Hard Frost (14 page)

   "Which house? The street's full of them."

   "That's all he told us, then he hung up."

   "Bless his bleeding heart," said Frost. "It won't take us more than four or five hours to search through the lot. I'll need help."

   "Wonder Woman and Burton are on the way." 

   "I'll meet them on the corner," said Frost.

The Rook Street estate had been built in the early fifties using a new French method of construction which involved preformed concrete slabs and metal binding rods. It was cheap and quick. The finished estate looked like a prison block, but people desperate for housing were pleased to have anything. Over the years serious faults began to develop.

   It transpired that the wrong mix of cement had been used in the construction. The concrete slabs started disintegrating and the metal binding rods corroded and crumbled, making the structures highly dangerous. Experts said there was no economical cure, so the properties were condemned and the tenants rehoused

   The street was now a double row of decaying properties with damp-blackened concrete and the doors and windows boarded up with 18mm block board held in place by six-inch nails. An empty, miserable street, exuding the damp musty aroma of desolation.

   Slowly, Burton drove down the road with Frost and Liz flashing torches on the houses as they passed them, looking for signs of forced entry. Nothing. All doors and windows appeared firmly sealed. "I suppose we checked this place when we were looking for the boy?" Frost asked.

   "One of the first places we looked," said Burton. "But I think they only checked that the doors and windows were still boarded up."

   "Better do it thoroughly tomorrow," said Frost. "Let's take a look round the back - that's where I'd break in."

   As they climbed out of the car, the wind kicked ancient sheets of newspapers across the road in front of them and dribbled an empty tin can along the kerb.

   A high wooden fence protected the rear area. Frost clambered over it, hissing with annoyance as his mac no caught on a nail and tore. He leant over to help Liz, but she ignored him, insisting on climbing over on her own and then offering her hand to Burton who was making heavy weather of it. They thudded down into a junk-littered jungle that once was a garden. The harsh moonlight shone on a row of boarded up windows and doors, all looking secure and untouched. Scrambling over dividing fences, they checked each house carefully.

   They found the point of entry in the third house they examined, where the boarding had been newly wrenched away from a downstairs window. Frost signalled for Burton to go round to the front in case anyone attempted to get out that way, then swung over the sill and dropped inside. Liz followed. The intense darkness of the boarded-up house seemed to swallow up the light from Liz's torch as they padded across bare floorboards. A door swung ajar. Frost pushed it gently, then flapped his hand for the torch to be extinguished. Floorboards creaking above. Someone was moving about upstairs.

   A muffled voice. Then a scream. A long, chilling, almost animal-like scream of pain.

   "Come on!" yelled Frost.

   They rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A crack of orange seeped out weakly from under a door on the landing. They charged through it, into a room, its windows boarded, the darkness eased only by a candle stuck on the mantelpiece. In the flickering light they could just make out the back of a man bending over someone on the floor. A girl. A young girl. The room still echoed from her screaming.

   At their entry, the man swung round, candlelight glinting off the knife in his hand.

   Shit! thought Frost. Not another bloody knife!

   He advanced gingerly, jerking back as the knife blade slashed the air, just missing him. The man's eyes were wild. He didn't seem to be in control of himself. "Keep back or I'll rip you open . . ."

   "Drop it." Liz had managed to work her way behind him and had grabbed the knife arm. Furiously, he tried to shake her off, but she hung on with bulldog tenacity and forced the arm back. "Drop the knife or I'll break your arm." With a howl of rage he again tried to shake her off. A sickening cracking sound and a shriek of pain, then a clatter as the knife dropped to the ground. Frost, for the second time that day, scooped it up.

   "Leave him alone, you bitch," screamed the girl from the floor.

   "Police," announced Frost, flashing his warrant card. "Are you all right, love?"

   The girl was lying on the floor covered with a couple of coats. Her face was glistening with sweat and her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it.

   A yelp of pain from the man as Liz snapped handcuffs on his wrists. "You've broken my bloody arm."

   Frost ignored him. He was more concerned with the girl. "What did he do to you, love?"

   Her lips moved as if she was going to answer, then her eyes widened and she opened her mouth and shrieked, arching her back, almost shaking off the coats that covered her.

   Frost yelled to Liz, "Get an ambulance." As she radioed through, he bent over and pulled the coats from the girl, then his jaw sagged. "Shit! . . . She's having a bloody baby!"

   Liz stood frozen to the spot, still gripping her handcuffed prisoner. The girl was now in convulsions, sweating and shaking from the pain and the terror at what was happening to her fourteen-year-old body. Her head thrashed from side to side as convulsion after convulsion racked her.

   Frost moved back. He felt helpless. He didn't know what to do. He didn't even want to stay in the same room. He beckoned to Liz. "Help her!"

   Liz's face drained of colour. She went as white as Frost. "I don't know anything about having babies."

   Frost buzzed Burton on the radio. "She's having a baby. Can you help?"

   "Yes," said Burton.

   "Then bloody get up here - and quick." The airless room was becoming hot and suffocating, smelling of blood and sweat and burning candle. Liz looked ready to pass out.

   "Take him to the car," yelled Frost. He didn't want another patient on his hands. He turned back to the girl, who was gripping his wrist, her nails digging into his flesh, hurting as the pain forced another scream out of her. "Come on, Burton," pleaded Frost aloud. "Come on . . .!" The sound of the baby crying coincided with the approaching siren of the ambulance as it turned into the street.

Chapter 6

"Any joy?" Wells asked as Frost mooched in.

   "They had the bleeding joy nine months ago," said Frost. He filled Wells in on what had happened. "Fourteen years old. Too young to buy a packet of fags, but not too young to have a baby." He shook his head sadly and dug in his pockets for his own cigarettes. Only three left. Another forage into the superintendent's office was called for. "Is Hornrim Harry in?"

   His question was answered by the booming voice of Mullett who came striding through the swing doors, beaming all over his face. "I understand Cassidy has cracked the Lemmy Hoxton killing. That's what I like to see, Frost, quick results - something that is sadly lacking in other officers." He gave the inspector his meaningful stare which Frost pretended not to understand.

   "Are you telling me Maggie Hoxton has confessed to killing her old man?" asked Frost.

   "Not confessed as such, but it's just a matter of time. Mr. Cassidy tells me it's an open and shut case. She never reported him missing, she's been forging his name on cheques and if that wasn't bad enough, she's been buying young boys for immoral purposes. Even without a confession we've got the strongest possible case."

   "I never knew she'd been forging his cheques," said Frost.

   Mullett gave his thin sour smile. "Sergeant Hanlon found evidence of it in the house. You really should keep yourself up to date, inspector. You are supposed to be in overall charge." He spun on his heel to return to the old log cabin, tightening his lips and pretending not to hear what sounded suspiciously like a moist raspberry.

   Frost hurtled down the other corridor to the incident room to find Arthur Hanlon sitting at one of the desks making a list of the contents of a large cardboard box which contained items found during the search of Lemmy's house. "Who's been crawling round Mullett telling him things I don't know, Arthur?"

   "The forged cheques, you mean? I've only just found them, Jack. I haven't even had a chance to let Acting Inspector Cassidy know yet." He stressed the word 'acting'. "Look at this first."

   He showed Frost a sheet of lined notepaper on which someone had been writing the signature "Lemmy Hoxton' over and over again, getting more like the real thing each time. Then he produced a white envelope and tipped out the contents - a wad of cancelled cheques returned by the bank. Frost riffled through them. They were all dated later than the date of Lemmy's death. "Here's an old cheque," said Hanlon, pushing it across. "That is a genuine Lemmy. These later ones are forgeries."

   Frost studied them and nodded. "Maggie must have been bloody sure Lemmy wasn't coming back to have tried this lark. What else have you got in the box? If it's worth having, we share it fifty-fifty."

   Hanlon grinned and hauled out a carrier bag which he tipped on the desk. "This was poked behind Lemmy's cold water tank. A few old friends there from the stolen property list."

Frost poked through the pile of assorted bric-a-brac; necklaces, compact cases, dubious-looking strings of pearls, wads of family photographs, letters tied with ribbon. There was a rolled gold cigarette lighter which Frost flicked a couple of times, dropping it back when it refused to work. "Nothing worth pinching here. Hello - what's this?" A small, black rexine-covered case, the letters DFM in gold on the lid. He opened it. On a bed of blue plush was a medallion. He took it from the case and examined it. The Distinguished Flying Medal, awarded to Flight Sergeant J.V. Miller. Miller was the name of the old lady conned by the fake Water Board man. So Lemmy must have been involved in that scam, but he didn't match up to the description she had given. The man she described was small and thin with a moustache. He replaced the medal and pushed the case across to Hanlon. "Let her know we've got it back. It'll cheer the poor old cow up no end." He stood up. "Where's Hopalong Cassidy?"

   "Still questioning Maggie in No. 2 interview room." 

   "I think I'll stick my nose in if only to irritate him."

But he was too late. Cassidy had just left the interview room and PC Collier was about to escort Maggie Hoxton back to her cell. Frost beckoned him outside. "How's it going?"

   "She hasn't cracked yet, but Mr. Cassidy is sure she will."

   "Let's see if I have any luck," said Frost. He went back into the interview room with Collier. Maggie, seated at the table, arms folded, looked up at him defiantly as he flopped into the chair opposite her and treated her to his disarming smile which immediately, put her on her guard. He pushed across a cigarette and lit up for them both. "Things don't look too good for you, Mag."

   She smirked. "If they look so bloody bad, why haven't I been charged? You've nothing on me, not a damn thing. Like I told that other git, we had a row, Lemmy walked out and I haven't seen him since."

   "When he walked out on you, Mag, did he say, "Maggie, dearest, I'm never coming back, not ever"?"

   "No. He slammed the door and went."

   "He didn't even do a typical, lovable Lemmy thing, like putting your hand in the door frame as he slammed it shut?"

   "No."

   "Didn't it strike you as strange that he left his home, his clothes, his change of underpants and his bronze Toyota?"

   Maggie shrugged. "Perhaps he didn't need them. Perhaps his new lady friend has lots of money."

   Frost beamed. "Funny thing that, Mag. I was going to ask you about money. Did he leave you anything for the housekeeping?"

   "No."

   "Did he send you a cheque from time to time?"

   "No. He didn't give a sod about me."

   "Oh come, Maggie. You do that noble man an injustice. Lemmy was so concerned about your welfare that even though he was dead, rotting away and stinking the place out, he still insisted on signing cheques so you could entertain your toy boys." He produced the cancelled cheques from his pocket and dumped them on the table. "He's been dead for three months, yet there's one here dated last week."

   She stared at the cheques, her mind whirring, trying to find an explanation that just wouldn't come. "All right. So I forged his name. How was I supposed to live? The sod had walked out on me."

   "If you believed Lemmy was still alive, you wouldn't have dared forge his name to his cheques. He'd have broken every bone in your body. You knew he was dead. You knew because you killed him, you and young Superdick." He gave her a sweet smile. "So I'm going to charge you both with murder."

   She snatched the cigarette from her mouth and leant across the table. "You're not pinning this on me. I never killed him."

   "Then who did, Maggie?"

   "I don't know." She leant back and took a long drag at her cigarette. "All right, I'll tell you the truth. We didn't have a row. He went out one day and never came back. Well, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth. He'd been a bastard to me, knocked me about and kept me short of money. I didn't give a damn what had happened to him, I was just thankful he'd gone."

   "What did you think might have happened to him?"

   "At first I thought he'd been arrested. I knew he'd gone out that day to do a job."

   "Nicking stuff from old age pensioners?" suggested Frost.

   "Sounds his bleeding mark, but I don't know what it was. Anyway, he never came back end of story."

   "So you started forging his cheques?"

   "After a week. I had to live, didn't I?"

   "Didn't it occur to you that Lemmy might be dead?"

   "Occur to me? I was bloody banking on it."

   "So why didn't you tell the police? If you and young Rent-a-dick didn't kill him, you had nothing to lose."

   "If I told the police and they found his body, Lemmy's flaming wife would have copped the house and all his money."