A Killing Frost

Chapter 5

The ringing woke him, slowly dragging him by the scruff of his neck out of a deep sleep and shaking him back to semi-consciousness.

Frost opened his eyes. It was still pitch dark and the ringing was boring into his ears. What bleeding time was it? He fumbled for the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet and succeeded in sending it crashing to the floor. The ringing went on.

Cursing, he climbed out of bed and snatched up the sodding alarm, bringing it up close to his sleep-fuddled eyes, trying to make out the time. Six flaming past seven on a dark and freezing- cold morning. He’d had barely two hours’ sleep. And why was the flaming thing ringing? He was sure he hadn’t set it before flopping into the unmade bed last night. He tried to switch it off, but the ringing didn’t stop – it was the downstairs phone in the hall. Shit! Phone calls at this hour of the morning were always bad news.

He padded in his bare feet across the cold lino and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He shivered as he headed downstairs. The central heating hadn’t fired up yet and he was still in his pyjamas and a draught roared under the front door. He picked up the phone and basked for a few seconds in the resulting non-ringing silence.

‘Frost,’ he growled.

‘Jack,’ said Sergeant Wells. ‘The mother’s been on the blower. Her daughter hasn’t returned home.’

What mother? What daughter? His sleep wasn’t functioning properly. Then he remembered, and suddenly he was fully awake. Jan O’Brien. The teenager who hadn’t come home. The teenager whose mobile phone was found near the spot where the drunk claimed he heard a girl screaming. He knew this was going to be a bad one. He just knew it. ‘Shit!’ he hissed.

‘Sorry?’ asked Wells, not hearing.

‘I said I’ll be right over.’

In fifteen minutes he had washed, dressed and shaved and was on his second cigarette of the day. His hand was turning the front-door latch when he paused, suddenly dreading having to face Mrs O’Brien, telling her about the reported screams the finding of the phone. But sod this bleeding-pity This was one of the joys of the bloody job, just one step down from the joy of having to tell a mother they’d found her child body: a task he’d performed time without number since he joined the force. And it got worse, not easier.

It was as bad as he feared. The mother was hysterical and screaming, the father angry and belligerent, wanting to know why they hadn’t been told all this last night, as if it would have eased their pain one iota.

‘You will find her, won’t you?’ pleaded Mrs O’Brien.

'We’ll find her,’ Frost assured her, the same hollow words he always used. ‘Don’t worry love. We’ll find her.’

Back in the car, he tuned in to Denton FM, the local radio, as he drove back to the station.

Denton Police are anxious to contact the person who phoned them last night reporting hearing screams in the vicinity of the multi-storey car park…

He hoped the sod hadn’t been too flaming drunk to remember what he had heard.

Jordan was waiting for him as he pushed open the door of his office. ‘We’ve been round to that girl Kathy, Inspector.’

Frost frowned. ‘Who the hell is Kathy?’

‘Jan O’Brien’s friend – the girl she was with last night. She lied to Jan’s mother – didn’t want to get Jan into trouble. Jan was still there when the mother phoned and didn’t leave to go home until nearly midnight.’

‘Kathy lives at Moorland Avenue, doesn’t she?’

‘That’s right, Inspector.’

Frost spun round in his chair to check the wall map and jabbed a finger on Moorland Avenue. ‘So that could put her smack in the vicinity of the multi-storey when our friendly neighbourhood drunk heard the screams.’

Jordan nodded. ‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Right,’ said Frost, ramming a cigarette in his mouth. ‘Then we need that bloody drunk.’ His hand was hovering over the phone, ready to call Bill Wells, when the station sergeant came in and forestalled him.

‘That drunk’s been on the blower again, Jack. He heard the radio appeal, but wouldn’t give his name. He says he can’t help. He heard screaming, but saw sod all. He phoned from a call box again.’

‘Sod it,’ snarled Frost. ‘I want him. He might have seen a car or something later. Another appeal, Bill. Would the prat who phoned the police phone us again, please. And I’ll need all the men you can spare. We’re going to have to put a search in hand.’

‘I can’t spare anyone, Jack. Mr Skinner’s got them all looking for Debbie Clark and the boy.’

‘Then he’ll have to make it a combined search,’ said Frost. ‘Is he in yet?’

Wells looked past Frost, out of the office window. ‘His car’s just pulling in now.’ He gritted his teeth and winced at the sound of an anguished squeal of brakes and a rubber-ripping skid. Wells gasped. ‘Bloody hell, Jack. Taffy Morgan’s nearly rammed into the back of Skinner’s car.’

‘Stupid Welsh git,’ said Frost. ‘I’ve told him a hundred times: “You’ll never kill Skinner by ramming his car. You’ve got to wait until he gets out, then drive over him.” There was a burble of angry voices outside. ‘Now what?’

‘Skinner’s having a quiet word with Taffy,’ grinned Wells.

Doors slammed and thudding footsteps approached, then the office door crashed open and an angry Detective Chief Inspector Skinner marched in. He jabbed a finger at Wells. ‘I’ve just driven past two of our men on their way to work still in civvies. I made it clear enough yesterday, even for you Denton thickies, that I want them in uniform before they clock on. I want to see them the minute they come in.’

‘Right,’ nodded Wells.

‘And I want to see you, too,’ snarled Skinner, stabbing a finger at Frost. ‘Five minutes.’ He slammed the door as he left and the windows rattled.

‘And good morning to you too, you fat sod,’ said Frost, jerking two fingers at the closed door. To his alarm, the door opened again and he thought Skinner had heard him and was coming back – but it was Taffy Morgan.

‘Skinner’s a bit touchy this morning,’ said Taffy flopping down in the chair behind his desk and taking the Daily Mirror from his pocket.

‘I don’t think he likes people ramming the back of his car,’ said Frost. ‘Now put that flaming paper away, I’ve got jobs for you. I want CCTV footage from the building society cash machine and I want CCTV footage of the area around the multi-storey for around midnight last night. If Jan O’Brien was abducted, let’s see what cars were about at that time of night.’

‘Right, Guv.’ With a quick glance at the picture of a half-naked girl on page three, Taffy tucked the morning paper under his arm and left the office.

Frost’s internal phone rang. It was Skinner.

‘OK,’ acknowledged Frost, giving the phone another two-fingered salute as he hung up. He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Is “Get your effing arse in here” the same as saying “Would you kindly come into my office”?’ he asked Bill Wells.

As he approached Skinner’s office after a quick cup of tea in the canteen, Frost could clearly hear the DCI’s angry voice bellowing from behind the closed door, which then opened to allow two sheepish-looking, out-of-uniform, PCs to emerge. ‘And the next time I spot you on the way to work, but out of uniform, I’ll have your flaming guts for garters,’ roared Skinner, speeding them on their way.

‘Little tip,’ whispered Frost. ‘He likes you to be wearing your uniform before you start duty – he might have been too shy to have mentioned it. I’m going in for my bollocking now.’ He gave the door a half-hearted tap and entered.

A smouldering Skinner glowered at him from behind his desk. Much of the office had been stripped bare, ready for complete refurbishment. If Mullett could raid the maintenance budget for a tarted-up, wooden-panelled office, then Skinner was not going to put up with this tatty affair. He slashed a finger at a chair and grunted, ‘Sit!’

Woof, woof thought Frost. Are we going for walkies? He flopped down in the chair. Skinner didn’t look very well. His skin had a greenish pallor and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

‘You look rough,’ said Frost.

Skinner rubbed his stomach. ‘Superintendent Mullett took me out to dinner at his club last night. I think the oysters were off.’

‘I hate oysters,’ said Frost. ‘They taste like salted snot.’

Skinner looked as if he was going to throw up. ‘Never mind about me. A complete and utter balls-up last night.’

‘The meal wasn’t a success then?’ asked Frost.

‘You know damn well what I mean. The cashpoint stake-out. All those men. All that bloody overtime and you let the sod get away with a thousand quid.’

‘We made an arrest,’ protested Frost. ‘Oh yes,’ sneered Skinner, ‘a flaming handbag- snatcher. All that overtime and a flaming handbag-snatcher. I hear we have another bloody missing girl?’

Frost filled Skinner in.

Skinner tapped his teeth with his pencil. ‘Do you think there’s any link with the other two missing kids?’

‘Possible, but I doubt it. I think our friendly neighbourhood rapist has got her.’

A ripple of pain made Skinner wince and rub his stomach. ‘Bleeding oysters. Right. I’m on my way now to brief the search teams. I’ll get them to look for Jan O’Brien as well. If you get any results from the CCTV footage, follow it through, but keep me posted. And if you get near to making an arrest, I take over – comprende?’

‘Buenas noches,’ agreed Frost, pushing himself out of the chair and beating a hasty retreat.

Back in his office, he wearily dragged his over flowing in-tray towards him. He skimmed through the memos and forms, then dragged the waste-paper bin over so he could discard all the tricky stuff and deny he had ever received it. Whatever they were, he didn’t have the time to waste on them. He looked round as Morgan came in, a batch of videotapes in his hand.

‘Sorry I’ve been so long, Guv,’ said dropping wearily into his chair.

‘Don’t apologise, Taff,’ said Frost. ‘Things always seem to go a lot smoother when you’re not here. So you’ve got the cashpoint and CCTV footage?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Right. Take them into the Incident Room and run them through. Get Collier to help you.’

‘Shall I have my breakfast first, Guv?’ asked Morgan hopefully. ‘I’ve already ordered the big fry-up.’

‘All you think about is your dick and your flaming stomach,’ snorted Frost. ‘No. Get cracking on those videotapes, they’re more important. Don’t worry about your breakfast – I’ll eat it for you. And stop sulking – put your flaming lower lip in!’

When he returned from the canteen, his phone was ringing. Didn’t the bleeding thing ever stay quiet for a few minutes? He answered it.

‘Frost.’

It was Beazley, the owner of Supersaves. ‘What the hell happened last night? Did you catch him?’

Shit, thought Frost. He’d forgotten about Beazley. ‘Ah, Mr Beazley. I was just on my way over to you. We didn’t catch him, but we’ve got some people on video footage you might be able to identify.’ He thought it best not to mention the withdrawn thousand pounds at this stage, and hoped and prayed Morgan would turn something up.

‘Then make it bloody snappy. My time is precious.’

‘Fifteen minutes at the outside,’ promised Frost, hanging up and making his way to the Incident Room, where Morgan and Collier were staring at a TV monitor showing juddering footage of late-night traffic.

‘Does it take two of you to look at one tape?’ asked Frost. ‘Have you done the building society cashpoint tape, yet?’

‘It’s next on the list, Guv.’

‘Do it now. Beazley’s shitting bricks.’ Frost looked at the cassette they were slotting into the video player with misgiving. It was old and battered and the tape looked almost white from constant recording and replaying. In the interests of economy, the building society used the same tape over and over again, even when it was past its best. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk as Morgan switched the video player on and fast-forwarded to the previous night. ‘Just before and just after midnight,’ Frost reminded him as blurred black-and-white images raced across the screen and a digital clock at the top right-hand corner sped through the time.

Morgan jammed the Stop button. ‘We’re here, Guv.’ He pressed Play.

The clock said 23.50. The out-of-focus shape appeared of a woman withdrawing cash. The image was blurred and almost unrecognisable, but Frost felt sure it was the tom who had approached him in the car. He made a mental note to get her picked up in case she had seen whoever had used the cashpoint after her.

‘This is it, Guv!’ exclaimed Morgan.

Frost groaned. The next image was unrecognisable. Probably a man in a dark coat with the collar up, his head bent low.

The figure moved off and the screen briefly went blank – the CCTV was programmed only to record when someone was at the cashpoint.

Then, with the clock showing 00.03, the same figure reappeared, face kept well down. The money was withdrawn and the figure moved off into the dark.

‘I think it’s the Pope,’ offered Frost. ‘Get Interpol on the phone. We’d better arrest him, just in case.’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Bleeding building society and its false economies.’ He turned to Collier, who was hovering behind him. ‘Any chance we could get the pictures enhanced?’

‘I doubt it, Inspector,’ Collier told him. ‘There’s hardly anything on the tape to enhance, and in any case, all we’d get would be an enhanced man with his face completely covered.’

‘Try it anyway,’ said Frost. ‘And find out the address of that tom. She might be our only hope.’ He rewound a few seconds and watched the man withdrawing cash again. ‘Why do they bother with CCTV, and then put in cheap flaming cameras with dirty lenses, not enough light and a clapped-out tape?’ He stood up. ‘Get a couple of stills printed out. I’ve got to have something to show Beazley, even if it’s flaming useless.’ He wasn’t going to enjoy that meeting.

As he made for the door, Bill Wells came in. ‘Skinner wants to see you, Jack, and says it’s urgent.’

Skinner, his face still green and sweaty, jabbed a finger at a chair, instructing Frost to sit. In front of him on the desk was an opened, ancient-looking folder bulging with photographs and yellowing, dog-eared pages of typescripts. ‘I’m still feeling rough, so I’m off home to get my head down for a couple of hours. Keep a watching brief ‘on the search.’

‘Right,’ said Frost, standing to go.

A finger wagged him back to the chair. ‘I haven’t finished. I want you to arrest a bloke for me. Just arrest him and get him banged up. I’ll do the rest when I come back.’ Skinner slid a forensic report across the desk. ‘Graham Fielding, your suspected rapist. They’ve done a DNA on the sperm sample from Sally Marsden and it wasn’t him. He’s in the clear.’

‘Shit!’ snorted Frost. ‘He was my odds-on favourite.’

Skinner pushed the file over and Frost found himself staring at a black-and-white photograph of a young girl’s body, naked, her wide sightless eyes staring up into the sky, lying on her back amid long, straggling grass rimed with hoar frost.

Frost stared and shivered. He felt cold. Freezing cold. He was back in time, a cutting wind sawing through his clothes as he stood looking down at the girl’s naked body… Deep in his brain a piercing bell was ringing, insisting that he knew who she was. But the name just wouldn’t come. ‘Who is she?’

‘Casey Turner. Fifteen years old. Raped, strangled and dumped in the old St Martin’s cemetery back in 1977.’

Frost whistled softly as the memory flash- flooded back. Casey Turner. Of course. Fifteen-year-old Casey Turner. ‘It was Christmas Day,’ he said, half to himself. ‘The poor little bitch was killed on Christmas Day. I was on the case – still a sergeant then, of course. Bert Williams was in charge, but we never got any where. No suspects. .. nothing.’

‘I’ve got a suspect now,’ smirked Skinner. ‘A red-hot, bloody one hundred per cent cast-iron suspect.’ He pulled a report from an envelope and gave it to Frost.

‘DNA Test Result,’ read Frost. He looked puzzled and checked the date at the top of the form. ‘It’s a recent sample. What’s it got to do with an ancient murder?’

Skinner leant back in his chair and gave a smug smile. ‘It’s got everything to do with it. When the lab tests DNA samples, they compare them with their database of old DNA material to see if they can match it. It cleared your suspect of rape, but it matched the DNA from sperm samples and flecks of skin from under Casey Turner’s fingernails where she clawed her killer some thirty years ago.’

Frost shook his head in wonder. ‘Flaming hell. After all this bleeding time Fielding must have thought he’d got away with it.’ He looked again at the photograph. Details of the case were charging back fast and furious. The girl’s grief-stricken mother had had a complete nervous breakdown. One bitterly cold night she’d cleaned the house from top to bottom, cut her husband’s sandwiches for the next morning and put them on the kitchen table ready for him to take to work, then, in only a thin frock and no coat, had wandered out to chuck herself off the top level of the multi-storey car park in town. Frost had had to go and break the news to the husband that he had now lost a wife as well as a daughter.

His thoughts were interrupted by Skinner, who was grimacing and rubbing his stomach. ‘I’m off home. Now just bring him in. Don’t question him – this is my case, not yours.’

‘Right,’ nodded Frost, tucking the folder under his arm.

‘And don’t sod it up!’ barked Skinner.

‘I’ll make a note of that,’ said Frost, pulling a pen from his pocket and scribbling on a scrap of paper. ‘I always forget I’m not supposed to sod things up.’

He left Skinner scowling after him. ‘You think you’re so bleeding clever, sunshine, but just wait until tomorrow. Your days in Denton are numbered.’

Back at his desk, Frost opened the file and flipped through the yellowing pages of type script. It was all coming back. His brain started churning over the events of that awful Christmas morning, all those years ago…

They’d only been married a few months and it should have been their first Christmas together, but at eight o’clock on Christmas morning the phone rang. Frank Gibson, the DS who had drawn the short straw for Christmas Day, had been rushed off to hospital with suspected appendicitis and Frost, as standby, was called in to fill the gap. When he told his wife, her fury knew no bounds. Their first Christmas together was going to be ruined. In tears, she threatened to chuck the Christmas dinner she had planned for so long in the dustbin.

She had one hell of a temper. By God, she was a feisty firebrand in those days and a little cracker to boot. Absolutely beautiful, and she adored him as much as he was crazy about her. So how did it all go wrong? How did the poor cow end up dying in that pokey hospital room, her only visitor a man she had long since fallen out of love with?

Much of it was his fault. Too much time spent on the job and not enough with her. And the promotion she had dreamt of for him had not happened until it was too late… until she was dying in that lousy hospital. He rubbed his scar. Until that toe-rag fired the bullet at him and he’d been given a George Cross and promoted to inspector. But by then the cancer was too far gone and when he tried to tell her his news, she couldn’t take it in. He felt his eyes misting over and lit up a cigarette. He smoked and stared out of the window as memories came flooding back.

The station was dead and yawningly empty, the phones were quiet and the flaming heating wasn’t working properly. He had phoned home a couple of times, trying to make the peace, but she had slammed the phone down on him. And then a phone bell suddenly ripped through the silence. Some drunk with enough fright in his voice to sound genuine was saying, ‘There’s a stone-dead naked tart in St Mary churchyard.’ Before Frost could answer, the man had hung up. There was no one else to send and it was probably warmer outside than in this freezing station, so he wound his scarf around his neck and went out to check. Let it be a bloody hoax, he kept telling himself. Let it be a bloody hoax. But it wasn’t.

Lying in the straggling overgrown grass of the old churchyard, amongst the lop-sided, moss-covered headstones of the long dead, was a recent dead, a very recent dead, a young girl, cold as ice, stark naked, a crumpled dress at her fret, staring wide-eyed up at a clear Christmas sky. Somewhere in the distance church bells were ringing.

Bert Williams, the DI in charge of the case, was a dead loss; drunk most of the time and always letting others do all the work. Williams was out of his depth with the Casey Turner murder although even a good copper wouldn’t have had any luck solving it. They had no suspects. Nothing. And all their leads fizzled out.

The DI couldn’t face breaking the news to the family, not that they would have appreciated a man unsteady on his fret, reeking of whisky. Williams had taken another swig from his hip flask behind a crumbling stone angel in the hope that it would bolster his courage to face the dead girl’s family. But it didn’t. ‘You do it, Jack. You’re so much better at this sort of thing than I am…’

Frost sensed someone looking over his shoulder. Taffy Morgan.

‘That’s an ancient case, Guv.’ He picked up the photograph of the body and shook his head sadly. ‘She’s only a kid.’

Frost took the photograph back. ‘Christmas morning. Christmas bloody morning. Get your coat, Taff. We’re going to arrest the bastard who killed her.’

He let Morgan do the driving, his brain still in the past.

Reinforcements were still being drafted in, so he had to make the call to the girl’s house on his own. He had parked outside, in the road, for some fifteen minutes, smoking to delay the moment when he would have to knock at the door. Get it bloody well over and done with. He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it out of the window, stepped out of the cur and knocked at the front door.

From inside the house came the sound of cheerful music on the radio – Frank Sinatra singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’… Casey’s mother opened the door, looking happy and excited…

‘That’s the house, Guv.’ Morgan’s voice snatched him roughly back to the present and he had to shake his head to get rid of the ghosts of the past. It was like waking from a realistic nightmare.

Taffy parked the car in front of the driveway. Frost studied the house. A nice-looking, three bedroomed property no more than ten years old, fronted by a small, neat lawn, in the centre of which an incongruous palm tree flourished. In honour of the palm tree, the house was called The Oasis.

As they scrunched up the gravelled path, a dog barked frantically inside. Frost stood back and let Taffy thumb the doorbell. The dog sounded hungry.

From inside the house a child’s voice yelled at the dog to shut up. The door opened. A dark-haired boy, about ten years old, frowned up at them.

‘Who is it?’ called a man from upstairs.

‘Is that Mr Fielding? Could we have a word, please?’ called back Frost. ‘Denton police.’

A dark-haired man in his late forties thudded down the stairs. ‘Police? Who am I supposed to have raped now?’ he grinned.

‘Casey Turner,’ said Frost.

A puzzled frown, then the man’s head snapped back as if he had been hit. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in shock. He shook his head as if to compose himself, his tongue flicking over dry lips. ‘Who?’ he croaked, trying to keep his voice steady.

‘Might be a good idea if we came inside for a few minutes,’ answered Frost. ‘Rape isn’t some thing you discuss on the doorstep.’

‘Yes, of course, but I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.’

‘Who’s at the door, Graham?’ called a woman from the back of the house.

‘It’s the police, Mum,’ the boy answered before Fielding could stop him. ‘They say Daddy raped a girl.’

‘It’s all right, dear,’ cut in Fielding hurriedly. ‘Just that old business again.’

‘But they cleared you of that,’ she called.

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘They’re just tidying up the paperwork. Just routine.’ He snapped at his son, ‘Go out and play – now!’ He waited as the boy sullenly shuffled off, then beckoned the two detectives into the lounge and firmly shut the door. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell this is all about.’

‘You know what it’s all about, don’t you, son?’ purred Frost, giving his deceptively friendly smile. He took the black-and-white photograph from his mac pocket and held it up to Fielding’s face. ‘Casey Turner, fifteen. Never got her Christmas presents. You stripped her, raped her, beat her up and killed her. Christmas Day, thirty years ago.’

‘This is preposterous. Me? You’re trying to make out I killed this girl?’ blustered Fielding, pushing the photograph away. ‘I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her.’

Frost sank down into one of the armchairs. ‘Before you tell us any more porkies, let me tell you what we’ve got.’ He balanced the photograph on the arm of the chair, then pulled out a photostat of the DNA test report. ‘As you know, you very kindly gave my Welsh colleague here a DNA sample following that rape in the car park.’

‘And I was cleared. The test said it wasn’t me.’

Frost nodded. ‘Very true. But we’re pugnacious bastards, I’m afraid. We compared your sample with an old semen sample taken from the body of Casey. It matched perfectly.’ He proffered the DNA test result. ‘Here it is, if you don’t believe me.’

Fielding stared at the sheet, then dropped down in the armchair opposite Frost. ‘I never raped her. I never killed her. It was so long ago.’

‘Look, on the bright side, son,’ said Frost. ‘You’ve had thirty years of freedom. Take that as a bonus you didn’t bleeding well deserve. And now I’m going to take you down to the station for further questioning.’

The man remained in the chair. He bowed his head and spoke to the floor. ‘We had sex. She was alive when I left her. Someone else must have killed her.’

Frost shook his head sadly. ‘I’m pretty gullible, but even I can’t swallow that. Still, don’t waste time explaining to me. It isn’t my case, thank God. I’m just here to take you to the station.’ He stood up. ‘Graham Fielding, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Casey Turner on the twenty-fifth of December 1977.’ He jerked his head to Morgan, who intoned the standard caution. Frost still hadn’t got the hang of the new wording.

There was a hesitant tap at the door. Fielding’s wife, an attractive woman with chestnut hair carrying a baby in her arms, came in. She looked at the three men and felt the tension in the air. ‘Graham – what’s wrong?’

Fielding looked up at Frost. ‘Could I have a few words with my wife in private, please, Inspector? In the kitchen?’

‘Of course,’ said Frost.

When they left, he let his eyes travel round the room. There were wedding photos, family photos, holiday photos, baby photos: everyone smiling, everyone happy. He picked up a picture of Fielding’s wife in a very brief bikini and nodded admiringly. ‘The poor cow’s in for a shock.’ He carefully replaced the photograph on the shelf. ‘I bet he’s cursing the day they invented DNA.’

‘I almost feel sorry for him,’ said Morgan.

‘Feel sorry for the poor girl he raped and killed on Christmas bleeding Day,’ said Frost. ‘Feel sorry for her mother, who was so grief-stricken she chucked herself off the top of the multi storey car park. Her father only lived a couple of years after that. The entire family, dead, and all because of that shit-bag.’

‘How the hell is he going to explain it to his wife?’ asked Morgan. ‘ “Sorry, love. I raped and murdered a girl umpteen years ago and I’ll probably go to prison for life. Sorry I haven’t mentioned it before.” ’

‘If he’d confessed at the time, he’d be out by now,’ said Frost. Yells and cries from the back of the house made him look up. ‘I think he’s making a run for it, Taff. Go and give Collier a hand.’ He lit up a cigarette and waited. After a few minutes the door opened and PC Collier led in a handcuffed Graham Fielding, followed by DC Morgan.

‘I forgot to tell you, son,’ said Frost. ‘Us cops are not very trusting, so I had a PC waiting round the back just in case you wanted to leg it.’

From the kitchen came the heart-rending sound of a woman sobbing bitterly and trying to comfort a crying baby. The dog, sensing something was wrong, was barking ceaselessly. Fielding, white-faced, looked as if he too was ready to burst into tears at any minute.

Frost sighed. There were times when this bloody job wasn’t a bundle of laughs. He wound his scarf round his neck and chucked his cigarette end into the empty grate. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Fielding paced up and down the holding cell. ‘I want bail,’ he told Frost. ‘I’m self-employed. If I don’t work the family get no money. I can’t let my customers down. I need bail.’

‘The magistrate might grant you bail, but I doubt it,’ Frost told him. ‘You rarely get bail in a murder case, even one as old as this.’

‘I never killed her,’ insisted Fielding.

‘I’m not the jury, son, just your bog-standard “don’t believe a word the bastard is saying” common or garden cop. Anyway, like I told you, this isn’t my case. Detective Chief Inspector Skinner should be here shortly. You can tell him you didn’t do it. He’s a miserable sod and could do with a good laugh.’

As he was closing the cell door, he thought of the man’s wife and kids. ‘Get a solicitor, son. He might wangle bail for you.’

Fielding, who had slumped down on the bunk bed, looked up, his face a picture of despair. ‘I can’t afford a solicitor.’

‘If you ask for one, we’ll get you one free,’ Frost told him. ‘We’ve got a whole list of dead-beat lawyers who don’t mind losing a hopeless case just to gain experience.’ Fielding’s abject expression almost made him feel pity for the man. ‘ joking, son. They’re all quite good. Just ask for one.’

He was mounting the stairs to the canteen when Wells came running after him.

‘Jack!’

‘Unless it’s a multiple murder or some big-busted tart streaking, it can wait. I’m having my dinner,’ said Frost.

‘More important than both of them, Jack. Beazley’s phoned about eight times. He’s doing his nut.’

Frost stopped in his tracks. ‘Shit!’ He had forgotten all about Beazley. With a wistful glance at the canteen door, Frost turned and descended the stairs. ‘Let’s go and break the good news that I let his blackmailer get away with a thousand quid.’

Beazley leant back in his chair and stared at Frost, wide eyed, mouth gaping in disbelief. ‘Am I hearing you right or do I need to get my bleeding ears syringed? You let the bastard get away with a thousand quid of my money? A thousand bloody quid? You don’t do a flaming thing right. That Fortress cheque you asked for – it would have taken four days to clear so I had to transfer the money electronically. You never told me that, did you?”

‘I’m sorry Mr Beazley.’

‘No, I’m the one who’s flaming sorry for listening to you in the first place. You were supposed to be watching the cashpoints. Where the hell were you?’

‘As I explained, Mr Beazley – ’ began Frost.

Beazley cut him short. ‘I don’t want your bloody explanations. That’s not going to get my flaming money back, is it?’

‘As I explained,’ repeated Frost patiently, ‘the man whose card had been stolen had a spare card which he hadn’t told us about. When we got the message that the card was being used, we naturally went after him.’

‘He was probably a bloody decoy,’ said Beazley, ‘and you fell for it.’

‘No, Mr Beazley. It was just our rotten luck this stupid sod presented his card a few minutes before the blackmailer.’

‘Talking of stupid sods, what are you going to do about it?’

Before Frost could answer, there was a timid tap at the door.

Beazley scowled and grunted, ‘Yes?’

A grey-haired lady wearing steel-rimmed glasses and carrying a shorthand notebook came in. Beazley completely ignored her. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ he repeated.

‘We’re resuming the stake-out tomorrow night. We’ll get him this time.’

‘Tomorrow night? What about tonight? Are you just going to let him help himself to more of my money?’

‘He’s already collected today’s five hundred pounds so he’s got to wait until tomorrow.’ Beazley glared at Frost and tugged his lower lip. ‘No. I’m pulling out. I’ve no faith in you. Get the rest of my money back.’ Then he realised the woman was standing there. ‘What the hell do you want?’

‘You asked me to come in for dictation at twelve, Mr Beazley.’

‘How can I give you dictation when I’ve got the bleeding plod here, you stupid cow? Piss off!’

As she left and Beazley turned his attention back to the DI, Frost’s mobile rang.

‘You asked me to ring you, Guv,’ whispered Morgan.

‘Bloody hell!’ Frost exclaimed loudly for Beazley’s benefit. ‘I’m on my way.’ He clicked off. ‘Sorry, Mr Beazley, we’ll have to talk about this later. We’ve got a paedophile on the loose.’

‘If you’re after him, it’s his lucky day. He’s as safe as bloody houses,’ sniffed Beazley. ‘And I want my money back.’

But Frost had gone.

In the outer office, the grey-haired lady was hammering away at a keyboard. She paused and smiled up at Frost as he was passing through. The door to Beazley’s office crashed open and Beazley jabbed a finger at the woman. ‘You, Fanny. In here. I want you.’ He glared at Frost. ‘And stop wasting my staff’s time. She’s here to work, not to listen to your rubbish.’ The door slammed.

‘I keep getting the urge to smash your boss in the kisser,’ Frost told the woman.

She gathered up her shorthand notebook and smiled sweetly. ‘In the kisser, Inspector? What’s wrong with in the goolies?’

He clattered down the stairs to the car park. His stomach was rumbling. A foot-down drive back to the station and up to the canteen for dinner.

He was opening the car door when his mobile rang again. It was Taffy Morgan. ‘It’s all right, Taff,’ he said. ‘It worked. I’m on my way back to the station.’

‘No, it’s something else, Guv,’ said Taffy, sounding serious. ‘The embankment next to the railway tunnel just before Denton station. A bloke’s just phoned in. He reckons he’s found a body.’