‘There were bike tracks on the front lawn; I thought you might be interested, given the episode at Curtis’s place – the bloke leaping out of her window might have been the thief at Holland’s. You know Martin Wakely has sticky fingers and a tendency to turn up at various places uninvited?’
‘I see what you mean, but I don’t have Wakely for the Curtis place. We have Maria Benson downstairs for questioning over that …’ He exhaled. ‘But be my guest over posh boy’s money and get Wakely back in if you can. But I’d rather there was a tad more focus on the more serious crimes.’
‘But Jack, Mullett said—’ Waters touched Frost’s arm lightly as the super himself hove into view.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s what Hornrim Harry says, as you well know, Johnny boy. You are growing more like him every day. Maybe it’s your impending marriage? Stiffening you up, eh?’ He raised his eyebrows in wonder.
‘Ah, Jack, a word if I may.’
‘Sir? I was wondering when we might next have the pleasure.’
Clarke watched Frost troop off behind the super. She cursed under her breath; she was angry with herself for being so short-fused. Maybe leaving little Philip at home was nagging at her more than she realized. There was no need to be so sharp with Frost, especially as she’d just dislodged him from her settee; maybe that had upset him.
She felt Waters’ hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault – he’s not himself.’
‘I do feel I’m not helping.’
‘It’s just the job. Much as he loves it, it can be unrelenting at times.’
‘Hmm, maybe,’ she replied, unconvinced.
‘Why didn’t you mention the cocktail-stick theory?’
‘He had me riled by dismissing the motorbike – you know Rachel Curtis was seen at the Codpiece at the same time a load of bikers were there? – besides, I want to wait until I hear back from the lab, they’ll confirm if the material is the same. They’ll let me know in two hours.’
‘Well, in the meantime, let’s check out Holland’s neighbour, the one that called the police on the night of the party. Front desk will have logged it.’
‘Sure.’ Clarke spied Rachel Curtis’s autopsy report on her desk – she picked it up, revealing a dark brown smear underneath. ‘Jesus. That man.’
‘I apologize for firing off like that at you yesterday.’
Frost slowly pushed the super’s office door to, an apology from his boss instantly triggering suspicion. He dismissed the comment, and sat down. ‘Think nothing of it, sir.’
‘No, you were put on the spot, a woman like that coming at you, unsettling, to say the least. Any news on that front?’
‘I’ve not been to see Harry if that’s what you mean’ – it was only a white lie after all, given he was there on the Curtis case – ‘what with Jane Hammond found dead.’
‘Yes, I hope there was nothing inappropriate going on there.’
‘Apart from her being stabbed in the neck with a knitting needle, fully shaved and left to fizz in a bath of meths?’
‘You know very well what I mean: procedure – if you’ve not followed the correct procedure we’ll come unstuck when it comes to the prosecution.’
Frost knew it was unlawful entry but chose to ignore the fact and simply said, ‘We’ll have to find him first.’
‘Quite, one imagines he must have figured out you’re on to him. What are we doing?’
‘All ports and airports alerted. We know from the neighbours that he drives a maroon ’79 Volvo 240. The last person to have contact with Weaver was a stroke patient at High Fields, the care home. We questioned him, but the poor fellow’s mind is a jumble and his speech is shot after a recent seizure; we can’t get a useful word out of him.’
‘And the Rachel Curtis case, did the television appeal yield anything, in spite of the incident? And what of Wakely?’
‘Nothing as yet. But Wakely’s innocent.’
‘Wakely, innocent? You saw him jump out of the window at Rachel Curtis’s house and make his escape on a motorbike.’
‘I think I might have misread the number plate …’ Frost admitted.
‘Oh?’
‘And Wakely didn’t have a helmet or jacket when Simms pulled him outside the pub.’
‘Maybe he tossed them away to mislead you?’
‘Unlikely; that would involve quick thinking and thinking – fast or slow – is not one of Martin’s strong suits. Not to mention that he was fast asleep when I went to see him last night. Not the behaviour of a guilty man. No, I’m afraid it’s not him.’
‘That is disappointing.’
Frost nodded in agreement.
‘Well, get your eyes tested, man.’
Frost was about to leave but thought he should mention Mrs Benson before the super found out via other means. ‘Maria Benson is in for a chat. She was seen arguing with Rachel Curtis on Market Square last Saturday.’ He didn’t think it necessary to say he had arrested her, and was equally loath to mention the new witness’s name – he’d have to tell folk about his relationship with Julie eventually, but if he could squeeze something out of Maria Benson first, it might be avoided …
‘Tread carefully, Frost. I needn’t tell you the press would have a field day there … And let me know if Karen Thomas shows again.’
Although vexed by the Rachel Curtis case, Frost was more upset by Jane Hammond’s fate, but had not let on. Outwardly he maintained his carefree flippant manner; this was his armour, and for the benefit of appearances and morale. He’d been witness to countless deaths over the years, many brutal; no, it was not the loss of life that disturbed him as much as those left behind. In particular young children, those whose lives from that day forth were changed for ever, cast out in the world without a guardian.
Frost had quietly slipped over to Rimmington to see Clare Hammond, who was back at home after identifying her sister’s body. Frost sat in the window alcove with her nephew Richard opposite him; his aunt stood behind the high-backed settee close to a WPC.
‘Now, Richard,’ Frost said softly, leaning forward, so near his knees almost touched the boy’s bare legs on the edge of the settee, ‘I want you to be brave and listen very carefully.’
The boy, his head down, nodded. Another tear dripped from the end of his nose.
‘See, I’m all on my own too. And though I’m much older it gets very lonely. And I can tell you a very big secret.’ His voice dropped lower. ‘I always wanted a son, but sadly my wife passed away before we got there. So if you wanted to be friends, that would make me very happy. We could help each other. What do you think?’
The boy nodded again.
‘Hold out your hand.’ The boy unclenched his hands clasped in his lap, and held out his right timidly. Frost placed a black oblong in his palm. Richard’s head moved up slightly. ‘Now, squeezing this box sends a signal to me. It’s called a bleeper. I have the other one, see?’ He showed him the matchbox-size responder. ‘Any time you want me you just press this and I’ll be right here for you.’
‘How,’ Richard sniffed, ‘how will you know it’s me?’
Frost pulled the chair forward and said in a whisper, ‘Because it’s the very latest technology, they’ve only got one of those. That was my boss’s, but I don’t think he’ll miss it.’
The boy turned the bleeper over in his hand. Frost sat back and forced a smile towards the women, but Clare Hammond had turned her back, sobbing quietly into the WPC’s shoulder.
Wednesday (5)
Reg Stirling was asleep on a sun lounger in the afternoon heat, strands of a sparse comb-over plastered across his forehead. The large garden was carefully landscaped. A stone cupid energetically spouted a fountain of water from his penis into an ornate pool at the far end of the recently paved patio. Waters was familiar with Reg Stirling’s success story from the Gazette: he was one of Thatcher’s self-made men and one of the many that had brought the Iron Lady back with a landslide for a second term that May. Stirling Equipment Hire had
bucked the trend at the start of the decade and now, in the summer of ’83, the firm was flourishing as brightly as the owner’s garden peonies.
Waters and Clarke walked across the lawn towards the entrepreneur, casting a shadow that caused him to stir, prop himself up and raise his hand to his eyes to see who was disturbing his precious moment of peace.
‘You have got to be the police, right? Only coppers would have the nerve to affront me unannounced in me own back garden, lying here without me strides on.’
‘Your wife let us in, Mr Stirling.’
He propped himself up. ‘Can a man get no rest, eh?’
‘We won’t be long, sir. Just a couple of questions about your complaint on Saturday night.’
‘Harrumph.’ The man rose from the lounger and reached for a shirt. ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle.’
He slipped his feet into flip-flops and moved under the shade of an umbrella. He poured a drink from a jug containing soggy pieces of fruit drowning in an unknown concoction. ‘A man should be able to enjoy a bit of ’oliday in his own bloody castle, especially when it is such a beautiful castle as this, know what I mean?’ He gestured with the jug towards the large ornate rockery with running water.
‘Absolutely,’ Waters confirmed.
‘I mean that’s why I live out here, and not in the middle of town – that’s why I’ve not joined the bloody stampede down to Marbella. All I want is a bit of relaxation, a bit of P and bloody Q.’
‘Nobody’s disputing your complaint, Mr Stirling,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘we only wish to clarify a few things.’
‘Oh, I see.’ The man relaxed, and now assuming they were on his side, offered the jug to them. They declined, anticipating a nasty cocktail mix. ‘Glad to help.’
‘Do you know Mr Holland, sir?’ Clarke asked.
‘Nah, not really, exchanged a few words when he moved in, like, but he’s not my sort of man, know what I mean?’
‘So you weren’t invited to the party?’
‘He didn’t invite us in so many words, but let us know it was ’appening and said to pop in if we fancied it.’
‘Weren’t you curious?’ Clarke asked. ‘All that London glamour?’
‘Nah, bunch of fannies.’
Waters let out a small laugh.
‘Besides, the ol’ lady’s got a bad back; that was the reason I called your mob. She has an ’ard enough time getting some kip as it is, without all those hoorays partyin’ like a bunch of kids …’
‘Fair enough. Now, I see Mr Holland’s place is indeed opposite, but not quite directly. The properties are set well apart – three hundred yards or more, would you say?’
‘Exactly so. They’d seriously cranked up the volume, you know what I mean?’
‘Was it like that all night? It started at six, I believe.’
‘I didn’t notice until later, the sound don’t carry round here. It weren’t a problem till I went to bed. Our room is at the front of the house. I became aware of the din around midnight.’
‘So you became aware of the noise at midnight and called the police at twelve fifteen,’ Clarke suggested. ‘And what time did you go to bed?’
‘Eleven. No, wait, I think it was half past. After Kojak.’
‘But you weren’t disturbed until midnight.’
‘I saw it on the clock, on the button, twelve o’clock.’
‘It was a hot night. Did you have the windows open?’
‘It was a hot night, right.’
‘Right. So would it be fair to say it was unlikely the party moved outside to the front lawn before midnight, yes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And would you also think it fair to assume that something must have triggered this?’
Stirling pulled a garden chair out from under the umbrella and sat down. ‘I guess so.’
‘Mr Stirling, it’s very important, try and think back – was there anything that could have been a catalyst for the disturbance?’
The man ran his fingers through his thin damp hair. ‘A motorbike. Yeah, a bike revving, someone was thrashing a bike.’
‘Are you sure it was just one?’
‘I didn’t get up to count, but yeah, I reckon it was just the one.’
‘Good. One more thing, Mr Stirling. You were in Bennington’s Bank on Monday morning, right?’ Waters did not have Stirling as the type for lifting a couple of grand out of a cement mixer, but he might have seen something …
‘What of it?’ He leaned closer, away from the parasol.
‘Did you happen to see Dominic Holland in there?’
‘Nah.’ He shook his head.
‘Tell me, did you know Holland is having some building work done?’
‘Swimming pool. Terry Todd is putting it in.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Fella asked me if I knew anyone that could put in a pool when he moved in, I recommended Todd.’
‘That’s very decent of you,’ Clarke said.
Stirling shrugged. ‘Not really. I hire out equipment for a living, don’t I. Terry needs a digger for a job like that.’
Superintendent Mullett had got wind of the Benson arrest. ‘A chat’, as Frost had painted it, was an understatement. Releasing Martin Wakely and pulling in the dead warehouse worker’s widow was a careless move, even for Frost. The press were all over it already, tipped off by the woman’s solicitor.
Frost assured him he had a witness. Someone had spotted Maria Benson arguing with Curtis on Market Square.
‘Who is this witness?’ Mullett had cornered Frost on his way to interrogate the widow.
Frost looked at the floor. ‘A woman.’
‘Yes, but who, and why has she only now come forward? Did she see the television appeal? A poster?’
Frost fidgeted uneasily.
Very unusual, Mullett thought. Why did he look so shifty? ‘Frost? Who is she?’
‘A lady friend of mine.’
‘I see.’ Now it was Mullett who didn’t know where to look. Personal relationships of this nature were out of his comfort zone; the thought that Frost might have elicited this new information during some idle pillow talk was extremely unpleasant. ‘Well. I hope you’ve got more than that to go on. This could be highly embarrassing.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘How old is Mrs Benson?’
‘Late forties.’
‘And do you suspect her for the murder? It’s a bit obvious, isn’t it? She was very public in her hatred for Rachel Curtis, but just because Mrs Benson was seen arguing with the woman doesn’t mean she’d kill her.’
‘But she has denied that the argument took place – which is suspicious.’
‘Is she up to jumping out of first-floor windows then?’
‘I think it’s well within her capabilities – she’s quite slender and very lively.’
‘Have you found the motorcycle?’
‘No. I’m working on the theory she ditched it after I gave chase.’
Mullett was not convinced. ‘Well, let’s hope something concrete turns up, eh? From where I’m sitting you appear to be randomly pulling in anyone who rides a motorcycle. First Martin Wakely, now Bert Benson’s widow. Evidence, Frost, evidence.’
Maria Benson sat stern and hard-faced in the interview room. Her solicitor, a young chap, fidgeted at her side, looking considerably less composed than his client. He was sweating and red in the face. Admittedly it was a hot airless room but the man was more than mildly uncomfortable. Benson’s obstinacy clearly baffled him; he obviously didn’t think silence was the most effective tactic. If she was innocent, why not speak up? For ten minutes they’d sat there, neither side uttering a word.
‘You ought to loosen your tie,’ Frost offered in a friendly tone of voice.
The solicitor, Smythe was his name, touched his tie self-consciously. Maria Benson glanced over at him – the first time she had acknowledged him.
‘I’m fine, thank you. Though a glass of water would be jol
ly nice.’
Frost swung round on his chair and directed a WPC to fetch him a glass.
‘See, the thing is, when I asked you the first time on Monday whether you’d seen Rachel, you said no. I then discover you did run into her, on your way into Boots to drop off Gary’s holiday snaps. And you had a very public barney. Not the sort of thing you’d forget. Now, what am I to think?’
Smythe focused on her. She must have felt the intensity of his stare. She jolted forward and said, ‘All right, I did see her, what of it? Charge me then and have done with it—’
Smythe leaned across and whispered in her ear.
‘I got an alibi.’
‘Thank heavens for that.’ Frost made a show of pulling out his notebook. The solicitor gave a faint smile. Frost guessed the solicitor had told her that a lack of cooperation on her part might be disadvantageous to her, even if she was proved to be innocent.
‘I was in the pub Saturday night.’
‘Which one?’
The WPC handed Smythe a glass of water.
‘The Cricketers.’
‘Chucking out time is eleven. Did you go straight home?’ Drysdale had estimated Rachel’s time of death at no later than midnight in his final pathologist’s report.
Smythe tapped her hand. This time she bent towards him. Her brows knitted.
Eventually, sitting back and releasing a sigh, she said, ‘I don’t want anyone else getting in trouble here. All right?’
Frost played dumb, and pushed his bottom lip out.
‘It was a lock-in. Don’t go hassling Taff.’ Taff was the Cricketers’ surly Welsh landlord.
‘That’s fine,’ he said jovially, ‘I know Taff, I’m sure he’ll vouch for you.’
‘My son was just back from Spain,’ she added – unnecessarily, he thought.
‘Yes, had fun out there too, apparently. Which reminds me.’ He slid the packet of photographs across the desk. Maria Benson looked bemused for a moment. ‘We’ll leave it there for now. Gives us something to follow up.’ He smiled. ‘But before I go, tell me about your motorbike.’
She frowned again. ‘What do you want to know?’