Winter Frost

'Can't you get your mind on higher things?' grunted Frost, who was thinking exactly the same. 'Turn left here…'

Mickey Harris's house was in darkness and the space outside where his car should have been parked was empty. Frost pounded and kicked at the front door and the noise echoed in a house that was obviously unoccupied. He climbed back in the car. 'We'll pick him up first thing in the morning.' He yawned. 'Back to the station, Taff.'

They never made it to the station. As they turned into the Market Square the radio called him. It was Bill Wells. 'Just had a call from a motorist, Inspector. Reckons he's found a woman's body.'

'Bum-holes!' moaned Frost. 'I could have done without this. Where?'

'In the undergrowth by the old Denton Road, near the Denton turn-off.'

'That's near the old service station where we were looking for the kid. What was he doing there?'

'He stopped off for a pee — said he nearly wee'd all over her. He sounded shattered… said she was naked with blood all over her.'

'I was all eager when you reached the naked bit,' grunted Frost. 'I've gone off her now. Is the motorist waiting for us?'

'No. He said he didn't want to get involved. He reported it, then rang off. Jordan and Simms are at the location waiting for you. Oh, and Wonder Woman's on her way over there as well.'

'The more the merrier,' said Frost. 'We're on our way.' He turned to Morgan. 'A chance to see your favourite bum again, Taffy. Turn right at the top here…'

The metal sign in front of the deserted petrol station was still clanging madly as the night wind sawed across the forecourt. Jordan and Simms climbed out of the area car and waited, coat collars turned up against the bitter cold, as Frost and Morgan pulled up.

Frost shivered and wound his scarf tighter as he surveyed the desolate area of scrubland dotted with skeletal bushes which were bending in the wind. 'The quicker we find her, the quicker we can get a nice marquee erected and keep warm.' He looked up and down the length of the old road. A lot of ground to be covered, but there were short cuts. 'If the bloke who found her stopped for a pee, we can assume he didn't want to walk far with a full bladder. He'd pick the nearest bushes to the road. Jordan, Simms, you take that side of the road, the Welsh Rarebit and me will take this. And mind where you tread; it's not only widdles that motorists do behind bushes.'

The wind was cutting through him like a rusty saw and he wished he was wearing something more substantial than his paper-thin mac. He cupped his hands round the glowing tip of his cigarette to steal some warmth. 'You take that end,' he told Morgan. I'll start from the old petrol station.'

He trudged through the long, wet grass which soon made his trouser legs sodden. In the distance was the glow of sodium lamps and constant throb of traffic from the new road. There were no lights along this section of the old road and they had to use torches. Frost's torch kept flickering and promising to die on him. He should have replaced the battery long ago. He swore bitterly as hidden bramble thorns scratched blood from his icy cold hands as he searched under bushes. He had the awful feeling this whole thing was someone's idea of a joke — give the fuzz something to do instead of handing out parking tickets to blameless motorists.

'Over here, Inspector!' Jordan was calling urgently from across the road, the beam from his torch soaring skywards like a searchlight, homing them over. Frost squelched across the road, Morgan hard on his heels.

Jordan's torch flashed down on the body, which was silvery white in the moonlight. Behind a clump of bushes, half hidden in the long, wet grass, lay a girl in her early twenties, sightless eyes staring up into the night sky, the mascara on her lashes running down her cheeks. She was naked. There were angry red and charred burn marks on her stomach.

Simms stared at the face. 'I know her, Inspector. I don't know her name, but she's one of the toms who hang out around the Tenwood area.'

Frost reached out a hand and steered Jordan's torch beam on to the girl's arms and legs. There were deep blooded grooves etched into her wrists and ankles where she had been tied down and where she had strained to get free. He touched the flesh. Stone cold and hard. She had been dead for some time. As he was radioing through for a full forensic team and a pathologist, another car pulled up and Liz Maud dashed over to them.

'Can I see her?'

Frost stepped back. Liz knelt by the body and studied the burn marks on the stomach, comparing them with the photograph of the earlier victim, Linda Roberts. 'Identical,' she muttered.

Frost nodded. He didn't need a photograph to tell him that.

'There's no dispute about it now,' insisted Liz. 'The same killer as Linda Roberts. This is my case.' She stared at him, her eyes hungry and pleading.

'You can have it with pleasure,' Frost told her, 'but you'd better clear it with Mullett first. Have a word with him in the morning.'

'I'll phone him now.' She hurried back to her car and dialled the Divisional Commander on her mobile. Mullett wouldn't be pleased being woken up at three in the morning, but this case was important to her. A successful murder investigation would clinch her promotion to inspector. She'd cancel her appointment at the clinic, even if it meant losing the hefty deposit. 'Come on, come on,' she muttered impatiently as the ringing tone droned on and on in her ear.

At last a sleepy voice answered. 'Mullett.'

'DI Maud, sir. Sorry to bother you, but it is important…' She quickly explained. A second prostitute murdered, identical to the Linda Roberts case — her case. She wanted to take charge; it was her right…

She could sense the ice crackling down the line as Mullett's annoyance grew.

'This could, and should, have waited until the morning,' he snapped.

I'm sorry, sir, but I thought it was important-'

He didn't let her finish. 'It is not important, and the answer to your ill-timed request is no.'

The ice now crackled from her direction. 'Might I be permitted to ask why, sir?'

'I was going to tell you in the morning. Inspector Allen is returning to Denton the week after next so you will be reverting to your normal rank. There is absolutely no point in Frost handing over to you, then in ten days' time you handing back to Mr Allen. Inspector Frost must handle it.'

'But, sir-'

Again Mullett didn't let her finish. Didn't the damn woman have any consideration? 'That's enough, Inspector. And if you hope to get on in the force, you will never phone me at this hour again with routine matters.' A click and the dialling tone. She switched off and stared at the dead phone, wanting to relieve her feelings by hurling it through the car window. The bastard. Ten days. With luck she could have had this tied up in ten days. She felt like bursting into tears, but wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction. She rammed a cigarette in her mouth, then spun the car around and drove back to Denton.

The bright blue marquee protecting the body from the elements flapped and whip-cracked in the wind. Frost, hands thrust deep in his mac pocket, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, watched as Harding and the forensic team poked about in the grass. He felt redundant and wished the pathologist would hurry up and arrive so he could get back to the warmth of the station.

'Inspector!' PC Simms had returned. He had been sent out with a photograph, knocking on doors of known prostitutes to see if any of them could name the dead girl. 'One of them recognized her. Her name is Angela Masters — new kid on the block.'

'When was she last seen alive?'

'Two nights ago. The other toms were surprised she wasn't on her regular beat. They thought she was ill.'

'The poor cow was bloody ill all right,' muttered Frost. He shivered and rubbed his hands together. Come on, bloody Drysdale. There was nothing the pathologist could tell him about the body that he couldn't see for himself and the post-mortem wouldn't be until the next day, preferably not at the crack of dawn like last time.