‘Ahem, yes, sorry about that, force of habit.’
‘You gave Mum a terrible fright.’
Mrs Clarke had screamed her lungs out when Jack Frost had loomed over her in the middle of the night. It was her screams that had woken up mother, child, and probably the entire block. Things had only got worse when Frost started singing ‘We Have All the Time in the World’ and tried to get Granny Clarke into a slow-dance. The poor woman still had not recovered. Though she had tried her best to make light of it this morning, as she stood in the kitchen doorway nursing a coffee, her pale face spoke volumes. She was heading back to Colchester this evening and Sue Clarke feared she might never return. She tried a smile, but her mother did not respond in kind. Instead her gaze, a blend of distaste, curiosity and fear, remained unwaveringly on Frost, bare-chested and busy scratching himself in a most unseemly fashion.
‘The service is at midday. I pick John up at eleven. It’s eight thirty now – I’ve got bags of time.’
‘Uniform should have details of the next of kin of the recently buried in St Mary’s you asked for,’ she said resignedly, ‘if you insist on going in.’
‘Excellent,’ he said through pulling on his new Topman shirt, which was not a pleasant sight. Her mother was wisely busying herself with Philip in the bathroom.
Then it struck Clarke. ‘But remember, you’ve to get ready in time for the ceremony. Look at you! It’s going to take the best part of a morning to get you straight. You need a shave again too … And, seriously, where is your morning suit?’
‘Good question.’ He stood up. ‘Very good question.’
Frost was alert – more with it than he had any right to be, considering how much he’d put away last night. He took a deep breath of fresh morning air as Sue slammed the door behind him. He was pleased to note the weather was fine again. Not something he usually paid much attention to, but today was his pal’s special day. He chuckled as he remembered the previous evening and what the lads had done to Waters. No time to dawdle. He had to put things right with Hornrim Harry; he had a vague sense of a bad dream involving the super. He couldn’t put his finger on the specifics, but he had awoken with some presentiment that left him uncomfortable.
Nevertheless, he bounded down the steps two at a time to reach the ground floor. The exertion shook the dormant alcohol within him. He reached for the stair rail to steady himself. Too late – prickly cold surged through his body and he gagged momentarily. Fortunately he had sufficient presence of mind to lift a nearby dustbin lid before vomiting generously into the metal container. The ripe smell of uncollected rubbish prompted a swift second wave, more violent and eye-watering than the first.
When it was over he felt much better, although parched. He hurried down towards the main road, lifting a milk bottle from a doorstep on the way. He needed a toothbrush. His mind was not necessarily on the impending wedding, but rather on his appointment with Karen Thomas that afternoon at five. He’d thought he’d let the matter go, but he couldn’t. He had to warn her that Hudson had her marked for emptying his safe.
On arrival at Eagle Lane Frost discovered Superintendent Mullett was not there. Nevertheless he had to get into his best man’s attire. His morning suit was hanging up on the back of his office door. Living a transitory existence as he had these last few months, he had prudently chosen to keep anything of importance in the place he spent the most time – at work. He quickly changed, leaving off the tie, which could wait until later. Then he looked down at his shoes. To say that his scuffed brogues could do with a polish was an understatement. He’d tap Bill for a tin of polish and a brush from behind the desk on his way out. Anything else? He patted down his hair. Cigarettes. He reached inside the desk drawer and grabbed a fresh pack. All set. Wait. The ring! The ring was on the fob with his car keys. He reached down, picked up the trousers he’d just removed and emptied out the pockets to reveal … a solitary motorcycle key. Flamin’ hell. The ring would be in the garage with the clapped-out Metro. He had remembered this on Tuesday after the rehearsal, but had been so distracted with the Ben Weaver arrest that he’d clean forgotten to collect it. Never mind, he still had time; he’d make his peace with Hornrim Harry then zip over to the Bull.
But there was still no sign of the superintendent. He walked to the front desk.
‘Traffic problems in town, Bill?’ Frost guessed, as he took the tin of Kiwi shoe polish.
Desk Sergeant Bill Wells shrugged uneasily. Wells was implicated in the traffic foul-up by association with Wally Wallace.
‘Haven’t heard, Jack.’ He checked his wristwatch. ‘Not yet nine, but he’s usually in by eight thirty.’
‘My, my, Bill, you do look smart,’ Frost said, smearing a worn shoe brush with paste, ‘the super will be impressed.’
‘Hmm, it ain’t for him. Want to look proper for John and Kim, don’t I?’ He moved back from the desk and gave his tunic a tug. ‘Does it really show? I even polished the buttons with Brasso last night.’ The desk sergeant was obviously pleased that his effort had not gone unnoticed.
‘You look good enough to eat, lad. Which reminds me, I need some nosh …’ He was starving. They’d not eaten last night and he was still missing the fry-ups at Sue’s. He’d skipped two meals, no amount of nicotine would stave off this hunger. He buffed each shoe in turn, not even bothering to take them off his feet, and replaced the polish and brush on the desk. He slapped his paunch. ‘I need refuelling. Not so much as a cocktail sausage on offer last night.’
‘And we know why that is, Jack,’ Wells bristled. ‘The collection money was used for a present. It was put to the vote.’
‘Hmm,’ Frost sneered. ‘An iron. As if he’ll iron those tatty denims he lives in … Anyway, the canteen beckons.’
‘’Ere, Jack, what’s this I hear about a motorbike?’ Wells leaned across the desk. ‘Your motor will have had the clutch done by this afternoon, and you’ll be getting another pool Sierra any day now.’
‘Fancied one, didn’t I?’
‘What you get?’
‘A Royal Enfield Bullet,’ Frost said proudly.
‘Never ’eard of it, sounds flash, though.’
‘A classic, mate. A steal, too – fella only wanted …’ Frost trailed off, noticing a figure hovering at the desk. The WPC who had ferried him around yesterday. ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said.
‘I’ve got some names for you, Inspector.’
‘Names?’
‘Next of kin? Detective Clarke said …’
‘Ah, just what I was after, let me have a butcher’s …’ Frost snatched the paper from her hand. One name was familiar, and took him by surprise. ‘Well, well, well. I wonder what that could mean?’ Wells’s blank face met his stare. ‘Constable,’ Frost addressed the WPC. ‘Dig a bit deeper on this fellow.’ He handed the slip of paper back. ‘In particular, I’m keen to know whether he has a daughter. Of school age.’ With that he made for the exit.
‘Jack, you’ve duties to attend to. Best man and all that!’ Wells called after him, before adding, ‘What about the super, Jack?’
‘Tell him to get a motorbike to dodge the traffic,’ he said. All interest in the station commander had evaporated and he left the building.
Detective Sergeant Waters stood before his soon-to-be-wife’s full-length mirror. There was something different about his reflection; was it the whistle that was so transformative? He cut a fine figure in a morning suit, even if he did say so himself. The jacket was a shade too tight, but not so you’d notice. He took a swig of water – his head pulsed with dehydration – and regarded the L-plate on the bed. He had little memory of last night, couldn’t recall getting home, but was thankful he had made it back in one piece. He remembered the last Eagle Lane stag do all too clearly – a young copper had woken to find himself padlocked to a lamp-post. Poor blighter had missed his train to Dundee – and thus missed his wedding. A similar fate could have been on the cards for Waters, but he trusted his best man wouldn’t leave him high and
dry. He knew there had to be some benefit to having Jack Frost in the key role, though Kim had argued against it. No, Jack had kept him out of harm’s way … wait, what’s this? He placed the water glass down and stepped closer to the mirror.
‘Fuck a duck.’
Simms was on duty with Miller in an area car, cruising through the Southern Housing Estate. The pair had both been at the knees-up the night before. They were not invited to the wedding itself, but were welcome at the reception when they’d finished their shift, which at this point in time seemed an infinity away.
‘It’s going to be a long day,’ Simms observed, elbow jutting out of the car window. Waifs and strays drifted along the pavement regarding them as though carriers of the plague. ‘Not that I wish them crap weather,’ he said as he flipped down the sun visor, ‘but I could do without another scorcher. The heat with this hangover is going to make this a grim shift – the seat’s already stuck to me back.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Miller and pressed Play on the cassette deck. Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Oh Well’ piped up.
A bare-chested man wearing a scarf knotted round his head was loading a flatbed truck outside a row of council-house garages. There was nothing suspicious in the action other than the man’s haste, which appeared out of kilter with the slow, sultry morning.
‘Hello. Why’s he in such a hurry?’ Simms edged the car slowly towards the truck, but as they had the windows wound down the burst of music alerted the man to their presence. He stopped in his tracks, hesitated, then carefully placed the tins he was holding down on the ground and slowly walked around the front of the vehicle and out of view.
‘Speed up,’ Miller said, his perspiring face growing animated. Simms swung the car in front of the truck. They both leapt out but he’d gone. There was an open garage door.
They looked wildly around.
‘There!’ Simms shouted, pointing down an alleyway. He had caught a glimpse of the man’s white trainers disappearing round the corner at the other end. They exchanged glances then gave chase. Anyone that keen to get away was up to no good.
Simms felt the concrete jar against his feet as he pounded down the alley. Pain shot up through to his knees. Either side were gardens that backed on to the alley; washing lines and potting sheds flashed past. Miller was hard on his heels, breathing fast. The man disappeared into a garden to their right. A child on rollerskates (the man’s son, perhaps?) watched in amazement as the two policemen careened through the back gate.
A woman’s voice cried out, ‘Spike, Spike! No!’
It took Simms several seconds to realize he’d been attacked by a dog. A big one. The animal had knocked him sideways into a plastic slide. Miller kept up the chase. Simms could feel saliva on his face, and was vaguely aware of fangs, but the dog did not bite. He found its collar and threw the beast to one side. He sprang to his feet and, without thinking, kicked it sharply in the ribs with his heavy police shoe to deter a second assault. The dog yelped, and the boy called out, ‘Mummy!’
Simms, getting his bearings, jogged up the garden path to the house after his colleague.
‘Don’t you boys ever knock?’ said a woman at the kitchen sink scornfully as he passed through into the hall to discover Miller in action. He had cornered Martin Wakely, whose escape had been scuppered by a mountain of paint tins blocking the front door.
Simms felt distinctly woozy. Behind him, the woman said, ‘You’ll get a bill for that dog, if you’ve hurt ’im.’
It was the end of her first week back at Eagle Lane. Sue Clarke was thoroughly exhausted, but pleased with herself for pulling it off. She watched her mother patiently change her infant son’s nappy, as he thrashed about irritably.
‘I’ll do this for you today, Susan, but honestly, I’m not sure for how much longer I’ve got the energy. I really need a weekend back at home.’
‘I know, Mum.’ Clarke was repositioning her hat in the mirror. It was Frost’s fault the older woman was so irritable, after disturbing her sleep. He was so irresponsible, everything he did lacked thought and consideration – like declaring CID shut for the day. When questioned whether this was a wise decision his response had been, ‘What is the point of bleepers if not for use in an emergency?’ Not that he ever reacted to his … Still, Clarke was regretting not exiting the flat with him earlier. Her mother had slowly been grinding her down. It was selfish, she knew, but she felt bad enough leaving the baby without her mother complaining too. She commanded herself to stop thinking about it, then said out loud to the mirror, ‘That’ll have to do.’
Clarke turned to face her mother and forced a smile. The other brightened, picking the baby up, who also smiled, content with a fresh nappy.
‘You do look so lovely. Try and catch the bouquet?’
‘I’m not a bridesmaid, Mum.’
‘Well, try and find yourself a man, in any event.’
She kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’d hardly approve if I did – they’re all policemen today.’
They walked to the front door, her mother holding the baby. ‘Enjoy yourself then, the weather has sorted itself out for you.’
Yes, Clarke thought, everything was set for a perfect day.
Mullett hung on to the phone as his wife fussed around him with a thermometer. Having left the office early yesterday, he’d slept like a baby until midnight, but then woken up and had not caught a further wink let alone forty. Anxiety coursed through his every vein, making his extremities tingle unpleasantly. He had decided to check in with the doctor this morning; his fears over his blood pressure had escalated. He’d not felt right since the argument with Frost. How was that barbarian apparently so bullet-proof? ‘Strong as an ox,’ his doctor had pronounced him. Mullett would be happy with the creaking of old age … The phone continued to ring unanswered. Where the devil was everyone?
‘Ahh Wells, Superintendent Mullett here. I shall be in this afternoon. Anything I should know?’ He saw no reason to explain he was under the weather. The desk sergeant proceeded to give an account of Martin Wakely and the council-depot paint.
Wakely. That explained his behaviour earlier in the week.
‘Make sure that paint is restored forthwith to its rightful owners. And I want Frost in my office at four o’clock. Yes, yes, I know about the wedding. The reception will be through by then.’
‘I think it’s mean of them not inviting you,’ his wife said when he replaced the receiver.
‘Nonsense.’ He sniffed, though he knew for a fact that Kelsey, Rimmington’s super, was on the guest list. Did it bother him? Would he have been more lenient on the leave situation had he been invited to the reception? ‘Criminals will not pause in their activity, nor should we,’ he said, thinking of the recovered paint. He was especially pleased with young Simms this week … No, what troubled him through the night was the girl that had cleaned out Michael Hudson’s safe. The woman stood between him and the golf-club chairmanship. He needed her captured. Try as he might, he could not let that rest for another year. Mullett was intuitive enough to know Frost’s prickliness was down to his own feelings about the woman in question.
His wife disturbed his thoughts with a damp flannel.
‘I’m fine, darling, honestly.’
‘I think you ought to go back to bed,’ she said, concerned, ‘and change out of those pyjamas – I’ll fetch a clean pair from the airing cupboard.’
He wasn’t listening. Must he be the one to apologize and back down? Maybe if he was less aggressive, he might get what he wanted more often? But he wasn’t in tip-top condition and it was difficult to be agreeable under such circumstances … If he apologized to Frost (or at least pretended to) they could start afresh with the whole of CID back in the office on Monday. Then again … His mind flipped back to the wedding: why hadn’t he even been invited to the confounded reception, was he really that disagreeable?
Detective Sergeant John Waters stood alone in the saloon bar of the Bull pub in town, across the road from St Mary’s where, in less
than an hour, he was to be wed. That the pub was empty was not a surprise, it was just after eleven and the place had only just opened up. What did surprise him was that he was still on his jack jones; he glanced at his watch again – eleven fourteen. The minutes were whizzing past.
‘Come on, Jack,’ he said quietly to the large Scotch sitting on the beer mat before him. Don’t let me down, pal. He lifted the glass to his lips. The barman gave him a curious look. He’d taken the perhaps rash move of shaving off his other eyebrow. Better to have none than one. Or so he’d decided, in a moment of panic. On reflex he rubbed the patch where the brow should be. Only after he’d done it did it occur to him that his appearance could be considered effeminate … Then, even worse, as he’d been tying his salmon-pink tie in front of the mirror, he’d remembered Jane Hammond’s shaved body lying in the bath. A drag queen or a corpse; either way Kim was in for a big shock. Shock was the wrong word to describe his betrothed’s likely reaction – fury was nearer the mark. Indeed, it would be a toss-up as to what she was likely to be more furious about, his lack of eyebrows or lack of best man.
Friday (2)
Frost waited patiently in the probation service offices’ reception, sipping a cup of tea. He could count the number of times he had visited this sort of place on one hand. It was not his sort of scene: he loathed all manner of officialdom. Just being here made him feel guilty, for some reason.
At least the motorbike had cheered him up, although the sight of all the clogged-up traffic this morning made him think of Wally Wallace. He must have a word with Mullett about that too, when he’d cleared things up. His eyes darted around the waiting area, seeking distraction everywhere, but avoiding the wall clock. He knew he was running late. He hadn’t banked on the man having official appointments (but of course he would!), and he knew he couldn’t simply barge in. The man would get spooked. But come on, he really didn’t have that much time …