Winter Frost

'I chatted up a couple of the girls last night,' said Jordan. 'One of them, had a room in the same block. She said the dead girl hadn't been there very long, a few weeks at the most. They hadn't spoken, so she didn't know anything about her.'

'Very bleeding helpful. Have we checked the landlord?'

Detective Sergeant Hanlon raised a hand. 'They're a limited company registered in the Cayman Islands. That block in Clayton Street is handled over here by local agents but they don't open until ten. I'm on my way there as soon as this briefing is over.'

Frost nodded. 'We want her name and home address — I presume they take up references.'

'Odds are they don't bother,' said Hanlon. 'As long as the girls can pay a month's rent in advance, plus a hefty deposit, they're satisfied.'

'Then find out how she paid them — cheque, credit card or greasy fivers red hot from the sweaty palms of her clientele.'

I'll check,' said Hanlon.

'OK,' said Frost, standing up. 'Let's just run over what we do know. We know she had a row with this drunk who welted her one in the eye. He finds his wallet's been pinched and comes to us. While he's away, someone else calls and kills her.'

'Gladstone could have killed her himself,' put in Jordan. 'I don't think we should have let him go.'

'He could have done it, son, but I don't think he did. Anyway, we know where he lives in case we run short of suspects. Let's proceed on the assumption it was someone else — and someone who followed hard on Gladstone's heels because she hadn't had time to get dressed.'

'Couldn't she. have got dressed, gone out and picked up her killer then got undressed for him?' asked Hanlon.

'Gladstone had given her a black eye,' said Frost. 'If she went out again to tout for trade, she'd have slapped some make-up over it; but she didn't. So, if she didn't go out to pick him up, he came to her. He knew where she worked… he'd been there before.'

'Any fingerprints?' asked Simms.

'Fingerprints going back to the year dot,' said Frost. 'Every flaming client she's ever had, but we're checking them all out. Mullett went as white as a sheet when I told him.'

'Is there any connection with this one and the murdered tom Inspector Allen was working on?' Jordan asked.

Frost patted the file on the desk. 'Linda Roberts was tied to a bed by her wrists and ankles, gagged, then tortured, her stomach burnt with a lighted cigarette.' He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and sizzled it to death in his mug. 'For good measure she was raped and suffocated. Last night's tom was killed standing against a wall, strangled and no sign of torture. So unless he was fussy about stubbing out his fags on a bloodstained stomach, I don't think there's a connection, but we'll keep our options open.'

He turned to the full-face photograph of the dead woman which had been pinned to the wall. 'So what do we know about her? She hadn't been on the game long, by all accounts. We don't know if she's a local girl or not. Let's get her photograph circulated to the media… someone must recognize her. In the meantime, where does she live? Why hasn't someone reported her missing?'

'She could have lived where we found her, guv,' said Morgan. 'She had a bed, a phone, heat…'

'… a sink and a toilet,' continued Frost, 'which gave the punters two places to pee down; but no fridge, oven, pantry, crockery. This poor cow had to eat. She lived elsewhere and she works late, so how does she get home?'

'She could live within walking distance,' offered Jordan.

'Then why rent a flat? Why not take her clients to her house?'

'Perhaps her family would object.' 'So what does her family think she's doing, working late at night, coming home with her handbag stuffed with tenners? A slight possibility she lives within walking distance, but what if she doesn't?' 'She's got a car?' said Morgan. Frost jabbed a finger at the DC. 'That's what I reckon, Taffy. So where is it? It's going to be parked near the knocking shop. There were cars nose to tail last night. This morning most of the owners will have driven off to work. I want — someone to go and check all cars still standing and find out who owns them.' He snapped his fingers as another thought struck him. 'She might have come by cab. Check with all the local cab firms. Did they drop her off there last night — if so, where did they pick her up?'

Bill Wells came into the incident room. 'Got a woman for you in the lobby, Inspector.'

'She'll have to wait,' grunted Frost. 'I never have intercourse immediately after a bacon sandwich.'

Wells grinned. 'You'll want to see this one. She's a tom… and her flatmate has gone missing.'

Frost's eyes lit up. 'Hold it, everyone. We might be getting a name.'

The pungent smell of the perfume she was wearing fought a losing battle with the pine disinfectant that had been sloshed down on the interview room floor after the ravages of the night before. She was in her late thirties, but without make-up looked a lot older. Straw-blond hair, skin darkly tanned, and fingers that matched Frost's for nicotine staining. She was sucking heavily on a cigarette as he entered. He sat opposite her and put the file with the dead prostitute's photograph inside on the table in front of him. He smiled. 'Your flatmate's gone missing? Since when?'

'I don't know.' She snatched the cigarette from her mouth and flicked ash all over the floor. 'I've been away for two weeks' holiday in Spain with my boyfriend. I came back last night expecting to find her in the flat. No sign of her.'

'What does your flatmate do for a living?'

She glared at him, smoke streaming from her nostrils like an angry dragon. 'You bloody well know what she does… same as me… we're on the game. She's had some weird clients in her time. I reckon one of them's done her in.'

'Where did she take her clients?'

'A room in those flats in Clayton Street. We shared it.'

'I see.' Frost tried to keep his face impassive. He opened up the folder and took out the photograph. 'Is this your friend?' he asked gently.

She looked at it and shook her head. 'No.'

Frost frowned. 'Are you sure?'

'I ought to know what she bleeding looks like, didn't I? That's one of the other girls… down on the second floor, I think.'

'You know her?' said Frost excitedly. 'What's her name?'

'I don't know her bleeding name. I've passed her on the stairs a couple of times. She hasn't been there long. Look — sod her whoever she is, it's my flatmate I'm worried about.' She opened her handbag and took out a photograph of a fat, blowsy, ginger-haired woman in her fifties.

'Flaming heck,' exclaimed Frost, recognizing the woman immediately. 'It's big bleeding Bertha — ten ton of tit and tongue.' Bertha had been arrested quite a few times for soliciting, drunk and disorderly and for assaulting a police officer.

'A bit of bleeding respect,' snapped the woman. 'She helps pay your flaming wages. She's missing. Something's happened to her.'

'She could have gone away for a few days — perhaps she wanted a holiday too.'

'No bloody way. We've got a dog — little Chummy. Bertha idolizes it. When I got back to the flat last night, there's dog's mess all over the floor and the poor thing was starving, no water, no food, nothing. Bertha would never have left it to starve. That dog was like a kid to her.'

Frost scratched his chin. This wasn't looking too good. 'You said she had some weird clients?'

'Yes. She's no glamour puss, she has to grab what she can get. Some of the rubbish she brought back to the flat! I'm not fussy, but I wouldn't go within a mile of them. Some wouldn't take their boots off in bed and there were others you wished they'd bleeding well kept them on.'