Winter Frost

He wandered back into the lounge where Morgon on his knees, was going through the contents of drawer he had tipped out on to the carpet. 'It doesn't look as if she ever had her photo taken, guv.'

'It's the pretty ones who have lots of photos,' said Frost as he walked into the cell-like bedroom, it's single bed made with almost military precision, a thick sensible winceyette nightdress neatly folded on the pillow. He sat on the bed, probably the first man ever to do so, and pulled open the drawer of the dark oak bedside cabinet. Handkerchiefs, spare glasses, and right at the bottom a photograph, the smiling face of a dark moustached man in his mid-thirties. There was something reddish across the surface. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Lipstick.

'Guv!' Morgan charged into the bedroom waving passport. 'I've found it. The only photograph in the place.'

Frost flipped it open. The unsmiling face of the dead woman stared back at him to confirm what they already knew. 'Not the only photograph, son,' said Frost, showing Morgan the portrait from the drawer. 'She must have had the hots for him. It's smothered in lipstick.'

Morgan took the photo from Frost. 'I know who this is, guv.'

'Flaming heck,' said Frost. 'Don't start being useful for a change. So who is he?'

'He's the bloke she works for… Ashby the dentist. He pulled my tooth out.'

'Are you sure?'

'Positive, guv.'

"Then let's go and talk to him.'

He radioed through to the station asking them to send someone over to make the flat secure. 'Some silly sod's kicked the door in,' he told them.

The old dear opposite was hovering as they left. 'We've fixed the gas leak,' Frost assured her.

'I've just remembered,' she said. 'We're all electric.'

He pretended not to hear.

The dentist had a new receptionist, a cheery little redhead with bouncing breasts and perfect white teeth. She giggled nervously at the sight of Frost's warrant card. 'Mr Ashby's with a patient right now.' She nodded towards the surgery door from which the whine of a dental drill set everyone's teeth on edge. Frost winced in sympathy with the patient inside and ran his tongue round his own teeth. 'If you'll take a seat,' she continued, I'll let him know as soon as he's finished.'

They sat in the waiting area next to a stout woman and a man with a swollen jaw.

'I hate dentists,' muttered Frost. 'They give me the creeps.'

But Morgan had eyes only for the redhead. 'Did you see the size of her bristols, guv?' he whispered, but not quietly enough. The stout woman glared, moved to another seat.

'I bet she thought you were talking about her,' said Frost, leaping to his feet as the surgery door opened and the previous patient, a pale-faced man, came unsteadily out. 'Won't keep you long,' he called to the woman who was indignantly muttering about people jumping the queue.

Ashby, the dentist, a little older and plumper than the photograph, was drying his hands on a towel while his dental nurse, a young, long-legged blonde, was disinfecting some shiny instruments before laying them out alongside the chair. The dentist's welcoming smile faded. These were not the patient's he had been expecting.

'Police,' Frost informed him, flashing his war card.

The colour drained from Ashby's face. 'Police What's happened?'

'Give us a moment, please,' Frost asked the nurse waiting until she had left. 'It's about your receptionist sir, Miss Stokes.'

'Helen? What about her?'

'Sad news, I'm afraid. Miss Stokes was found dead last night.'

Ashby stared at Frost, unable to take it in. 'Dead an accident?'

'No, sir. We believe she was murdered.'

'Murdered? Helen? Oh my God, no.'

'I'm afraid so, sir. When did you see her last?'

'Eight o'clock Friday night. We are only open for emergencies weekends, so she wasn't due back until Monday, but she didn't turn up.'

'Didn't that surprise you?'

'Up to a point. We had a minor argument on Friday. She left in a huff. I thought she had decided she didn't want to work here any more.'

'What was the argument about?'

Ashby shrugged. 'It was all so trivial. I don't know why she got so upset. I wanted my new receptionist to do the weekend duty instead of her. Helen had done it for years with my predecessor and thought it was her right.'

'When she didn't come in to work, didn't you check to see if she was all right?'

'Of course I did. We kept phoning the flat and got no reply. I popped round myself and put a note through the letter box.' His eyes widened. 'God, are you saying she was lying there dead, all the time?'

'Not in the flat, sir, no.' Frost didn't elaborate. 'We don't think she went back to her flat Friday night. Any idea where she might have gone?'

'Friday was her night for the Samaritans. She did voluntary work manning the phones.'

'Thank you, sir. I'll probably need to talk to you again.' Leaving the stunned dentist, they went back to the car.

'Did you get an eyeful of that dental nurse, guv?' asked Morgan as Frost slid into the passenger seat.

'Yes,' grunted Frost. 'Our dentist sure likes to have big tits around him. Poor flat-chested Helen must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Back to the station, son…'

Frost pinned up the photograph of dead Helen Stokes alongside the line of murdered prostitutes on the board in the murder incident room, then took his usual seat on the corner of the desk. 'Spot the odd one out. We've assumed our killer only went for toms, but this one wasn't a tom. In fact she was almost too good to be true. No vices, no boyfriends, went to church on Sundays, got out of the bath to do a wee and manned the phones at the Samaritans. But she was tortured and killed like the others, so why did he pick on her?'

'One consistent thing about our killer,' said Arthur Hanlon. 'He picks his victims up late at night, very late. All the dead toms were seen working while others had jagged it in.'

'Go on,' said Frost.

'What I'm saying is that our killer goes out late, looking for women on their own. Now usually that means a tom. Did Helen Stokes go out late at night?'

'I shouldn't think so,' said Frost. 'She looks the sort who would be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa at half-past nine.' He snapped his fingers. 'Wait a minute. The Samaritans! They operate twenty-four hours a day. Give them a ring, Arthur, find out what time she left them Friday night.'

His cigarettes went the rounds as he waited for Hanlon to make the call. 'Well?'

'She usually only stayed a couple of hours, but they were busy Friday with two of their helpers off sick. Just as she was leaving some nutter phoned threatening to do himself in and she was talking to him until well past midnight.'

Frost heaved himself off the desk. 'That's late enough for me! Let's talk to the Samaritans.'

The Samaritans were housed in two rooms over an empty shop that had once sold groceries before the big supermarkets opened up in the town. Its small team of men and women were devastated to learn about Helen Stokes. At a corner desk a plumpish lady was sobbing uncontrollably, comforted by one of the male helpers. Only Mervyn Adams, the leader of the team, a twitching, worried-looking man in a grey cardigan, looking as if he could do with some counselling himself? was of any help to Frost, being the only person in the room who was actually on duty the night Helen was killed. He kept jerking his head nervously every time a phone rang, not relaxing until one of his team took the call. He removed his glasses and dabbed his eyes. 'Such a loving person. I just can't believe it.' He shook his head sadly. 'Who could have done such a thing?'

Frost nodded sympathetically. 'That's what we're trying to find out, Mr Adams. What time did she leave here on Friday?'

'Gone one o'clock, so it was Saturday morning, actually. We were short-staffed and very busy, phones ringing constantly, so she stayed on to help us out. She was all ready to go home when she got this long, distressing call. You can't cut people short, so it was quarter past one or thereabouts, before she was able to leave.'