Hard Frost (24 page)

   "Get back in the train," shouted the track inspector.

   "I'm going to report you," called the passenger.

   "And I'll bloody report you - it's an offence to walk on the track. Now get back!" He turned to Frost. "Can't we move her?"

   "Not until the police surgeon has certified she's dead."

   "Dead? Her bloody head is off!"

   "If it was a man and all we had left was his dick, we'd still have to wait for the doctor to certify he was dead." He shouted down to the mouth of the tunnel where Cassidy was in contact with Control on his radio. "How long's the doctor going to be?"

   "He's on his way," called back Cassidy.

   "Can't we cover her up and let the trains go through?" pleaded the senior track inspector. "This is causing one hell of a disruption."

   "All right," said Frost. "But shift her head off the track first."

   The man shuddered. "I'm not touching her head."

   "Then we wait," said Frost.

   They didn't have to wait long. Dr. Slomon, the on-call police surgeon, was scowling because this was miles out of his way and he had slipped on the mud coming down the embankment, smearing his light brown camel-hair overcoat. He looked anxiously at the rails. "Is the current off?"

   "Should be safe as long as you don't pee on the live rail," said Frost, moving back so Slomon could see the body. Slomon shuddered as he eyed the trunk, then the head. Why did Frost always have to be involved with the messy ones? He remembered only too well the tramp in a toilet swimming with urine. He bent down and briefly touched the hardened flesh. "Been dead some time - nine, ten hours."

   "Did the decapitation kill her?" asked Cassidy.

   "Well, it certainly didn't help," sniffed Slomon. "You'll need a post-mortem to find the exact cause." He scribbled on a pad and tore off a sheet. "She's dead. You can move her." He scrambled back up the embankment, glad to be away from the macabre scene. Cassidy was radioing to Control to get them to contact an undertaker to remove the body and to arrange an autopsy.

   Frost wandered off, happy to let Cassidy attend to all the detail. The suicide tied up the case nicely. He clambered up the embankment, then realized he had travelled in Cassidy's car and would have to wait for him to get a lift back to the station. Damn. Down to his left he could see clusters of angry passengers arguing with the guard on the halted train. The sound of a car approaching. A bit too soon for the undertaker, surely? He hoped Control had warned them there was a severed head to collect as well. Some of them were a bit fussy about the state of the corpses they transported. But it wasn't the undertaker. It was Liz Maud. She braked to a sliding halt alongside him.

   "We've found the mother?" she asked.

   Frost opened the passenger door and slid in beside her. "Yes, love. Parts one and two - she jumped in front of a train." Liz made to get out, but he restrained her. "You don't want to see her."

   She shook off his hand. "Why not?"

   "The poor cow is in two bloody halves."

   "But if Mr. Cassidy is down there - "

   "Sod Mr. Cassidy. The case is all tied up. It's the fiddling, messy tying up the ends now and he's quite capable of doing that on his own." He heard footsteps echoing from the tunnel below. "Let's get out of here . . . I think he's coming."

   She drove off, swerving to avoid a battered black van that lumbered towards them. The undertakers didn't use their shiny black Rolls-Royces for messy jobs like this.

   He lit up. "Have you seen that girl - Tracey what's-her-name?"

   "Not yet. I called at her house, but she's at school. Denton Grammar - the same school as Carol Stanfield."

   Frost pulled the cigarette from his mouth. "Same school, same age - they must be in the same class. Very interesting."

   "It's probably a coincidence. Half the girls of her age in Denton go to the same school."

   Frost's eyes glistened. A school full of pubescent, busty teenage girls had the edge on following a maimed corpse to the mortuary. "Let's visit the school and question her there. I want to get this lousy case tied up so we can concentrate on more important matters."

The head teacher, Ms Quincey, was not too pleased. This scruffy man, who appeared to be a detective inspector, seemed more interested in watching the fifth-form girls playing handball in the gym through the glass partition of her office, than in listening to what she was saying. She cleared her throat noisily and snatched his attention away from the spectacle outside. "It's just as a witness you wish to talk to her?"

   Frost nodded. "She might have seen something that would help us."

   Ms Quincey was still doubtful, but was relieved there was a woman police officer with him. She would have preferred to have sat in on the questioning, but had to take 4B for Social Studies while their normal teacher was away having an abortion. "Ah - here comes Tracey now."

   Tracey pushed through the swing doors into the gym and hurried past the excited, squealing, flush-faced handball players. She was wearing her school uniform, a light brown jacket over a white blouse with a black skirt. She looked a lot younger than the figure on the bank security video.

   "Come in, Tracey," said the head teacher.

   Frost flashed both his warrant card and his frank and innocent smile. "Won't take more than a couple of minutes, Tracey. You might have seen something that could help us." The girl sat down and crossed her legs, with an almost too studied expression of unconcern. Frost squinted up at the wall clock where the minute hand was quivering on the hour. He was itching for the bell to signal the start of the next period so Ms bloody Quincey would leave them alone. "Better just take your name and address for our records." He tried not to show his delight as the bell jangled.

   "I'll have to leave you now," said Ms Quincey, gathering up some books from her desk. "Perhaps you could see yourselves out."

   "Of course," nodded Frost, disappointed to note that the bell also signalled the end of the handball game and the girls had all disappeared into the dressing-rooms where . . . God! . . . they'd be having showers! All those sweaty little nubile fifteen-year-olds, stark naked . . . Then he realized the girl was talking to him and was snatched back from his fantasizing. "Sorry what - was that?"

   "You wanted my name - Tracey Neal, 6 Dean Court, Denton."

   He scribbled it down although it was unnecessary as they already had her details from the bank. "You were in Bennington's Bank just after nine-thirty yesterday morning?"

   "That's right." She flicked away a strand of chestnut hair that had fallen over her face and tried to look bored.

   "You know Carol Stanfield, don't you?"

   "Yes."

   "And you heard about the robbery at her house?"

   "It was on the radio. They kidnapped her and stripped her . . ." Her eyes widened as if she had just realized. "Her father - when I saw him in the bank - was he picking up the ransom money?"

   "So you saw him?"

   "Only briefly. I don't know him that well. I sort of gave him a smile, but I don't think he noticed me."

   "You're being a great help," said Frost. "Did you notice anything suspicious - anyone hanging about apart - from yourself, of course?"

   She screwed up her face to show she was trying hard to remember. "There were lots of people there. I didn't notice anyone especially."

   "When you left the bank, did you spot anyone hanging about outside, or in a car . . .?"

   She shook her head. "Sorry."

   Frost beamed his deceptively reassuring smile. "Not your fault, love. Oh - just for the record. What were you doing in the bank?"

   She frowned. "Why? What has that got to do with it?"

   Frost spread his hands vaguely. "Just routine. We have to check out everyone who was in the bank at that time, even if it is obvious they weren't involved. So what were you doing there - getting money out?"

   "Yes."

   "You weren't at school yesterday?"

   "No."

   Frost noticed she was starting to wriggle and look uneasy. He fished out his cigarettes and pretended to be preoccupied. Actually, he was looking through the glass to the doors of the dressing-room where the first of the damp-haired, squeaky clean girls were scampering out. "Why didn't you go to school?"

   She shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. "Didn't feel like it."

   A sympathetic smile. "As good a reason as any. So what did you do with yourself all day? Read the bible - take soup to the sick?"

   "I went round a boy's house and we listened to some music'

   "That's terrific," said Frost. "Then he can vouch for you - save us doing a lot of checking. What's his name?"

   "Ian Grafton."

   "Address."

   "23FairfieldRoad."

   "Right." Frost scribbled this down on the back of a supermarket till receipt, then suddenly seemed to think of something else. "This may sound silly. You took £5 out. What did you want the money for?"

   "I was going to the disco at Goya's. It's a big night."

   "The disco was in the evening. Why did you draw the money out in the morning?"

   "Why not?" she said defiantly. "It was as good a time as any."

   "I suppose so," said Frost, grudgingly. He worried away for a while at his scar. "After you drew it out, you waited a few minutes, then paid it back. Why was that?"

   "I suddenly realized I had a standing order coming up and if I withdrew the money it couldn't be met."

   "So you had to give the disco a miss?"

   "No. Ian lent me the money."

   "Good old Ian. Did you go straight to the bank from your house?"

   "Yes."

   "Your mother seemed surprised when we told her you were at the bank. She thought you would have been at school."

   "I don't tell her everything."

   An understanding smile. "I bet you don't. Did you go straight from your house to the bank?"

   "Yes."

   "Right." He started to scribble this down, then paused. "Wait a minute. Your mother said you left the house at your usual time for school and you were wearing your school uniform."

   "Yes - well, I wanted her to think I was going to school, didn't I?"

   "And you went straight to the bank."

   "That's right." She wasn't so quick with her answers now.

   "We've got a witness . . ." He shuffled through some pieces of paper and pretended to read from one. "Ah yes . . . an old dear. Not very reliable, I'm afraid . . . half blind and didn't have her glasses with her. She says she could have sworn you were wearing jeans and a dirty old duffel coat . . . not your nice smart uniform."

   "Then she was mistaken."

   "So you were in school uniform - the one you are wearing now?"

   "Yes."

Frost turned to Liz Maud as he scratched out what he had just written down. "You see, sergeant - that silly old dear got it all wrong." He patted the papers together and stuffed them in his pocket, then swung the chair round to face the girl and smiled with a nod as if that was all he wanted her for. As she got up to go he suddenly snapped his fingers. "I'm a stupid git - I'm getting all confused. It wasn't the old lady who said you were in casual clothes, it was the bank security video . . . black duffel coat with the hood up and light trousers." He beamed at her. "So either you - or the bank video camera - are telling me porkies."

   She stared at him, her lips moving silently as she tried out alternative answers. At last she said, "I took different clothes with me and changed in the public toilets."

   "So what did you do with your school clothes - flush them down the pan? They weren't with you while you were in the bank."

   "All right, all right!" She was almost shouting. "Ian met me round the corner from my house in his van. My mother doesn't like me going out with him. I changed in the back of his van while he drove me to the bank. He waited for me, then took me to his place. Satisfied?"

   "Perfectly," said Frost, standing up. "I just wanted to get the incongruities straightened out. Thanks for your time." He gave the girl a brisk nod, then he and Liz left the school.

   In the car, Liz said, "She was lying."

   "Of course she was," said Frost. "So let's nip round and see Ian what's-his-name and find out what sort of lies he's going to tell us."

   There was a van parked outside the house, a battered, rust-riddled light brown Ford with the name of the previous trader crudely erased with black paint.

   "Your witness said the van he saw was light brown," said Frost.

   "I thought you didn't believe him," sniffed Liz.

   "I can be flexible when it suits me," smirked Frost. "Sometimes I'm flexible when it doesn't suit me." He pressed the door bell.

   Ian Grafton was eighteen, tall and wiry, wearing his black greasy hair in a thick pigtail. He took them to his upstairs flat.

   "I expect Tracey's phoned you about us, Ian," said Frost, noting the pay-phone on the landing. "Just wanted to confirm a couple of things."

   Grafton occupied a bed-sit. He was unemployed. Social Security paid the rent. His last job was doing deliveries for a local furniture shop, but the job collapsed when the firm went bust some twelve months ago. He hadn't worked since. They sat on the bed in his small room with its pop posters and the midi hi-fi unit and went through the motions of scribbling down his confirmation of Tracey's story. He agreed every word of it and Frost was sure he too was lying.

   "You waited outside the bank for her?" asked Frost. "Now, thinking back on it, did you notice anything suspicious . . . any weirdos hanging about?"

   "The only weirdo was a fat tart of a traffic warden who gave me a flaming ticket for parking on a double yellow line." He snatched it from a shelf and waved it at Frost who squinted at the date and time. It tallied.

   "Thank you, Ian. We might want to speak to you again."

   He took another look at the van as they left. The same colour as the one the witness saw, but if it received a parking ticket at 9.35, then it couldn't have been the van the naked Carol Stanfield was held in. He worried away at this, but the pieces refused to fit.