DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

in a tight crushing grip, her nails chewing into their flesh.
    In the darkness the sound of wheezing, rasping breath, deep and rhythmic, and strange sobbing noises. The breathing shallowed and quickened. Outside, the wind clanged the corrugated iron and something blew over and clattered. And, suddenly, silence . . . no wind . . . no scuffling of cats . . . not even the sound of breathing. The voice didn't come from the woman whose nails were burning points of pain on their skin. It came from . . . from the air.
    "It's cold . . . grave . . . snow . . . so cold . . . skull . . . bones . . . so . . . so . . . so cold."
    All right, dear, thought Frost, we'll let you know - next please.
    The breathing returned, deeper, more frenzied, like the climax of love-making.
    "Buried . . . unmarked grave . . . snow . . . death . . . death The voice was so unearthly, Clive felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir and rise.
    "Where are you buried?" This from Frost.
    "Woods . . ."
    Frost stiffened. "Where in the woods?"
    More breathing, slower, shallower. He repeated the question. "Where in the woods?"
    "Hollow . . . in front of tree . . . Hollow . . . Dead Man's Hollow."
    "Were you murdered?" A moan of pain. Frost jerked his hand from the woman's grip and shook her shoulders. "Answer me, was it murder?"
    "No, sir," protested Clive urgently. "If you bring her out of a trance too soon, it can kill her."
    "Then I'll apologize," snapped Frost. "Light that lamp."
    A match flared and the oil-lamp glowed. The room blinked and came to life. Cats yawned and scratched and licked. In her chair, the woman was bolt upright, her body rigid, her eyes staring but sightless.
    Frost shook her roughly. "Miss Wendle!" She blinked, then looked at him in puzzlement. "Who are you? Oh - the policeman."
    "Who killed Tracey?" barked Frost.
    "Is she dead?" She got up and stabbed the fire in the heart with the poker. It roared instantly into life.
    "You told us she was buried in Dead Man's Hollow."
    She squeezed out a thin vinegary smile. "No, Inspector. The spirits told you, not me. I was in a trance. They simply used my mouth to utter their words, words of which I have no knowledge."
    "I see," said Frost. "Well, you can tell your bloody spirits that if I find Tracey buried where your mouth said she was, then you'll be holding your next seance in the nick on a charge of murder. Come on, son."
    He spun on his heel and stamped out. A cat clawed at him as he passed. The woman didn't move, but as Clive squeezed by to get to the door he was able to see beyond the acid hate that uglied her face. Martha Wendle was frightened, terribly frightened.
    Outside they sucked down lungfuls of clean air, like submariners unexpectedly saved from a suffocating death. The wind had dropped for the return journey, but hit out with a cold blast from time to time to let them know it was still lurking.
    "I hope I haven't caught anything from those lousy cats," said Frost, sniffing at his coat. "Do you have intuitions, son?"
    "Sometimes, sir."
    "I have them all the time. That woman's a killer!"
    "Where's your proof, sir?"
    "You're proof-mad son! All I want is a suspect. Forget this 'innocent until proved guilty' caper. Find your suspect and then prove he or she did it. Saves sodding about with lots of different people."
    They reached the fork in the path and Frost used his torch to light the way over the slithering plunge to Dead Man's Hollow. "Well, this is it, son."
    His torch beam crawled over virgin snow, through which the branches of stunted trees protruded like the hands of drowning men.
    "Shall we go down there, sir?" asked Clive.
    "Waste of bloody time, son. We haven't got shovels."
    Clive took a deep breath. "Then why did we come, sir?"
    "I wanted to get the feel of the place. Now shut up for a minute, there's a good boy."
    The wind had a spasm and shook snow from branches, then went quiet. A match flared as Frost lit a cigarette.
    "The kid's not here, son."
    Clive looked at him, amazed. "How on earth do you know that, sir?"
    "I don't know - I only feel it."
    Clive gave a scornful snort. "More intuition?"
    "Yes, son - more of my stupid intuition. We'll probably have to dig just to satisfy Mullett and Uncle Chief Constable, but she's not here."
    Clive grabbed his arm. "Sir - on that bush - shine your torch to the left . . . do you see it?"
    Something small and white and insignificant fluttered on the branch. The snow was thigh-deep at that point but Clive plunged over to the