I’ve been up all night and I’m tired.’
Frost smiled up at him. ‘That whisky you gave me was like cat’s pee.’
‘All right,’ sighed Lane. ‘Two bottles of Johnnie Walker.’
‘It’s not the missing schoolgirl,’ said Frost. ‘We are working on the possibility that it may be connected with our investigations into a nurse reported missing from Denton General Hospital.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Off the record, multiple stab wounds. For the record, we are awaiting the result of the post mortem, but suspicious sods that we are, we suspect foul play.’ After Taffy Morgan’s foul-up with the press, Frost was treading on eggs.
‘Was she raped?’
‘The bit I saw wasn’t raped,’ answered Frost, ‘but then it was only her hand.’
Lane’s eyes widened. ‘The bit you saw? You mean she was dismembered… cut into pieces?’ He jerked a thumb. ‘And in a butcher’s shop?’ His face brightened. ‘Wow! We’ve got a terrific story here, Jack. The London papers would die for this. Give me some details?’
‘That’s all you’re going to get for now, Sandy, but you can say that a forty-six-year-old man is helping us with our inquiries. We’ll be issuing a press release after the autopsy and after we’ve had positive identification.’
‘Three bottles of whisky, Jack?’
‘Piss off.’
Lane grinned, waved his goodbyes and went back to his car. As he pulled out, a gleaming black Rolls Royce purred round the corner and filled Lane’s vacated parking space. It was Drysdale, the Home Office pathologist. ‘Where’s my little fat roly poly?’ muttered Frost to himself as he stepped out to meet him.
‘Mucky one for you this time, Doc,’ said Frost.
‘Your ones usually are,’ sniffed Drysdale. ‘Lead the way, please.’
‘Follow your nose,’ said Frost, taking a deep breath as he bade a temporary goodbye to fresh air and led the way in, followed by the pathologist and his faded blonde secretary
The harsh emergency lighting hammered off the white tiled walls. Seeing the mess made the smell seem stronger than ever. Frost found a cigarette and lit up, only to be stopped by Drysdale.
‘Put that out, Inspector,’ he snapped. ‘I can’t smell what I want to smell.’
‘Whatever turns you on, Doc,’ muttered Frost, spotting a box of face masks on a chopping block and slipping one on thankfully. Drysdale disdained the offer and his secretary, following her master’s lead, shook her head, although she was looking distinctly green.
Even with the mask on, the smell seeped through. There were too many people inside the tiny room, making it hotter than ever. ‘The bleeding place seemed twice the size in the dark,’ muttered Frost to himself. ‘Everyone wait outside,’ he called. ‘The doc can’t appreciate the bouquet with all you sweaty sods in here.’
They needed no second bidding. With the lights streaming down, the scene looked even gorier than before. Forensic and SOCO had done a good job of sorting out the bloody pieces, which were laid out on green polythene sheeting like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. The head and limbs had been sawn from the trunk, which was naked. The hands and feet had been sawn from ‘the limbs. Parts of the foot were missing – obviously the pieces that had been turning up in Denton Woods. The throat had been slashed, the stomach split and organs removed. It was like something out of Jack the Ripper
‘Is she dead, Doc?’ asked Frost.
Drysdale, who didn’t appreciate Frost’s humour, gave him a cold glare and bent down to examine the carnage more closely. He prodded the trunk with his finger.
‘She’s been dead between one and two weeks.’ His secretary briefly took away the handkerchief she had clasped to her nose and scribbled the great man’s findings down in her shorthand notebook. ‘Collect some of those maggots for the entomologist. He’ll be more precise.’
Drysdale straightened up and consulted his wristwatch. ‘I can fit in a post-mortem at three this afternoon. Get the body to the mortuary, with the other bits of foot you tell me you have found. Stress to the attendant I do not want it washed or cleaned in any way until I say so.’ He pointed to the tiled floor. ‘And get samples of dried blood from all parts of the floor and walls… mark the location of each and take photographs. I need to confirm if any of it is human, which could mean she was killed in here.’
‘Sure, Doc,’ nodded Frost, hoping he could remember all this. ‘So, for the record, cause of death?’
‘She more than likely died from the many knife wounds – her throat’s been cut, but I’ll need to do the autopsy to determine if that was the prime cause. Three o’clock, Inspector. And I’d be obliged if, just for once, you weren’t late.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Frost.
Frost’s cigarette was alight the minute his foot touched the pavement. The rest of the team were huddled in their cars, most of them smoking. He watched the rear lights of Drysdale’s Rolls disappear round the corner, then called out, ‘As you’ve been so good, I’m letting you go back inside again.” He issued Drysdale’s instructions about getting the body over to the morgue, together with the other parts they had found previously. ‘He wants the matching set. And the flaming prat wants maggots and blood samples from all over the walls and floor and every bloodstain photographed. It would be easier to ask Lewis where he killed her, but Drysdale wants to do it the hard way.’
He beckoned DS Hanlon over. ‘Arthur, get on to the Electricity people. I want the current restored to this place so we can get the refrigeration room operational. Drysdale’s bound to discover one of her nipples is missing or something, and we’ll have to send some poor sod back in to fish it out, so let’s get it chilled down. And we’d better have a uniform guarding the doors in case souvenir hunters want a bit of ear-hole for their scrapbook.’ He raised his voice to address the others. ‘When you’ve finished, back to the station for breakfast – brains and liver on toast. And no pinching bits of meat for your dinner. It’s been counted.’
‘Superintendent Mullett wants to see you,’ called Wells as Frost pushed through the swing doors.
‘He can go and – ’ began Frost, then picking up the sergeant’s urgent face-twitching signal that the superintendent was within earshot, hastily amended, ‘He can be assured he’s only got to ask.’ He turned to see Mullett in the door way. ‘Oh hello, Super. Didn’t see you there.’
‘My office!’ barked Mullett, spinning on his heels and marching back down the corridor.
‘It’s the third door from the end,’ called Frost.
Mullett got up from his chair and opened a window wide as Frost entered.
‘Yes, there is a funny smell in here, Super,’ said Frost, flopping in a chair. ‘I noticed it the minute I came in.’
Mullett frowned. ‘Hardly the time for cheap humour, Frost.’ He looked the DI up and down, scowling his displeasure. ‘You look a mess. You’re dishevelled, unshaven, and those clothes have seen better days.’
‘Sorry’ said Frost. ‘Next time I fight for my life in the bleeding dark I’ll put my best suit on.’
‘Your sarcasm about the incident is misplaced, Frost. This should wipe that smile off your face. I have just had our local radio station on the phone, wanting me to confirm that a suspect arrested this morning is in intensive care with his fingers smashed and severe concussion following a savage kick in the head.’ He repeated these last words to emphasise the seriousness. ‘A kick, Frost… in the head.’
‘Yes, I heard you the first time,’ said Frost. ‘I was defending myself. He came at me with a knife.’
‘To kick a man in the head, he would have to be down on the floor, Frost. You hardly needed to defend yourself when your assailant was on the floor.’
‘He was reaching for the bloody knife.’
‘You could have kicked it out of the way. The press are going to have a field day over this, and you can’t expect me to back you.’
‘That’s the last thing I would expect,’ said Frost. ‘I only had one free hand.’ He held up the strapped wrist. ‘This one was useless. I was groggy after hitting my head on the floor. This mad bastard had already taken a slice out of my ear and my cheek, just in case you think I cut myself shaving.’ He touched the sticking plaster and wished it was bigger.
Mullett dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘Excuses, excuses. If Lewis dies…’
His phone rang. Mullett frowned at it for daring to interrupt, then picked it up. ‘Mullett!’ The frown vanished. He straightened himself up in his chair, smoothing his hair and straightening an already immaculate tie. ‘Good morning, Chief Constable. Yes, I’ve heard, sir.’
Mullett covered the mouthpiece with his hand and hissed to Frost, ‘He’s heard about your brutal arrest – I’m not going to cover up for you.’ Then back instantly to the phone. ‘Yes, sir. I’m dealing with that right now. I have Frost in the office with me… I – ’ He stopped dead. As if a switch had clicked, his expression changed. ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, sir… a very brave thing to do… tackling a man with a knife in the pitch dark… and he suffered minor injuries himself, did you know? Yes, sir… Funnily enough I was telling him that as you phoned… a credit to the Denton force.’
Frost leant back in his chair and smirked.
‘One minor problem,’ Mullett went on. ‘I’ve had the local TV station on accusing us of police brutality… Yes, sir, I shall certainly put them in their place. As you know, sir, I back my men to the hilt.’ He ignored Frost’s exaggerated expression of disbelief. ‘His transfer request?… I’m doing my best to talk him out of it, sir, but his mind seems to be made up… Yes, sir, I’ll try again. .. I agree we need men like him in the division… Thank you, sir.’ He hung up and shuffled some papers on his desk, trying to reassemble his thoughts.
‘No need to talk me out of it, Super,’ beamed Frost. ‘To help you out, I’ll stay.’
‘The Chief Constable is unaware of your forgeries and your obtaining money by false pretences, Frost. If he found out, there would be no question of you staying anywhere in the force you would be out on your ear and nothing I could do would stop it.’
‘I’m sure of that,’ said Frost He stood up. ‘Anything else?’
Mullett waved him back into his chair. ‘There is something else, Frost. I’ve had DCI Skinner on the phone. He’s still tying up loose ends in his old division, but he should be able to return to Denton permanently in a week or two. And when he does he wants to bring his own Detective Inspector with him. So we want you to be ready to move out instantly. What have you done about selling your house?’
‘I’ve thought about it,’ said Frost.
‘You’ve got to do more than think about it. You’ll need somewhere to live in Lexton. DCI Skinner has kindly given your details to estate agents there, who will be contacting you.’
‘DCI Skinner’s kindness overwhelms me at times,’ said Frost. ‘And there was me thinking he was a lousy bastard.’
‘I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said Mullett. ‘As time is of the essence, Frost, I suggest you take the rest of the day off and get your house tidied up into a fit condition for estate agents to value it.’
Back in his office, Frost phoned Taffy Morgan at the hospital. ‘How’s Lewis?’ he asked.
‘He’s all right, Guv. He was only stunned.’
‘Oh dear. Mullett was hoping he’d die so he could boot me out. Are they keeping him in?’
‘Only for another twenty-four hours for observation.’
‘Right. I’ll get Sergeant Wells to send you a relief. I need you down here.’
‘The doctors are worried about his mental state.’
‘That’s funny, Taff. I’m worried about yours. What are they going to do about it?’
‘They reckon they should get him sectioned.’
‘Bloody good idea… he’s not going to be fit to plead and it will get him off our backs. I’ll get Bill Wells on to it.’
He hung up. His head was hurting. His wrist was hurting. It wasn’t time for the next lot of painkillers, but he shook out a double dose and swallowed them dry. Dangerous to exceed the stated dose, it said. Well, he’d live dangerously. They weren’t doing any bleeding good anyway. He yawned and scrubbed his face with his hands. Why was he so bloody tired? Was it the tablets? He read the manufacturer’s warnings… the tablets could evidently cause everything from exploding eyeballs to heart failure… Should you experience any of these symptoms, stop taking the medication instantly and consult your GP. And yes, they could cause tiredness – Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.
He yawned again. Of course he was flaming tired. What with all the sodding about with Lewis, he’d barely had half an hour’s sleep. Well, he wasn’t fit for work in this state. He’d obey his thoughtful Divisional Commander and go home for a couple of hours and have a kip.
As he yawned his way through the lobby, Bill Wells called after him, ‘Mullett wants you again, Jack.’
‘He can bloody want,’ said Frost.
The minute his head touched the pillow, thoughts started whirling round his brain – all the things he had to do, all the things he hadn’t done – and he knew there was no chance of sleep. He lit a cigarette and lay there, staring upwards, watching the smoke writhe its way to the nicotine-stained ceiling. What was that song Peggy Lee used to sing – ‘Don’t Smoke In Bed’? There was supposed to be a danger of dropping off to sleep and burning yourself to death when the bedclothes caught fire. The worst thing about smoking in bed as far as he was concerned was that the ash kept falling on his chest. He brushed away the latest deposit, stubbed the cigarette out and shut his eyes, willing sleep to pay him a visit. He was just drifting off when…
The bloody hall phone rang.
He tried to ignore it, but it rang and rang and rang.
Cursing softly, he padded downstairs and snatched up the handset. ‘Frost.’
‘My name is Richard from Ripley’s estate agent’s. When would it be convenient to call to value your home?’
‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Frost sweetly.
‘Richard.’
‘Then piss off, Richard.’ He slammed the phone down, making the hall table shake. Sod it. Sleep was impossible now. And he’d have to face up to the fact that, like it or not, they were going to boot him out of Denton and he’d have to sell this place. An estate agent would have to call and put a price on it. Prospective buyers would come to have a sniff around, shake their heads and say, ‘We were looking for something bigger, cheaper, less scruffy; and in a better state of repair.’
As he turned to go back upstairs a package plopped through the letter box. A plastic sack from Oxfam, who were inviting householders to fill it with unwanted clothing.
If he was going to move into somewhere smaller he would have to chuck away a whole batch of stuff. The wardrobe was jam-packed with his late wife’s clothes. They could all go for a start. He made a detour to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face to chase away the last vestiges of tiredness, rubbed his chin and decided a shave could wait, then went back into the bedroom. There were so many dresses, coats, blouses, skirts, going back years. His wife had never thrown anything away. He shook them off their hangers and started stuffing them into the bag.
Then he came to the red dress. The red, short- sleeved, low-necked cocktail dress. The dress she had worn that Christmas…
The first Christmas after they had married. Their very first Christmas together in their own home, and it was all spoilt when the bloody phone rang and he was called back on duty because of the murdered girl – the girl Graham Fielding had raped and strangled.
That stinking row… her tears, her threats… ‘If you leave me on Christmas Day I won’t be here when you get back!’ Nothing would console her… He remembered her tear-stained face… but he had been called out on duty. He had to leave her.
It was gone ten at night when he finally got back home, cold, tired, apprehensive and miserable. Their big day together ruined. The house seemed dark and empty. He called out her name. No reply. His heart sank. Had she gone to bed, or worse still, had she carried out her threat and left him?
He walked down the passage to the kitchen, clicking on lights as he went. He steeled himself and pushed open the door The warm smell of cooking hit him in the face.
The lights were off. His wife, in the red cocktail dress, was at the table, which she had laid with a red cloth, red serviettes and red candles, the reflected flames dancing on her skin. God, she was beautiful. He could see her now. Absolutely beautiful.
She rushed to meet him. They kissed. They both kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’ They exchanged presents. She had bought him a super cigarette lighter which he lost after a week and didn’t dare tell her. He had bought her a sexy nightdress and another present. He called it a Marilyn Monroe nightdress as it was all she claimed to wear in bed… a bottle of Chanel No. 5, which had cost him a packet. ‘That’s the nightdress I’m going to wear tonight,’ she told him.
The most wondetful Christmas night of his life. What happened? How did things go avalanching downhill? Why did such deep, passionate love change to cold, sullen hate? How did his beautiful, loving wife change into the bitter, grim-faced woman who he had to sit and watch die? It was all his fault. She had ambitions. She wanted him to go places, but he knew his limitations.
He realised he was crying. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks. He pressed his face into the red dress. The perfume – the Chanel. Was it his imagination or could he still smell the ghost of that perfume? God, what a night. they had had…
He looked down at the sack, half filled with her clothes. No point in being sentimental. Everything had to go, even the red dress.
But he couldn’t do it. He put the dress back on its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. The rest of the clothes he crammed in, forcing them down to make room, then tied the sack.
He sat on the bed and smoked some more, and thought of all the good times. Bloody hell. He was supposed to be a cynical bastard. That knock on the head was making him all sentimental and flaming weepy. Chanel No. 5 in the tiniest of bottles. ‘For that price I expected a pint at least,’ he had told the sales girl when he bought it. It had cost him a packet. But she was worth it, every penny.
He caught sight of the alarm clock. Damn. If he didn’t hurry he’d be late once again for Drysdale’s post-mortem.
The pathologist straightened up from the autopsy table and stepped back to allow the photographers to take their photographs of the dismembered body, which had now been cleaned up slightly.
‘She received a blow to the head which would have rendered her unconscious,’ he told Frost. ‘Then her throat was cut – the way animals are slaughtered, I suppose.’ He peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them in the disposal bin on top of his discarded plastic apron. ‘The dismembering of the body was carried out immediately after death.’
Drysdale moved across to the sink and washed his hands, holding them out for the towel his faithful, ever-anticipating secretary had ready. ‘Our suspect is a butcher, I believe?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever stand trial. His solicitor has got doctors to say he’s unfit to plead and I don’t think we’re going to argue about that.’
Drysdale pushed his arms into the sleeves of the overcoat his secretary was holding out, then looked back at the body on the table and shook his head. ‘In all my years as a pathologist, it never ceases to disgust me how people can do such things to fellow human beings.’
‘His five-year-old son died in Denton Hospital,’ said Frost. ‘He doted on the kid and cracked up. He blamed the hospital and the nurses for the kid’s death.’ He rubbed his aching wrist. ‘I almost feel sorry for the poor sod.’
Drysdale stared at Frost. ‘You amaze me, Inspector.’
As soon as the pathologist had left, Frost tore off the green mortuary gown and hurried out to his car. He was thankful that Drysdale was satisfied they had recovered all the body parts and didn’t want the shop searched again for a navel or an ear-hole or something equally obscure. Blood samples and maggots had been sent off to the appropriate experts, but he didn’t give a sod about the result. Wherever and whenever she had been killed, the poor cow was dead and they had the killer, and if it didn’t come to trial there would be a hell of a lot less paperwork.
Back in his office, a memo from Mullett glowered at him from his in-tray. Mullett was concerned at the amount of manpower being used in the search for the missing teenager, Jan O’Brien. When, he asked, would the officers involved be able to return to their normal duties?
‘As soon as possible,’ scrawled Frost across the neatly typed memo, which he winged across to his out-tray. Bloody hell. There was no flaming peace in this job. Wouldn’t it be lovely if a couple of days went by without bodies turning up, girls going missing and bastards blackmailing the supermarket? How was he going to get through everything he had to do with Hornrim Harry screaming about costs and missing paperwork, and half the force out of Denton on special duties?
His phone buzzed. ‘Mullett wants to see you now,’ said Bill Wells.
‘Tell him I’m out,’ said Frost, grabbing his mac and making for his car.
He drove around aimlessly; his head was still throbbing and his flaming wrist was hurting like hell, and he was getting sleepy. He passed the turning leading to the butcher’s, and wondered who Wells had given the lousy job of standing on guard outside – or inside, if they had a strong stomach. It was cold, windy and raining and he pitied whichever poor sod had drawn the short straw.
The poor sod in question was WPC Kate Holby, who was huddled up in the shop doorway sheltering from the driving rain. She quickly sprang to attention as Frost’s car drew up.
‘All right, love,’ called Frost, turning up his mac collar as he joined her in the doorway. ‘You don’t have to impress me, I’m nobody. Sold much meat?’
She grinned. For a while they silently watched the rain drumming on the pavement and gurgling down the drain. ‘You’re looking a lot happier now, love,’ said Frost. ‘Settling in, are you?’
‘It’s been a lot better these last few days,’ she said.
‘That’s because Skinner’s not here, isn’t it?’
She said nothing.
‘Look, love. Our mutual friend Skinner is kicking me out to Lexton in a couple of weeks. You really should come with me. You could easily get a transfer. I might be able to get you into CID.’ The thought of the kid stuck with Skinner and no one to stick up for her was something he didn’t like to contemplate.
She shook her head. ‘I’m not letting him drive me out. I’m not running away.’
‘If you don’t stand a chance of winning, it’s often better to run,’ said Frost. ‘I’d run away from the bastard if I were you. Your time will come. You’re bloody good, love, like your dad. You’ll zoom up the ranks. You might even be Skinner’s boss one day, then you can pay the bastard back.’
‘He’s not forcing me out,’ she said stubbornly.
Frost shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But if you ever change your mind
…’ He looked out into the rain again and noticed Lewis’s car was still parked outside. It should have been taken back to the station. Something else he had forgotten about. ‘Why aren’t you waiting inside, out of the rain?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t got the key,’ she told him.
‘Didn’t the bastards let you have the key – ’ began Frost, stopping suddenly as he realised the key was in his pocket. He was about to hand it over, but dropped it back into his pocket again.
‘Hell, why are we guarding this place? The autopsy’s over, no bits are missing and if anyone wants to break in and pinch any of that meat, they’re welcome. Hop in my car, I’ll drive you back to the station, then I’m off home to get my head down for a couple of hours.’
As he slowed down and waited for the traffic lights to change, he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was reflecting the red glow of the stop signal… red like the dress his wife wore that Christmas. God, the kid was a cracker. A stubborn little cow, but a cracker. She reminded him of his wife when she was that age.
The lights turned green and the car jerked for ward. You’re getting to be a bleeding maudlin old sod, he told himself.