Winter Frost

'Suffocated, probably with a pillow,' said Preston. 'The doctor reckons she's been dead a couple of days at least.'

Frost straightened up and rubbed his hands together to get the chill of death out of them. 'Who found her?'

'A motorist cut through to relieve himself and spotted her.'

'Our last one was found by a motorist having a pee,' said Frost. 'He wouldn't give his name.'

'Ours ditto,' said Preston.

Frost consulted his watch. The solicitor should be well on his way by now. He lifted the flap and measured the distance to the road with his eyes. 'If she was lugged all this way, whoever dumped her must have been a strong bastard.'

'She was probably dragged,' said Preston.

Frost dropped down on his knees again and lifted the body slightly, ignoring Preston's alarmed protests that Drysdale wouldn't like it. 'If he'd dragged her there would be abrasions.' He pointed. There weren't any.

'Needn't have been one strong man — could have been two men,' suggested Preston, annoyed that he hadn't spotted the absence of abrasions.

'Or the seven bleeding dwarfs,' snapped Frost. 'We've got to get this bastard and bloody quick — he's got the taste for it.'

A slamming of car doors and the murmur of voices sent Preston dashing over to the tent flap. He peeked out and signalled urgently to Frost. 'It's Drysdale,' he hissed. 'If he thinks we've moved the body…'

'Don't panic,' said Frost, lowering the body back to its original position. 'All we've got to do is look innocent and lie.'

Drysdale, followed by his blonde secretary, pushed through the tent flap, his warm smile of greeting to Preston freezing when he saw Frost standing behind him. 'Twice in one day, Inspector,' he sniffed.

'Some days you can't believe your luck,' said Frost. He checked his watch again. 'Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I must love you and leave you. I've a suspect to interview back at Demon.'

Preston took Frost to one side. 'We need to cooperate on this — pool our resources, share our information.'

'I'll send over what we've got,' said Frost. 'It amounts to sod alclass="underline" no descriptions, no leads, nothing, but it might help. I'm pinning my hopes on catching the sod in the act.' With a brief nod he ducked through the flap on his way back to his car.

Bill Wells looked up as Frost marched over. 'Solicitor's here. I've put him in No. 2 interview room. He doesn't like being kept waiting.'

'He kept me waiting long enough,' said Frost. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. 'Any sign of the flaming Welsh wizard?'

Wells shook his head. 'He never came back here, Jack. I even sent someone round to his digs, but no-one in. I reckon he's on the nest somewhere.'

'He probably thinks having it away is more fun than having his goolies chewed off by me,' said Frost. 'If he does condescend to make an appearance, I want him.' He pushed through the swing doors and made his way to the interview room.

Fosswick, the solicitor, had been to an official function and was still wearing evening dress under his thick black overcoat. He was annoyed at being dragged away and even more annoyed, after hurrying through that damned fog, to be dumped in a drab, cold interview room and told to wait. A scruffy little man who matched the scruffy little room came in and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Frost.

The solicitor acknowledged him mournfully. He was hoping for someone far more senior and impressive to make his evening less of a waste of time. 'I don't know why you've dragged me down here, Inspector. We rarely do criminal work and I hardly know the man. We dealt with the purchase of his house about three years ago, and that's about it.'

'It's not me dragging you down here, sir, it's your client. We're holding him for questioning in connection with the abduction, rape and murder of a seven-year-old girl.'

The solicitor's face was expressionless. 'I see. And what makes you think my client is involved in this?'

Fosswick listened intently as Frost outlined the details, a growing expression of concern and distaste on his face. This was not the sort of case he wanted to be involved in. He pulled out a gold fountain pen and made a few notes, telling himself that he would pass the details on to someone else first thing in the morning, someone more used to dealing with such sordidness. 'You haven't actually charged him yet?'

'No, sir, but it is our intention to do so.'

Fosswick replaced the cap on his pen. 'I'd now like a few words with my client.'

I'll go and get him for you.' Frost opened the door, then closed it again. 'The other little girl might still be alive, sir.' He held up a photograph of Vicky. 'If you could persuade your client to tell us where she is…'

Fosswick scowled. 'I am not here to do your job for you, Inspector. My first duty is to Mr Weaver.' He looked at the photograph and his expression softened. 'However, I'll see what I can do.'

Not such a bad old bastard after all, thought Frost as he made his way to the cell area.

The shrill, urgent ringing of a bell sliced through his thoughts. The alarm from the cell area, usually rung when an officer was being assaulted or a prisoner was taken sick. At first he took no notice. Probably the drunk causing trouble. The uniformed boys were quite capable of handling crises like that. He was aware of the sound of running feet and voices raised in panic and the other prisoners banging their cell doors and shouting. Over it all Bill Wells calling, 'Cut him down, quick…' then, yelling up the corridor, 'Get an ambulance.'

Frost raced down to the holding area. The door to Weaver's cell was wide open. Two uniformed men were bending over a figure on the floor, one pummelling the chest, the other giving the kiss of life with Wells looking anxiously on.

Frost stared down at Weaver, skin blue, neck strangely elongated. 'Bloody hell! What happened?'

'He's topped himself,' said Wells, sounding furious | as if this was personally directed against him. 'The silly sod has hanged himself.' He pushed past Frost and yelled again down the corridor. 'Where's that 1 bloody ambulance?'

One of the PCs stood up. 'No hurry for the ambulance, Sarge. He's dead.'

12

'No-one can blame me for this,' bleated Wells, making his case to anyone who would listen. 'I checked him a few minutes ago and he was all right.' The banging and kicking of doors from the other cells reached a crescendo. 'Shut up!' he yelled, to little effect.

'How could he hang himself?' asked Frost, kneeling by the body and feeling yet again for a pulse, hoping against hope that Weaver was still alive. Wells pointed. On the floor lay a coil of white nylon cord, the knotted noose at the end cut where they had removed it from Weaver's neck.

'Where the hell did he get the rope from?' Wells demanded. 'I searched him when you brought him in this morning, Jack — you can testify to that?'

'Yes,' grunted Frost, bending and picking up the cord which had a beige plastic tassel at the end. It looked familiar. He frowned. Where had he seen it before? Then he remembered. Shit! The hospital. The cord on the Venetian blind in the mother's room. When he left Weaver alone, the sod must have cut off a length — there were scissors on the trolley by the bed. Bloody hell! Mullett's going to have a field day over this.

Frost ordered the uniformed men out of the cell and sat down on the bunk bed. 'What a bloody mess!'

Wells sank down beside him and stared down at the body, shaking his head in disbelief. 'It's all bloody Mullett's fault, sending half our manpower away to help other Divisions. We should have a proper custody officer. I'm having to do two jobs. I haven't got time to do them both properly.' He looked imploringly at Frost. 'There's going to be an investigation, Jack. They'll be looking for scapegoats so let's get our stories straight. I searched him — you saw me.'