‘Err … you put the frighteners on me, me mind’s gone blank,’ Wakely pleaded feebly.
‘Cobblers! I haven’t got time to deal with this nonsense now – you’re staying here until you remember who you got that bike from.’
Mullett’s unease had got the better of him. The super stood proprietorially on the steps of Eagle Lane Police Station. It was five thirty-five. He pulled the peak on his cap forward to shield his eyes from the glare of the late-afternoon sun. It wasn’t so much having to step back from the spotlight that made him apprehensive; no, it was more the thought of Jack Frost stepping into it that concerned him. The media were arriving in force. The radio crew were here already, first in line to ensure a good position. Now before him a BBC van spewed forth an array of cables, microphones and various young people in T-shirts.
‘You Frost?’ a youth with unruly hair shouted from the side of the van.
Mullett just smiled into the sunlight; there was no chance he’d answer such an address.
‘Oi, sport!’
Was he being bellowed at by an antipodean? Mullett turned to face in the other direction. Surely the BBC could source its staff from its own shores without recourse to the colonies? The surly individual brushed past him, hauling a camera.
‘Quite a turnout.’ The familiar tones of Bill Wells reached him from behind.
‘Is Frost on his way?’ Mullett enquired evenly. ‘I thought I told you to fetch him.’
‘He’s just putting the finishing touches to his statement, I believe.’
The phrase struck Mullett as discordant. ‘Preparing,’ he sniffed, ‘that would make a change … and so long as he’s shaved.’
‘Oh – I think he—’ Wells stopped abruptly as Mullett turned to face him.
‘Think what?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘’Ere ’e comes.’ The brash Australian’s attention turned to his camera, angled towards the station’s double doors. All heads looked up.
Frost appeared, beard still wildly intact, resembling George Best gone to seed.
‘I thought I told you to shave?’ Mullett hissed through his teeth.
‘I was interrupted,’ Frost said out of the side of his mouth as they faced the cameras.
‘Just don’t balls this up.’ The super smiled as a man with sideburns and kipper tie moved to the front steps, and was relieved to discover the Australian was a mere minion.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.’ Frost beamed. ‘I’m Inspector Frost, and I’m here to make an appeal to—’
‘You bastard!’ A female voice rang out from behind the assembled press corps. Mullett turned to Frost who raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘Yes, you, Frost!’ In the next instant the young woman was right in front of them. The man with the microphone stepped aside uncertainly. ‘What the bloody hell you playing at, eh? Who do you think you are?’ she shouted.
The reporters, surprised by this outburst, watched Frost intently for a reaction. Mullett fidgeted uncomfortably. Who the blazes was this woman?
‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,’ Frost responded with a cheeky smile, which only served to infuriate the woman further; she lunged forward, clawing at his face. Mullett stepped back in shock, as Frost staggered sideways to escape the woman’s reach.
The press clamoured for her. ‘Miss, miss! What’s the inspector done?’
Mullett barked at the two PCs standing behind him to apprehend the crazed woman.
Simms and Miller strong-armed the woman through the door. For one so slight she had phenomenal strength. Once inside the building, though, she ceased struggling and came quietly.
‘You can’t do this!’ she spat.
‘Oh yes we can,’ Miller replied, ‘believe it or not, it is an offence to attack a CID officer. Even one as badly turned out as that.’
As they reached the front desk, Simms saw the superintendent storm off towards his office.
‘Hello again,’ Wells said genially to the woman.
‘You’ve met before?’ Simms asked.
‘Young lady was enquiring after Jack this morning.’
‘She found him, all right.’
‘Right you, in here.’ Miller shoved the woman into a free interview room and shut the door. ‘Bloody hell, that was hilarious!’ he sniggered to Simms. ‘Did you see Mullett’s face?’
‘He left pretty sharpish,’ Simms replied uncertainly.
‘Too right, he’d hang old Frosty out to dry as soon as look at him …’
‘Wonder who she is?’ Simms peered over the other’s shoulder into the room.
‘Christ knows, some old sort Jack’s had it off with. Tasty, though; the old bugger must have something.’ Miller adjusted his tie. ‘Anyway, I better get back out there. You keep an eye on ’er meanwhile.’
And with that he strolled off down the corridor.
Clarke and Waters mounted the Clay House staircase.
‘I can’t quite figure this yet,’ Waters remarked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘This dude …’ he didn’t finish.
They reached the third floor and walked briskly along to Weaver’s flat.
‘Number fifteen. Right next door, if you can believe it,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding!’ Clarke stopped in her tracks.
‘What’s up?’
‘I saw him. Weaver. Earlier this afternoon.’
‘No way. Did he mark you as a copper?’ Waters banged on the door energetically.
‘I … I don’t know. Maybe,’ Clarke said. ‘Something tells me he’s not in now, though.’
‘If he is in, he’s either innocent or stupid.’ Waters rapped again. ‘There’s no way he’d be sitting there otherwise; he’s got to have seen all the activity.’
‘But didn’t he come forward?’
‘So? Of course he did. Wouldn’t you? He didn’t say he was in the habit of knitting tea cosies for her, though, did he.’ The sergeant reached up to a small frosted-glass window next to the door that was ajar. ‘Nor did he mention that sorry business with the Church … Come here. If I give you a leg-up.’
Clarke checked the coast was clear. ‘We don’t have a warrant.’
‘We heard a cry for help? C’mon. Quick.’
She put her foot in the cradle of Waters’ linked hands.
‘I mean, being chucked out of the Church for messing with another man is one thing,’ Waters continued, ‘but Jane – aargh’ – an awkward lack of suppleness hit Clarke as she jolted upwards and clung to the windowsill – ‘is a female prostitute.’
‘But it’s all sex when it comes down to it,’ Clarke said, steadying herself.
‘Yeah, that’s what Jack—’
‘Jesus!’
‘What?’
‘The smell, it’s … eugh.’
‘It’s a bathroom, shit happens.’
‘No, not that kind … God, it’s foul,’ Clarke said, retching.
She reached down inside the window, straining until her fingers found the lever, and she pushed it with all her might. The window gave suddenly, causing her to lose her balance, but Waters grabbed her and quickly lowered her back down.
She coughed violently; whatever it was, she’d breathed a hell of a lot of it in. The stuff was rasping at her throat.
‘You all right?’
Clarke held out a hand and nodded; after a moment she stood up straight and said, ‘OK. I’m good. Who’s going in?’
‘A slender lithe lady like you – be in and round the corner in no time. If you’re OK?’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’ It was the first compliment she’d had in a long time, and though blatantly untrue, it was enough to propel her up through the window in one smooth move.
She landed squarely on the toilet seat. Her senses were so consumed with the pungent stinging smell that she didn’t take in the contents of the bath until she’d climbed down off the toilet seat, steadying herself on the wall.
Weaver locked the Vo
lvo door.
The afternoon had been a disappointment; he thought he might have been able to find something in the storerooms at work to help him with his task. God knows, most of them were destined for the grave any day now … What to do? He couldn’t leave Janey in his flat indefinitely. He made his way across the road. A football skidded across his path.
‘Oi, mister, some woman is climbing through your window!’
Weaver looked up at the flat. The bathroom window was indeed fully open. Panic rushed through him. It was as though in a flash the whole street could see him and his crime. He turned back to the car, fingers trembling so violently he couldn’t open the door. The football thudded against the wheel, giving him a start. He would need to get away. Where? Where? Then it struck him, something that he’d heard at work, the perfect place. The lock finally gave, and he climbed in as naturally as he could manage, with the knowledge that the police were moments away from discovering his crime.
Tuesday (7)
‘You’re looking for me, Miss Thomas?’
Frost closed the interview-room door behind him and nodded to Simms. Simms was taken aback that Frost knew the woman, who sat bolt upright at the table, perfectly composed.
‘Ah, at least you have the courtesy to acknowledge you know who I am.’
‘Never forget a pretty face.’
Miss Thomas rolled her eyes. The woman was elegant, in an Eastern European kind of way. She had exotic oval eyes. Simms thought her a couple of years older than him, about twenty-five.
‘You were at the club Sunday night,’ she said.
‘I’m impressed you noticed, what with the lights shining in your face.’ Frost appeared genuinely surprised.
‘Only because Baskin sidled up to you. You were in the front row,’ she added distastefully, ‘and you can always see Baskin coming, no matter what the light.’
Simms watched for Frost’s reaction – if he didn’t know the old man any better, he’d have described him as looking nervous.
‘Was there something in my performance that displeased you?’ she continued.
‘No, no, not at all,’ Frost said, adding hastily, ‘It was very … entertaining.’
‘Then why did you instruct Harry to fire me?’
Frost shook a cigarette out of a half-empty packet and offered her one. She declined. He shrugged, lit his own and inhaled deeply. He glanced at Simms fleetingly, as if he’d only just registered he was there.
‘Is that what Harry said?’ he asked eventually.
She nodded.
‘It’s not true,’ Frost said, standing opposite her, ‘it just is not the case.’
The woman frowned, unsettled. ‘Then why am I without a job?’
‘I don’t know, Karen, but I intend to find out.’ He said this with a determination no one in the room could question. They made eye contact, and now her gaze never left him, as he paced about the confined room.
Simms didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he addressing her by her Christian name? And what was the inspector doing in a strip club on a Sunday night?
Frost stood in front of her, hands on hips, cigarette smoke curling around a pronounced stomach. Both Karen Thomas and Simms waited expectantly for him to expand on his intentions. Eventually, he cleared his throat.
‘Leave your contact details with Constable Simms, and I’ll be in touch before the week’s out with a solution.’
Frost leaned forward and ground out the half-smoked cigarette in the tin ashtray and left the room. What did Frost mean by ‘solution’?
‘Do you have a pen, please, Constable?’
Simms patted his tunic pocket urgently. It was an odd interlude and one that Simms, if asked, would not be able to explain.
Mullett held the phone tightly to his ear as Assistant Chief Constable Winslow delivered a verbal dressing-down over the Denton police force’s appearance on the early evening news. Frost poked his head round the corner of the office door. Mullett beckoned him in. The inspector strode casually over and helped himself to a Senior Service from a packet lying on the super’s desk. He wouldn’t be so brazen if he knew the trouble his little incident had caused.
‘Yes, sir, I do understand,’ the super said emphatically into the receiver, ‘but one can never tell with the public, they do have the habit of being unpredictable.’
This did not do anything to put Winslow off his stride. In fact, he warmed to his theme. ‘Then hold press briefings in the building where you can control who attends! Use some common sense, man! What on earth did she want, anyway? I’ve had all and sundry on the phone wanting answers. I’ve always been of the impression that Jack Frost was quite a one with the ladies.’
Frost, as though he sensed he was being talked about, grinned and scratched his expanding stomach. He really had put on the pounds since his wife passed away.
‘We’ve held the woman for questioning,’ Mullett said, sensing a possible opportunity to taint Frost’s image – Winslow had been a fan of Frost’s, indeed it was the ACC who had pushed Mullett to promote Frost to Inspector in the first place. ‘I assure you I will get to the bottom of the matter, and if there’s been any inappropriate behaviour, it will be dealt with severely.’
‘Very well, goodbye.’
Frost settled down in the visitor’s chair. ‘Go easy on yourself, sir.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The “severe dealing with”.’
Mullett frowned. ‘Any conversation with the Assistant Chief Constable is of the most confidential nature, and is not for the ears of the likes of you.’
‘Oh all right, well, you did invite me in, but I’ll just toddle off then. For some reason I thought I might be req—’
‘Wait.’
Frost paused, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
‘This woman. The one that atta—approached you, on the steps, was Karen Thomas?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, took me a while – looks different with her clothes on, but yep, says she is.’
‘Just what …’ Mullett searched for the words. ‘What did … how … how did you request Harry let the young lady go?’
‘I didn’t give him precise instructions; said, give her the old heave-ho.’ He ground out his cigarette. ‘What more could I say? You wouldn’t tell me any—’
Mullett held up a hand. ‘What did Harry say? Did he object?’
‘Yes, he did. We owe him a ton.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We owe him a hundred pounds. For loss of earnings.’ Frost helped himself to another cigarette and pushed a slip of paper on to the desk.
‘What’s that?’
‘Petty-cash chit – I forgot to give it to you this morning, what with all this carry-on.’
‘I will condone nothing of the sort.’
‘He wanted two hundred to start with, but I beat him down. Be more of a problem if we – or whoever – doesn’t stump up in the long run.’ Frost’s eyebrows bounced playfully over the word ‘whoever’.
‘I’ll take care of this for now.’ Mullett took the slip. ‘Did Baskin say anything else?’
‘He did say she was a fiery one.’
‘You don’t say.’ He shook his head as the telephone started to ring. The super ignored it. ‘And where is Miss Thomas now?’
‘Let her go.’
‘Let her go? Good heavens, after that embarrassing display? Fetch her back and charge her with affray. Lock her up!’
‘What?’ Frost said, aghast.
‘You heard me,’ the super said, ‘put her in a cell while we decide what to do with her.’
‘You must be joking, sir, after such a public incident! They’ll have your – or to be more precise, my – guts for garters!’
‘That I can live with …’ Mullett pressed his elbows down on the desk, kissed a knuckle in thought. What to do – he had not foreseen this eventuality when agreeing to deal with the girl for Hudson. ‘What have you said to her, so far?’
‘Nothing. Let her calm down, f
irst.’
‘While she’s doing that, get on the phone to Harry and tell him to put the fear of god into the girl.’
‘I can’t do that – maybe if we give him his money, then we might …’
‘He’s not getting a penny,’ Mullett said sternly. ‘Perhaps we might be investigating the Coconut Grove with a view to suspending his licence instead? I can’t believe you’re so stupid!’
‘Why’s it my fault?’
‘Sloppy handling, as with everything. I gave you this simple task, because I foolishly felt that sleaze-merchant afforded you some respect. But no, he’s made you and the whole division look ridiculous.’
‘You didn’t give me a reason – I …’
‘A reason? Why do I need to give a reason? You’re a subordinate – you do as you’re told and don’t ask questions. Now get out of my sight!’
The super watched Frost shuffle away. Although this fiasco was, indeed, of Mullett’s making, it felt good putting Frost in his place. With the threat of blackmail to Hudson gone, the balance of power was back where it belonged. The superintendent had the upper hand. The relief was palpable; he’d be off the tablets in no time. The telephone began to trill again. Mullett adjusted his tie and tugged his cuffs forward before picking up the receiver. He knew before he answered it would be Hudson’s voice on the end of the line. Let him just try, let him just try.
‘Ah, Michael, I wondered whether you might call … yes. Oh did you, indeed?’ He picked up the petty-cash slip and twirled it in his fingers. ‘Well, things have taken a nasty and somewhat expensive turn, it would seem …’
‘Jane Hammond, Jack.’
‘You what?’ Frost’s mind was on Karen Thomas as he hurried through Eagle Lane reception – he needed some air and time to think … he wasn’t his usual self, that much was certain. Hornrim Harry should never have got the better of him, yet that’s what he felt had just happened: Mullett, bellowing at him for what? For doing him a favour?
‘They’ve found Jane Hammond,’ Bill Wells called softly after him, ‘Clarke and Waters, in Clay House.’
That got his attention. He turned and stared at Wells. He didn’t need to ask; she was dead. ‘Right.’ He stood, still digesting the news. ‘Why are you whispering?’