Authors: R. D. Wingfield
“I’m fine.” She smiled. “I’ll take a couple of pain killers when I get in and I’ll be as right as rain.”
He took the flat key from her shoulder bag and opened the door for her, turning to wave to Kenny who had been summonsed to a reported break-in at Beech Crescent. His wave was acknowledged by a toot on the horn.
The flat was warm and cozy. She had left the gas fire on and the bed had been made, the covers invitingly pulled back. No sign of a nightdress. Susan slumped into an armchair and held her hands out to the fire. She looked all in.
“I’ll do you some hot milk,” said Webster, opening the fridge. There, on the rack, chilled to perfection, was a bottle of white wine, and on the shelf, a cold roast chicken. Everything laid on for a marvelous night that now wasn’t to be.
She shook a couple of aspirins on to her palm and swallowed them down with the hot milk. She was hunched in front of the fire, still trembling, unable to get warm. “Run me a hot bath, please.”
He turned on the taps and swished in the bath crystals. She was in the bathroom with him, peering at the steam-misted mirror, which she wiped clean with her hand. “Don’t I look a fright?”
He wished he could say she didn’t. But she did. Her face was swollen, all greeny-black around the eyes.
“You can stay if you like,” she said, testing the water and pulling off her T-shirt. “But I just want to sleep.”
“Yes, of course,” said Webster.
He let himself out.
Rot in hell, Frost. Rot in bloody hell.
Jack Frost sat in the car. His hands explored the door pockets, but there were no cigarettes. Damn. He scavenged the ashtray for a decent-sized butt and lit it, almost burning his nose with the match. The smoke from the resurrected cigarette tasted hot and bitter, but it suited his mood.
Then he noticed the bulge in the door pocket on the passenger side. He hadn’t thought of looking there. His hand dived down to meet something cold and hard. He pulled it out. A bottle. Lots of bottles, the spoils from the party of two nights ago . . . the night they had found Ben Cornish’s dead body. The retirement party! Mullett kept dropping unsubtle little hints about Frost’s own retirement. Well, he’d be dropping even bigger ones when he learned about tonight’s monumental foul-up.
He tore the metal cap from the vodka bottle and took a swig. The spirit tiptoed over his tongue with the velvet delicacy of a cat’s paw, but as it reached his stomach the scratching claws came out. He shuddered. Neat vodka wasn’t his favourite drink. He found a miniature whisky. With his head thrown right back, he poured it down to flush away the vodka taste. A little furnace roared in his stomach. He felt good. The next bottle made him feel better. In fact he felt like taking a drive round to Mullett’s house, heaving a brick through his window, and yelling, “Come on, you bastard, sack me!” The more he thought about this, the more the idea appealed to him.
“Control to Mr. Frost. Come in please.”
What the hell was that? His eyes focused on the radio. He decided to answer the call first, then drive round to Mullett’s house. He fumbled for the handset and pressed the transmit button. “Frost here. Over.”
Bill Wells sounded excited. “Jack, can you get over to the station right away? Burton and Collier are bringing in the rapist.”
Frost’s heart skipped a beat. He was now stone-cold sober. “Are you sure it’s the right man? I’ve already had one disappointment.”
“Positive, Jack. They nabbed him in the woods about ten minutes ago. He was carrying a black plastic mac. It was stained with blood.”
Burton was waiting for him in the lobby, grinning all over his face. Over his arm was a cheap black plastic mac.
The desk phone rang. Wells answered it, his face changing as he listened. “It’s for you, Jack,” he called, holding the receiver at arm’s length as if it might explode. “Mr. Mullett.”
Mullett had heard about the decoy fiasco. His message was icily terse. “My office, nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” A click and then the dial tone. Pretending the Commander was still on the line, Frost said loudly into the phone, “Why don’t you get stuffed, you miserable old bastard?” He hung up. “That’s put the po-faced bleeder in his place,” he told the others, who were looking horrified. He beckoned to Burton. “Let’s go and see what Superdick looks like.”
The man in the interview room was hunched at the table, his back to the door, watched over by PC Collier. As Frost and Burton entered, the man turned around. Frost’s euphoria burst and his heart took a sickening nose-dive down to his bowels. The alleged rapist, spluttering with indignation, was Desmond Thorley from the converted railway carriage. “I demand an explanation, Mr. Frost. This is an outrage.”
“I’m as outraged as you are, Desmond,” said Frost, sinking wearily into a chair. “We’ve both been dragged here on false pretences.” He searched his pockets for a cigarette, then remembered he was out. Behind him, Burton and Collier were exchanging puzzled glances, wondering where they had gone wrong. “You pillocks,” he told them, feeling dead tired. “The Denton rapist rapes women. Desmond wouldn’t know what to do with a bloody woman if she came into his bedroom stark naked.”
Desmond shuddered. “What a repulsive thought.”
“But he was carrying the mac,” insisted Burton. “There’s blood on it.” He opened it out to display the stains.
Jack Frost took the garment and examined it. “It’s blood all right,” he agreed. He folded it carefuly and placed it on the table. “So what’s the answer, Desmond? Are you our rapist? Are you AC/DC? Does your plug fit all sockets?”
Thorley’s faced flushed at the insult. “The very idea!”
Again Frost searched his pockets for a cigarette. Infuriatingly Desmond had none and neither Burton nor Collier smoked. A mental picture of the silver box in Mullett’s office swam before him like the mirage of an oasis to a thirst-crazed man in the desert. He excused himself, sneaked into the Commander’s office, found a key on his bunch that would unlock the desk drawer, and liberally helped himself from the Divisional Commander’s special stock.
He returned to the interview room, puffing happily. “Right,” he said, diffusing expensive Three Castles smoke, “let’s get down to business.” He pointed to the mac. “Where did you get this, Desmond?”
“The man dropped it. If that thug of a policeman had asked, I’d have told him. But no, he hurls himself at me, frog-marches me to a dirty old van, and when I try to protest, he yells at me to shut up.”
“He’s a courtesy cop,” explained Frost, letting the smoke trickle slowly from his lungs. “Who dropped it?”
“I don’t know. He bashed into me—nearly knocked me over.”
“Start from the beginning,” said Frost.
“Might I have a cigarette?”
Frost puffed across a steam of smoke so Desmond could savour its quality second-hand. “These are really too good for you, Desmond, but tell me about tonight, and if you don’t leave anything out, you might get one.”
“Well,” said Desmond, clasping his hands together, “I was out on my little nocturnal expedition, looking for courting couples, when I noticed this great big car parked very suspiciously. It was bouncing up and down on its springs and the most peculiar noises were coming from inside. I tiptoed over and peeped through the back window, and what do you think I saw?”
“A disgustingly naked lady underneath a plump little man in red socks?” offered Frost.
Desmond’s eyebrows soared in admiration. “Who’s a clever boy then? Anyway, while I was peeping, the man looks up from his endeavours and shakes his fist at me.”
“You sure it was his fist he shook?” murmured Frost.
“Anyway, I beat a hasty retreat. Good job I did, because a short while later there’s crashing and yelling and police whistles. I thought they might be after me, so I took one of my little shortcuts. Then this man suddenly looms up out of nowhere, carrying something bundled under his arm. He barges into me and sends me flying. When I pick myself up, there’s no sign of him, but the mac is lying on the ground. I picked it up, intending to hand it in at the police station . . .”
“I bet you were,” scoffed Frost.
“When,” continued Desmond, “this oaf of a policeman hurls himself at me. That is every word the gospel truth.”
Frost chucked him a Three Castles and lit it for him, then prodded the mac. “Nothing in the pockets, I suppose?” he asked Burton.
Burton looked embarrassed. “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t look.”
“Well, look now,” said Frost.
Picking up the mac, Burton went through the pockets. The left-hand pocket was empty, but in the other, something he first thought was the bottom of a pocket turned out to be a crumpled plastic bag. He pulled it out and, as he did so, he felt something else. Something the bag had wedged tight in the depths. A key. An old, worn Yale-type key. Not an original, but a copy, with no identification number.
Collier was sent for some fingerprint powder just in case the rapist had forgotten to wipe it clean. He hadn’t!
The screwed-up plastic bag was straightened out. Two holes had been cut from it. The inspector pulled it over Collier’s head. The holes matched his eyes. They had found the ‘Hooded Terror’s’ famous mask. Originally a waste-bin liner, it didn’t look at all impressive.
Frost turned his attention to the key. He placed it in the centre of the table and stared at it.
“It could be the key to the rapist’s house,” suggested Collier.
“Yes,” agreed Frost. “All we’ve got to do is try it in every front door in the county. If it fits, we’ve got him.”
“Rather like Cinderella’s slipper,” said Desmond.
“Trust you to think of fairy stories,” said Frost, dropping the key into his pocket. “I’ll try it in Mullett’s front door tomorrow. You never know your luck.” He rose from the chair, all the tiredness and depression coming back.
“Can I go now?” asked Thorley.
“Take his statement, then chuck him out,” said Frost. “And get that mac over to Forensic.”
He left the interview room and drooped across the lobby, shoulders down, his scarf dragging behind him.
“You all right, Jack?” asked Wells. “You don’t look too good.”
“Just tired,” Frost told him. “I need some kip.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got to see Mr. Mullett at nine o’clock sharp.”
“I won’t,” said Frost, stepping out into the cold, dark, friendless night.
He took the key from the black plastic mac and tried it in the lock. It slid in easily. He turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open on to a long, narrow passage. At the end of the passage was a woman, young, stark naked, her arms wide open, warm, welcoming. He ran to her, but there was Mullett barring his path. An angry, snarling Mullett.
Frost woke with a jolt and opened his eyes to blazing sunlight. Sunlight? He sat up in bed and snatched up the alarm clock, staring in disbelief at what it was telling him. 11.30 a.m. It couldn’t be! The alarm was supposed to have woken him at seven. He had an interview with Mullett at nine. He tested the winding key. It was fully extended. Either he had forgotten to wind it last night or it had rung itself to exhaustion and he had slept right through it. Damn.
Swinging his bare feet to the floor, he screwed shut his eyes against the harsh probing jab of the morning sunshine. Who wanted sunshine on a day like this? If he was going to get a bollocking, let it pee with rain.
He broke all speed records dragging on his clothes, which were in a heap on the floor. Then he stopped, sat on the bed, and lit up one of Mullett’s cigarettes. What the hell? There was no point hurrying. If he skipped a shave, skipped breakfast, and roared nonstop to the station he would still be nearly three hours late.
So why not be four hours late? A leisurely wash and shave, followed by a fry-up and plenty of time to try and think up some novel excuse, some heart-rending sob story that would stop Hornrim Harry stone cold in his tracks.
Whistling happily, he bounced down the stairs, scooping up two letters from the mat, and taking them into the kitchen. The first was a statement of account from Bennington’s Bank. He wasn’t ready yet for more bad news, so he tossed it, unopened, into the kitchen bin. The second envelope was a mystery with handwriting he didn’t recognize. Propping it against the bread bin, he filled the electric kettle and switched it on. Two dubious-looking rashers of bacon sweated and cowered in the corner of the fridge. He took them out, sniffed them, and decided to chance it.
The rashers were laid into the frying pan with a generous chunk of recycled dripping, then two eggs were cracked and dropped in, and everything started sizzling and spitting and filling the kitchen with greasy smoke. He turned his attention to making the tea. No tea bags left. Damn and flaming blast!
He ferreted around in the rubbish bin and found a swollen, soggy used bag looking like a drowned mouse. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought as he dumped it in his cup and drowned it again in hot water. Then he buttered some bread, tipped the contents of the frying pan on to a plate, fished a knife and fork out of the washing-up bowl, and settled down to eat.
Something white caught his eye. The letter. Sliding a greasy knife under the flap, he slit it open. A birthday card. He frowned and took another look at the envelope, which immediately explained itself. It was addressed to Mrs. J. Frost. Of course. Today was his wife’s birthday and the card was from someone who didn’t know she was dead. The handwritten message inside read “Happy Birthday from Gloria . . . still at the same address . . . would love a letter.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Gloria? Who the hell was Gloria? He thought he had let everyone know. Giving up, he replaced the card in its envelope.
He had forgotten today was her birthday. But then, he always did forget. Time after time that awful realization as he descended the stairs and saw the pile of cards on the mat.
He recalled her last birthday, when she was in hospital and looked nearly twice her age. And the birthdays when they were first married, when she was different, when everything was different, when his jokes made her laugh, when they were happy together. How had it all changed? He was no different. He never changed. And that was the trouble. She wanted him to change, to be a big success. But he couldn’t.