Frost at Midnight

‘They broke into a neighbour’s flat,’ he said quietly.

  ‘OK. We’ll say the door was ajar. But say nothing until I get there,’ he cautioned. ‘I’ll make my way over.’

  ‘What about Wakely?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s still in the cells. Do you want to keep him in overnight?’

  ‘I’d forgotten about that toerag …’ He scratched the back of his neck. ‘Feed and water him. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Outside the station he pulled out his Polaroids and then lit a cigarette. His mind touched on the dead woman’s young son, and the prospect of informing the sister in Rimmington, but try as he might his thoughts swiftly returned to Karen Thomas. What was he to do? He climbed into the Vauxhall, and drove at a moderate pace towards the Southern Housing Estate. It was fair to say, and he’d be the first one to admit it, that he was in a confused state of mind. And it was down to more than just the addling heat.

  Tuesday (8)

  Waters let Frost into the flat. ‘You took your time. TV couldn’t get enough of you?’ Waters and Clarke had been in the flat for over an hour.

  Frost didn’t answer.

  On a second glance Waters noticed his friend was not his usual chirpy self. ‘Did it go OK?’

  ‘Don’t ask …’

  ‘Why? The super put out because you’d not shaved?’

  ‘Huh. If only.’ Frost continued into the lounge. Clarke, who was still very pale, got up from the settee. ‘What’ve we got?’

  ‘Back here. The bathroom.’ Waters showed the way, pushing the door open.

  Frost, though evidently weary, on seeing Clarke’s distress had clicked back into life. ‘Flamin’ hell.’

  Waters stepped back to allow Frost to take in the scene. A naked woman, fully shaved, presumably Jane Hammond, lying partially submerged in a shallow bath of methylated spirits.

  Frost automatically patted himself down for his cigarettes. Waters reached out to prevent him sparking up. ‘Talking of flaming hell … you’d best not.’

  ‘What make of bubble bath do you think she’s using?’ Frost remarked. ‘Wants to be a bit more careful; made her hair fall out. All her hair.’

  ‘Don’t think it’s fallen out, Jack. There’s no sign of—’

  Frost held a finger to his lips. There was no sign of clothing, just two empty plastic containers and a sink full of hair. Whoever had done this had taken great care. Not so much as an eyelash remained on the body.

  ‘Open the bleedin’ window before we all pass out,’ Frost ordered as he left the bathroom. Waters did as asked and followed him into the lounge. ‘I imagine he’s not finished the job, probably out buying more meths.’

  ‘That must have been what he was carrying in those bags when I saw him earlier this afternoon,’ Clarke said. ‘To think that she …’

  ‘Let’s not dwell on that,’ Frost said. ‘Where is Weaver now, I wonder.’

  ‘Do you not want to know how? There’s a puncture mark on her neck, looks like it’s from a knitting needle.’

  ‘She’s dead, I think, and not from overheating in the bath. Let’s leave it to Forensics, eh. What time did you see Weaver?’

  ‘About four.’

  ‘Right. I bumped into him this morning around ten. It’s six forty-five now.’

  ‘You saw him too?’ The relief on Clarke’s face was visible. The poor woman felt she’d failed in some way, by not questioning the man when she’d had the opportunity. Waters had tried to console her; it was well after the event and the girl was long dead. And who would have suspected the verger neighbour?

  ‘Yep, on his way out somewhere. So you saw him coming home at four. Did you see him going back out?’

  ‘No, don’t think so. I was talking to that punter out on the walkway, so I would have seen him.’

  ‘You and Waters can’t have missed him by long – at most by an hour. Have you had a rummage around the flat?’

  ‘We were waiting for you,’ Clarke said.

  ‘There’s a couple of library books – taken out today,’ Waters said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘One on Egyptian mummies and another on embalming.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing other than a church calendar which has shifts marked out for the High Fields care home; it was twelve to three today.’

  ‘And the morning off for shopping and embalming.’ Frost mulled it over. ‘Nothing else look out of place?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No sign he’s left in a hurry?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Then he doesn’t realize we’re on to him. He might be back any minute. Nobody else knows other than us. Don’t notify anybody. Not Forensics, Drysdale from the lab, nobody. Only Wells knows, and he’ll keep shtum if I tell him to.’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘Right. You two’ll have to stay here and wait for him,’ Frost said finally.

  ‘Us? Why us?’ Clarke complained.

  ‘You can’t stay here on your own. Look what he did to her,’ Frost retorted.

  ‘Why can’t you stay?’

  ‘It might be a long wait, and I can’t hang around tonight. I’ll slip out down the fire exit.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Call me if anything happens. The phone works.’ With that Frost made to go.

  ‘You are joking?’ Clarke said, dismayed.

  ‘We need to, Sue,’ Waters added, diplomatically. ‘If Weaver doesn’t know we’re on to him – and it looks very much that way – then we gotta try and catch him. No point all three of us staying put,’ he reasoned. What Frost was up to he had no idea; it was unusual for him to bail out, especially in a case like this, but no doubt he had his reasons. Waters nodded his agreement.

  Clarke sank back down on to the sofa as Frost closed the door behind him. ‘Shit!’ she blurted out as she leapt up.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I sat on something … wait. Oh no!’

  Waters came over and saw a knitting needle sticking out between the cushions. When he took a closer look he noticed there was a brown and red smear along the length of it.

  ‘You don’t think …?’ Clarke asked nervously.

  ‘Uh-huh. I do. Well discovered.’

  ‘That must mean he did it there.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe sit at the table, you’ve had a shock.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll show?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, no idea where he could be. It’s getting late now. Everywhere’s shut … apart from the pubs.’

  Clarke was holding her head in her hands.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve forgotten all about my son!’ she wailed. ‘Can you believe it – been back at work one day, and I’ve clean forgotten all about him …’

  Frost was exhausted by the time he arrived back at Eagle Lane.

  He had stopped off at the Unwins on Piper Road and picked up a four-pack of Hofmeister. He sat in Waters’ Vauxhall and downed half a can. ‘Better,’ he said and shut his eyes. He couldn’t let on to his colleagues that he had a date later. He took a smaller gulp next. He didn’t feel guilty. He still had Wakely to contend with; he couldn’t leave him overnight in the cells without causing a stink.

  Frost picked up the beers and headed for the front entrance. At least it was starting to cool down a bit. Johnny Johnson, the night sergeant, had taken over from Bill Wells.

  ‘Evening, Jack, another late one?’

  Frost raised his can. ‘I’m just following the bear, Johnny, but he keeps leading me here.’

  Superintendent Mullett surprised him on his way down to the cells.

  ‘Progress?’

  ‘Err, nothing confirmed, sir.’

  ‘But Wakely was resisting arrest?’

  ‘He’s done that before. Martin Wakely is allergic to Denton Police.’

  ‘But he was in Rachel Curtis’s house.’ Mullett looked to the ceiling, pondering. ‘Must’ve been after incriminati
ng evidence. The girl’s shoes were not recovered?’

  ‘It’s not yet confirmed he was in the house, sir.’

  ‘But he was identified as the motorcycle rider?’

  ‘Simms and Miller picked someone up who fits the description.’

  ‘Who then evaded arrest?’ The super was fishing for good news on his way out, but Frost was not in the mood to jump to hasty conclusions just so that Mullett could sleep more easily.

  Mullett was correct, of course. Wakely had run when approached; but Frost was of the opinion that there’d be something more wrong if he hadn’t tried to leg it. Wakely was more often than not on the wrong side of the law – of course he’d not come peacefully; with him, it wasn’t a question of if he’d been up to something, rather what he’d been up to. Frost knew the Wakely family of old; figured Martin for housebreaking, sure – but not murder.

  All the same, he was surprised to find Wakely soundly asleep downstairs in the cells.

  ‘Oi! Sleeping beauty. Wakey-wakey.’ He pushed the cot with his foot. Wakely groaned. How the flamin’ heck could he be asleep given the potential trouble he was in?

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In the nick.’

  ‘Bleedin’ hell.’ Martin scratched the back of his shaven head.

  ‘You wear your troubles lightly, my bald friend. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep if I was in the poo as deep as you.’

  ‘Eh? I’d had a few in the boozer, sleeping it off.’ He yawned.

  The publican had now stated that Wakely had been in the Cricketers over an hour, despite his original indication to young Simms that he’d only been there a much shorter time. Frost was dismissive; landlords always covered for villains for fear of retribution. No, he didn’t give that any credence – but the fact that the toerag had been sparko made Frost wonder … A guilty man would be pacing the cell, agitating for a brief. Frost rubbed his back which was sore and said, ‘The bike – has forty winks helped you remember where you got it from? Has that kip done anything for your memory?’

  ‘I found it.’

  ‘Make your bleedin’ mind up. Thought you said you borrowed it?’ Frost glanced down at the arrest sheet. The number plate was: CAT 93N.

  This wasn’t the flamin’ motorbike Frost was after.

  Tuesday (9)

  Frost was late for his date.

  After his frustrating chat with Wakely, Frost had had a lengthy telephone conversation with the vicar. Father Hill listened without comment to their discoveries at his verger’s flat. Frost had pleaded with the vicar to allow him to station a PC at the vicarage, for his own safety, but the elderly churchman wouldn’t hear of it. Frost even put himself forward for the job, but the offer was likewise rejected. In truth, once Frost understood that Weaver did not perform any actual religious duties, he doubted very much the man would venture on to church grounds. Frost didn’t push the old clergyman, but instead asked for a special favour – which was granted.

  By the time Frost entered the pub looking for his date, he really didn’t expect to hear any more from Clay House. The night sergeant, Johnny Johnson, had details of his whereabouts should the need arise, but he thought it unlikely this late in the day. He knew he’d have to get Forensics down there before the end of the night, otherwise Mullett would have his knickers in a knot over procedure.

  On his first hasty scan of the pub he missed his date altogether. Assuming she’d blown him out, he ordered a pint of Tennent’s Extra (rather a pint here, than heading back to Clay House). After the day he’d had, he was not too bothered to have been let down. He seldom thought of women these days; he still fancied them of course, but since his wife had died, he’d not made any new ‘special friends’. His lack of permanent abode hadn’t helped matters (not even he would have dared bring Suzy Fong back to Clarke’s, for instance). No, women hadn’t featured in Jack Frost’s life for quite a while, not until this week, in fact. Must be the weather; he grinned into his pint glass; the cherry woman in the tattoo parlour and – yes, yes, the girl on the pole at Harry’s on Sunday night, with whom he’d made a strange connection only hours ago, standing in the sweltering Eagle Lane interview room. Karen. A ‘connection’? What did that even mean …

  He took a pensive gulp of the ice-cold lager, thinking of the pole dancer. She was a cracker, no doubt about it. Even angry as hell, screaming at him as she had this afternoon. What was he to do about the whole mess now, though? He said he’d fix it, but how? There was only one thing for it: he had to tackle Hornrim Harry head on. Then maybe he could ask Karen to the Jade Rabbit … He felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned to see an attractive blonde in her late thirties, dressed in the sort of sarong that was all the rage this summer.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she stammered.

  ‘You’re late?’

  ‘We said eight?’

  He checked his watch. Eight twenty. ‘And there was me thinking I was late. You look … lovely.’ Pathetic, but it was all he could think to say. What he really meant was, ‘Not what I expected.’

  ‘Why, thank you. And you look …’ She paused. ‘Different somehow? Ah.’ She reached and touched his jaw lightly. He recoiled from the unexpected move. ‘The beard? It’s gone.’

  ‘Yes. I forgot – I only just shaved it off too.’

  They both laughed. Frost offered to get her a drink before realizing she already had one. She guided him to a booth.

  ‘Cosy,’ he said as they sat down. ‘So what do you do when not in …’ He left it hanging.

  ‘Getting tattooed? I work in a solicitor’s office.’

  ‘Oh, that’s unusual.’ Frost took in the woman’s full appearance for the first time; she was the right side of forty, slight creases beginning around the eyes when she smiled, bit younger than him.

  ‘Always fancied a tattoo, but my husband would never allow—’

  ‘I see.’ Frost avoided her eyes and examined his pint glass.

  ‘But now that he’s gone, I can do what I like.’ She beamed at him. ‘What about you?’

  ‘My wife died.’ It was an awkward and blunt statement to make, and one he’d not made in a while. Goes to show, he thought, how few new people he met outside of the job.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her face dropped.

  ‘No, no, it was some time ago, we didn’t really get on; job got in the way.’ He half smiled.

  ‘Can you tell me about that, what your work is like? Or is it a secret?’

  ‘Huh, if you really want to know?’

  ‘Tell me,’ she insisted, touching his hand. ‘But first tell me your name, Inspector. I’m Julie.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, how rude of me not to ask,’ he spluttered, ‘I don’t do this … sort of thing very much.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m Jack. Jack Frost.’

  He met her gaze; instinct told him she was a warm person. ‘Well’ – he downed the rest of his lager and ordered another pair of drinks with a nod towards the bartender – ‘you asked for it.’ He proceeded to divulge the whole of the Rachel Curtis case. They were getting on well, and Frost chatted animatedly, spurred on by Julie’s enthusiasm. If he paused to reflect, he was actually enjoying himself. She was simply indulging him, letting him ramble on – he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had shown any interest in what he did (not that he’d gone out of his way to try).

  ‘And so what has happened since we met at Mungo’s?’

  ‘Not much. After I met you, I went to see one of Rachel’s pals at Aster’s who said she saw her having a row with a bloke on a motorbike. Then when I went to her house I disturbed someone – someone had broken in; he leapt out of the window on to a bike and—’

  ‘Wait a sec, this row you mentioned – when did that happen?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon, top of Foundling Street, on the corner of Market Square.’

  ‘Have you got a picture of Rachel with you?’

  Frost rooted around in a pocket. ‘Somewhere, yes, I think … here,’ he said, retrieving the same photo he’d show
n Mungo yesterday morning.

  ‘Yes, that could have been her, right age …’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘On my way down to the tattoo parlour, to look at designs.’

  ‘Did you clock the fella on the bike?’

  ‘Yes … but it wasn’t a man. It was a woman.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. After the girl – Rachel – stormed off, the bike parked up and the driver pulled off her helmet and went into Boots.’

  ‘What she look like?’

  ‘Nondescript – late forties, short brown hair, denim jacket …’

  ‘Boots, eh?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Boots …’ he ruminated, ‘very useful. Thanks, worth turning up for.’

  Her face fell.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,’ he added hastily. ‘You have to forgive me, I’m not much good in polite company.’

  ‘You’re not so bad.’ She sank her teeth into the glacé cherry that had come skewered on a cocktail umbrella in her Bezique and lemonade.

  ‘I think you’ve been short-changed with that’ – he pointed to the cocktail stick – ‘from what I’ve seen of cherries this week.’ The conversation settled back down to a more relaxed tone, and police work was mentioned no more. He turned the focus on her. She was a solicitor, it transpired (not a secretary, as he had assumed). Time raced by and before they knew it the bell was rung.

  ‘Fancy a Chinese?’ Frost said.

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

  Frost pulled out Mr Fong’s spare key and jangled it over the table. ‘Not if you’ve got the run of the restaurant.’

  It was nearly eleven as DS John Waters fumbled wearily with his front-door key to Kim’s flat. God, he was beat. Soft lighting and the murmur of the television greeted him as he slipped off his shoes. Home sweet home, he muttered to himself – Christ was he glad to be away from the Southern Housing Estate.

  Supine on the couch with feet stretched out on the pouffe and still in a trouser suit nursing a glass of wine was the love of John’s life: Kim Myles, soon to be Kim Waters. The thought of it still sent a tingle through him.

  ‘Hi babe.’ Kim stirred, her white teeth glinting in the flicker from the TV. ‘Salad and vino in the fridge.’