Read Online Winter Frost by R. D. Wingfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. D. Wingfield
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of some £400, credit cards and credit card receipts and a diary full of telephone numbers. Frost beamed. "Our drunken friend's missing wallet," he announced. "And he told us a porky about his name . . . it's Gladstone . . . Robert Gladstone and he lives in Denton." He radioed for Morgan to go and pick him up.
One of the search parties radioed in to report they had had no luck in finding the missing knife. "Ah!" said Frost. "Might be a good idea to let them know we've already found it." There was little more he could do on the spot, so he left them to get on with it and drove back to the station.
Gladstone, now sobered up, looked uneasily at Frost. He was wearing a white, one-piece overall provided for him while his own clothes were away for forensic examination. "Look . . . I don't want to get involved in this. You've got no right—"
"Shut up!" said Frost cheerfully, dropping into the chair opposite and sticking a cigarette into his mouth. "Do you want to confess now, or shall we waste time beating you up and claiming you fell down the stairs while drunk?"
Gladstone stared warily at Frost, not certain whether to take this seriously or not. "I don't have to put up with this. I'm the victim here."
Frost dragged the cigarette from his mouth, eyes opened wide in mock amazement. "You're the victim? I thought the poor cow on the bed was the victim!" He nodded for Morgan to start up the tape machine to record the interview.
"I came to you to report a crime."
"You reported the wrong one, though, didn't you? I suppose it slipped your mind to tell us you'd killed her."
"Killed her! That's bloody stupid. If I killed her, why did I take that dozy Welsh cop back to her place?"
"You killed her, then you panicked and drove off, then you realized she'd nicked your wallet . . . You didn't have the guts to go back in case you were spotted, or in case some other punter had already found the body and called the police."
"That's bloody ridiculous!"
"If we found a body and your wallet, we wouldn't have wasted time looking for anyone else to pin it on, would we? You know how we like to jump to conclusions."
"You're jumping to conclusions now. I told you what happened."
"Then tell me again. It might sound less like a pack of lies the second time round." Frost dribbled smoke which rolled across the table between them like a creeping barrage and put on his look of absolute disbelief as the man told his story.
"I'm driving down King Street eyeing the talent when I spots this one, leaning against the phone box. I hadn't seen her before and I fancied a bit of fresh meat so I beckons her over. I said, 'How much?' she says, 'Forty quid' and I said, 'You'd better be bleeding good for that, love,' and she answers, 'Try me.' She hops in my motor car and directs me to her place. I thought I was on to a winner. She was doing all her stuff, squeezing the old thigh and what-not in the car, but as soon as I pulled up outside her gaff, she seemed to change."
"How do you mean?"
He shrugged. "It was as if something had upset her. She just lost interest in me."
"Perhaps she'd just felt the size of your dick?" suggested Frost.
"Bloody funny! Anyway, I follow her up the stairs, she strips off and we gets down to it."
"And . . . ?"
"She was rubbish—just lay there like a bleeding wet fish studying the cracks in the ceiling."
"And you complained?"
"You bet I did. I told her she was crap and if I paid her what she was worth she'd get sod all. I offered twenty which was bleeding generous. She told me to stick it up my arse and pay the agreed price."
"Just love talk, then. Was that when you knifed her?"
Gladstone glared at Frost. "I only stuck one thing in her and it wasn't a bleeding knife."
A tentative tap at the door. Wearily, Frost pushed himself up. No-one
One of the search parties radioed in to report they had had no luck in finding the missing knife. "Ah!" said Frost. "Might be a good idea to let them know we've already found it." There was little more he could do on the spot, so he left them to get on with it and drove back to the station.
Gladstone, now sobered up, looked uneasily at Frost. He was wearing a white, one-piece overall provided for him while his own clothes were away for forensic examination. "Look . . . I don't want to get involved in this. You've got no right—"
"Shut up!" said Frost cheerfully, dropping into the chair opposite and sticking a cigarette into his mouth. "Do you want to confess now, or shall we waste time beating you up and claiming you fell down the stairs while drunk?"
Gladstone stared warily at Frost, not certain whether to take this seriously or not. "I don't have to put up with this. I'm the victim here."
Frost dragged the cigarette from his mouth, eyes opened wide in mock amazement. "You're the victim? I thought the poor cow on the bed was the victim!" He nodded for Morgan to start up the tape machine to record the interview.
"I came to you to report a crime."
"You reported the wrong one, though, didn't you? I suppose it slipped your mind to tell us you'd killed her."
"Killed her! That's bloody stupid. If I killed her, why did I take that dozy Welsh cop back to her place?"
"You killed her, then you panicked and drove off, then you realized she'd nicked your wallet . . . You didn't have the guts to go back in case you were spotted, or in case some other punter had already found the body and called the police."
"That's bloody ridiculous!"
"If we found a body and your wallet, we wouldn't have wasted time looking for anyone else to pin it on, would we? You know how we like to jump to conclusions."
"You're jumping to conclusions now. I told you what happened."
"Then tell me again. It might sound less like a pack of lies the second time round." Frost dribbled smoke which rolled across the table between them like a creeping barrage and put on his look of absolute disbelief as the man told his story.
"I'm driving down King Street eyeing the talent when I spots this one, leaning against the phone box. I hadn't seen her before and I fancied a bit of fresh meat so I beckons her over. I said, 'How much?' she says, 'Forty quid' and I said, 'You'd better be bleeding good for that, love,' and she answers, 'Try me.' She hops in my motor car and directs me to her place. I thought I was on to a winner. She was doing all her stuff, squeezing the old thigh and what-not in the car, but as soon as I pulled up outside her gaff, she seemed to change."
"How do you mean?"
He shrugged. "It was as if something had upset her. She just lost interest in me."
"Perhaps she'd just felt the size of your dick?" suggested Frost.
"Bloody funny! Anyway, I follow her up the stairs, she strips off and we gets down to it."
"And . . . ?"
"She was rubbish—just lay there like a bleeding wet fish studying the cracks in the ceiling."
"And you complained?"
"You bet I did. I told her she was crap and if I paid her what she was worth she'd get sod all. I offered twenty which was bleeding generous. She told me to stick it up my arse and pay the agreed price."
"Just love talk, then. Was that when you knifed her?"
Gladstone glared at Frost. "I only stuck one thing in her and it wasn't a bleeding knife."
A tentative tap at the door. Wearily, Frost pushed himself up. No-one
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