R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

One.

Hallowe'en, 31 October

A lone sky rocket clawed its way up to the night sky, scrabbled feebly as it started to lose height, then burst into a cluster of green puff-balls.

PC Mike Packer, twenty years old, barely gave it a glance as he turned the corner into Markham Street. This was his first night out on the beat on his own and he had other things on his mind. He patted the radio in his top pocket, reassured he could call for help if he needed it.

A clatter of footsteps. Two teenage girls, heavily made up and dressed as witches, tottered past on high heels trailing a cloud of musky perfume. They whistled and called to him, blowing wet-lipped kisses. On their way to some Hallowe'en party and already drunk. Someone was going to score tonight. Grinning ruefully, Packer wished it was him! But no such luck. He was on duty on this cold and windy night, pounding his lousy beat until six in the morning. He drew his head tighter into the snug warmth of his greatcoat and watched until the girls turned the corner. The wind snatched away the last whisper of their perfume and he was on his own again.

He cut through the narrow alley which brought him into Patriot Street, a backwater of small lock-up shops and an empty space that was once a second-hand car site.

The street was dark, its single street lamp vandalized long ago.

The hollow echo of his footsteps pattered behind him giving him the uneasy feeling he was being followed. Once he even stopped suddenly and swung round, but there was no-one there. Outside the shops, piled up on the pavement, were plastic bags of rubbish, ready for collection the following morning. Packer weaved his way around them and flashed the rock hard beam of his brand-new torch into shop doorways, rattling the odd handle to make sure all was secure.

The end shop, long empty and boarded up, was once a butcher's. A faded sign, swaying gently in the wind, said "This Valuable Property To Let'. The doorway was piled high with rubbish sacks which had obviously been dragged there from outside adjacent shops. Why, wondered Packer, had someone taken the trouble to do that? Again he clicked on his torch, watching the beam crawl slowly over the pile. He half expected to disturb a dosser or perhaps even the boy they had been told to look out for, the seven-year-old who had gone out with his guy and still wasn't home at eleven o'clock at night.

Packer stiffened. There was someone crouching behind the bags in the corner. Someone keeping very still. "All right I can see you! Come on out." No movement. Keeping the torch handy for use as a weapon if necessary, he started pulling bags out of the way. Then suddenly the figure lunged at him and the face God it wasn't human it was green and malevolent. Dropping the torch he fumbled for his radio. The radio he couldn't find the bloody radio

"Denton police." Police Sergeant Bill Wells stifled a yawn as he lifted the phone to his ear and muttered into the mouthpiece. He wasn't really concentrating on what the caller was saying as he was still simmering with rage. He had been going through the new duty rosters to the end of the year and was livid to see that Mullett had yet again put him down for duty on Christmas day. Well, Superintendent flaming Mullett had another think coming. Let some of his blue eyed boys do their share of holiday nights for a change because the worm was about to turn. He frowned at the agitated voice buzzing away in his ear. "Try and take it easy, madam just tell me what happened

What? Where? How bad is he?" His pen scribbled furiously. "Don't worry. I'll get someone over there right away."

He snatched up the internal phone and jabbed the button for Wonder Woman's office Detective Sergeant Liz Maud. Let that flaming tart do some work for a change instead of painting her lousy fingernails. He'd noticed from the roster that she had all of the Christmas period off and she'd only been here two bloody weeks.

"Yes?"

The impatient edge to her voice always put his back up, so his tone was curt. '17 Crown Street break-in and stabbing little boy, one year old."

"I'll need back-up," she said.

"We haven't got any," said Wells, happy at last.

Packer was sweating with relief, thankful he hadn't been able to get to his radio. They would never have let him live it down. It was a guy, a child's guy, and the green face was Guy Fawkes. He pulled some of the sacks away to get a better look. Behind the guy a rubbish sack, propped up against the shop door, looked wrong. He touched it and his hand jerked back as if he had received an electric shock. He had never seen a dead body. Part of his training would involve a visit to the mortuary to view a post-mortem, but this had not happened yet. Burton had said that the pathologist always cut a long slit under the corpse's chin so he could peel the face off like a rubber mask. Packer hoped he would be able to see it through without fainting when the time came. But now, before he was ready, he knew he had a dead body. Too small for an adult. A child.

As he reached out, it toppled over and he thought he heard a grunt. Still alive? Was it still alive?

He tore off his gloves with his teeth and fumbled at the cord tying the neck of the sack. Then he was staring at a face. A young boy. Brown masking tape bound round the eyes as a blindfold. More masking tape, pulled tightly into the mouth forcing the lips back into a mockery of a grin. Vomit dribbled from the mouth and nose. Packer dropped to his knees and gingerly touched the flesh. Ice cold and no sign of a pulse. The brown dribble of vomit had a naggingly familiar hospital smell which he couldn't quite place. He opened the plastic sack wider, holding it by its extreme edge, and shone his torch inside. The boy, knees bent, was naked.

He straightened up and pulled his radio from his pocket, then took a few deep breaths and called the station. To his surprise he managed to keep his voice steady. He sounded as if he met death in the street every day. "Packer here, Patriot Street. I think I've found the missing kid and he's dead. Looks like murder."

"Stay there," ordered Wells. "Whatever happens stay there!"

Packer moved out to the street and waited. An eerie silence seemed to hang over the area, and the tiniest sounds were magnified. The rustling of the wind on the exposed plastic sacks. The creaking of the "For Sale' sign over the butcher's. The hammering of his heart.

Then, just audible but getting louder, the wailing siren of an area car. Wells wasn't going to send out the murder team until he had checked. Not on Packer's first night out on his own.

At the station it was chaos with Bill Wells in near despair. Everything was going wrong. A murder investigation and no senior CID officers available. Detective Inspector Allen, who should have been on call at home, had left a contact number which rang and rang but no-one answered. Jack Frost was on holiday and that sup id cow Liz Maud must have switched her radio off as he had gone near hoarse calling for her. He was now ringing the Divisional Commander's home number, but knew he would get short shrift there. He could hear Mullett's sarcasm now. Surely you are competent enough to sort this out for yourself, sergeant? The phone was hot against his ear and the ringing tone went on and on. Then he was aware of a tapping on the desk in front of him. A little tubby man in a camel-hair coat trying to attract his attention. "Be with you in a minute, sir."

"You'll deal with me now, sergeant. I'm in a hurry."

Wells groaned. One of those pompous little bastards. Just what he needed tonight His attention was snatched back to the phone. Someone had answered. Not Mullett, but his half-asleep, disgruntled, toffee-nosed cow of a wife peevishly demanding to know who it was. "Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Mrs. Mullett, but is the superintendent there? No? Do you have a number where I could contact him? Yes, it is urgent." Of course its urgent, you stupid cow. Would I be phoning if it wasn't? "Thank you." He scribbled on his pad and hung up.