‘How old is Miss Roberts, Constable?’
‘Twenty-three.’
Clarke looked at the spines of the handful of paperback books. The trashiness of the collection surprised her: Harold Robbins, Jackie Collins and a host of other ‘bonkbusters’. She would have expected something more upmarket from a schoolteacher, not that she herself had read anything of note since Lord of the Flies. Wedged in between a large ornamental owl and a Jane Fonda workout book she noticed the familiar paper edging of some gig tickets – she herself had a similar pair.
‘I collect owls.’ Roberts had returned to the room.
‘Very sweet,’ Clarke said, although she thought the large owl rather ugly. On the shelf above she took in an array of others of various sizes.
Sitting back down, Clarke pulled out her notebook, and asked a series of standard questions concerning Marie Roberts’s daily routine. There was nothing unusual to report; the young teacher appeared to lead a very ordinary life – it could even be described as boring. She’d moved down recently from Edinburgh and had no real friends in the area. Though pretty, she did her best to hide it. Why anyone would single her out was a mystery to Clarke.
‘I don’t want to press you any further now, miss, but if you think of anything, do let us know. You may be aware that another young teacher was raped outside a Denton pub earlier this week. We’re trying to establish whether we’re after two, or possibly just one, culprit.’
‘Of course.’ She sniffed.
Clarke made to go. ‘One final thing. And please don’t take it the wrong way. But why did you not scream or cry out?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why did you not shout for help? You were within earshot of hundreds of children. Did he threaten you? Or was it because of the way he forced himself on you? Was he excessively violent?’
Marie Roberts looked momentarily dumbfounded. The WPC looked at her uncertainly, unsure what to make of her confusion.
‘Excessively violent?’ she said eventually. ‘Why … yes … he grabbed me here.’ She showed the inside of her wrists.
‘How hard?’ asked Clarke. The pale, almost translucent skin didn’t appear to be marked.
‘Very,’ she said, and pulled her hands back, hugging herself.
‘Did your attacker wear gloves?’
‘Gloves …? I …’ The young woman looked vexed.
Clarke wondered if she might be trying, subconsciously, to blank the event out. She tried a different tack: ‘Have you recently experienced any unwanted attention from men, like obvious chat-ups? Or felt like you were being watched?’
‘Nobody’s even flirted with me,’ she answered, ‘and no one is stalking me, not that I’ve noticed, if that’s what you mean.’
The complete denial did not strike Clarke as odd; the girl was clearly attractive but she dressed so frumpily, she looked like she’d be more at home in a library than out on a date. ‘What about anything less immediately threatening; like the odd crank phone call, that sort of thing?’
She shook her head.
‘OK, that’ll be all. We’ll leave you in peace.’
Whether it was psychological trauma wiping the event from her mind or just an unwillingness to talk, it left them with very little to go on. At the moment the boy’s account was all they had.
Louise Daley dropped her cigarette on the pavement and put it out with a turn of her heel. She was standing beneath a dwindling sycamore canopy on the north side of Market Square, right by Gentlemen’s Walk. She wore a large, shapeless beige raincoat and a tightly tied flowery headscarf over a wig, and she held an enormous man’s umbrella. She checked her watch. As if on cue, a gangly youth in an anorak and a huge hulk of a man in overalls entered Bennington’s Bank from the south side. Pumpy’s info was good.
Again she mentally weighed up the risks of pulling a hold-up on foot – she would be vulnerable, but experience had shown that in a small town like this, a car was nothing but an obstacle and the phrase ‘getaway car’ a misnomer; in Denton last year, it had been the car, a flashy Jag, that had sunk them – it had been so bleeding obvious. No, this was better, she’d slip away unnoticed with the black umbrella affording cover.
About a mile and a half was her judgement of the distance to Gregory Leather on the industrial estate, having scoped out the factory yesterday on her pushbike. It was the first time in nearly a year that Louise had been out so openly in the centre of town. The northern side of the square seemed less grand than she remembered; the storefronts all looked a little tired. She was sure that the dreary haberdashery window display of Aster’s, the department store, was the same as they’d had this time last year. The other side, with its ugly modern buildings boasting branches of Radio Rentals and Woolworths, was certainly the same, except the kids lolling around outside Woolies playing truant with stolen sweets seemed even younger; maybe because she was growing older. She shuffled her feet; the payroll clerk and his minder should be out soon. She locked in on the bank’s entrance. Her decision to come back to Denton was dubious, but if she pulled this off, worth it. When she had called Pumpy to sound out whether she could risk coming back to see her poorly mother she couldn’t believe her luck when he offered her two jobs (on the strict proviso that she flee the country afterwards for six months to a year). He knew she’d done a stint at the Grove so would know how to access the place. Both jobs were a gift – or should have been, if things hadn’t got messed up. Then there was the other matter, which Pumpy knew nothing of; she was pretty sure if he’d known her sights were set on a revenge killing she wouldn’t have got either job – especially if he knew who the intended victim was …
In less than five minutes the pair reappeared from the bank, and there in the big man’s grip, as plain as day, was a banker’s blue cloth sack about the size of two bags of sugar. Well, well. They made off the way they’d come: south, past London Street.
Louise folded her umbrella and placed it in the basket of the bike she’d chained last night to the railings. She pedalled off in pursuit of the Gregory Leather employees, overtaking them on Foundling Street. Foundling Street itself had definitely gone downhill; the pubs had always been rough and ready, but now thanks to the video boom there seemed to be a sex shop on every corner. One of the raincoat brigade stood on the steps of a blacked-out ‘private shop’ as she sped by. The rain had eased to a drizzle and the wheels made a soft hiss on the wet road. She turned into Piper Road, which after half a mile met the junction with Oildrum Lane, where the firm was based. Continuing past, she stopped at the footpath to the Rec, stowed the bike and walked back towards the corner to wait for the hapless men.
Friday (5)
‘… Frost. Frost!’
‘Sir?’
‘Do I have your full attention?’
Frost looked up at Superintendent Mullett standing behind the lectern, firmly gripping his small officer’s stick. His complexion seemed to have acquired a greenish hue. Was he ill?
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘Good. Try to stay with it, there’s a good chap. Now, as I was about to say …’
True, Frost’s focus wasn’t on the ghoulish Mullett, but on the woman two rows in front to his right, the woman who this morning had told him she was pregnant. There she was, head bowed, diligently taking notes. Her hair had been hastily tied back and several strands were escaping on to the nape of her elegant neck. He heard the thwack of the stick on the lectern, causing him to jerk forward suddenly in the cheap orange chair.
‘For heaven’s sake, man, pay attention! Marie Roberts – do we think it’s the same attacker as on the earlier occasion?’
We? Frost couldn’t imagine the super thinking about anything much, other than the sharpness of the crease running down his uniform trousers, or whether his buttons needed a quick polish – certainly not anything relevant to actual casework. ‘Sorry, sir, I’ve not met the victims, but I think it unlikely. Detective Clarke interviewed Miss Roberts.’
‘Clarke!’ Mu
llett snapped. ‘What’s the MO?’
‘The victim on Monday, Joanne Daniels, was forced at knifepoint. Marie Roberts was held firmly by her attacker. Furthermore, Miss Roberts had not received any crank calls before the attack.’
‘Waters,’ Mullett bellowed, ‘the crank calls – has that been reported in the press?’
‘Nope,’ replied the big sergeant in denims. He leaned nonchalantly against the window at the back of the briefing room, drinking a Pepsi through a straw. What a character, Frost thought, smiling to himself. He was pleased that Waters was still in Denton; he was the closest thing he’d had to a friend in a long time. Sadly, he couldn’t say the same for Mullett, now frowning and scratching his moustache, always a sure sign of trouble.
‘So,’ the superintendent said with a sigh, his small stick hanging resignedly by his side, ‘we could have two rapists at large, then.’
‘We could indeed, Super.’ All eyes turned to Frost, waiting for some nugget of insight and wisdom that would help the case along and dispel the tension in the room. ‘Perhaps there’s something in the water.’
Mullett flushed puce. ‘If you’ve nothing constructive to say …’ He gripped his stick hard and with visible effort regained control of his temper. ‘Never mind.’
As well as the bombshell from Clarke, another thing playing on Frost’s mind was the meeting he’d just had with the family solicitor. Apparently there were ‘issues’ that would become clearer at the reading of Mary’s will the following Tuesday. What on earth that was all about he hadn’t a clue. Perhaps it was connected to the fact that Beryl had been trying to call him. He must find a moment to return her call; he’d slipped away from the Simpsons’ unnoticed early this morning so he had yet to apologize for yesterday’s breach of the peace.
Mullett redirected his attention to Waters. ‘Sergeant, what news on the telephone box you’ve spent most of the week observing?’
‘Zero,’ Waters replied. ‘Not a sausage. I’m beginning to think we’ve been given duff info.’
Mullett shook his head despondently. ‘Moving on – Clarke, how about you? Anything to report on the stolen electrical goods at the Rainham warehouse?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How many nights have you been down there?’
‘Three.’
‘Whose hare-brained scheme was this?’ Mullett scanned the room accusingly, his colour rising again. ‘On whose information were you acting?’
Frost lit a cigarette and said nothing.
‘Well, Clarke? Or do you just happen to enjoy spending your evenings lying in fields?’
‘Sergeant Frost had a tip-off, sir.’
‘Did he?’ Frost could feel the super’s beady eyes bearing down on him. ‘Did he, indeed? Well, you ought to know how worthless they are … You’re to cease that futile exercise immediately.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Frost complained. ‘I squeezed that info out of a trusted source …’
‘I don’t care whether you squeezed it out of Princess Diana herself.’ The room erupted in laughter at the super’s unintentional humour, which he barely acknowledged. ‘We don’t have the resources to pursue some half-baked notion, no doubt the result of drinking all night in some seedy den. Just drop it and stop wasting everybody’s time. What of the Baskin shooting, have we any leads?’
‘Not yet,’ Frost said curtly. He wanted to avoid being drawn into a pointless conversation with Mullett, at least until he had something.
‘Nothing at all?’ Mullett pressed.
‘Flamin’ heck – it was only yesterday mor—’
‘We’ve ruled out most of Harry’s immediate circle,’ boomed Waters from the back. ‘It’s not likely to have been any of his card-playing mates, and we’ve interviewed most of the girls who work for him. There’s just one or two who weren’t there at the club last night to check on.’
Frost leaned back in his chair and mouthed the word ‘creep’ at Waters, although he realized it was true – between them they’d eliminated all but one suspect. Waters in return pursed his lips in the form of a kiss.
‘Very good, Sergeant. Now, where is Detective Simms?’ Frost saw the rookie DC lift his arm gingerly. Mullett shuffled his notes. ‘Body parts surfacing on agricultural land – that appears to have made the national headlines, thanks to Sergeant Frost.’
‘Hey, that’s not my fault!’ Frost piped up. ‘That gobby farmer telephoned every hack from here to Timbuktu. Thought I deflected the attention rather well!’
‘Yes, well done, Frost.’ Mullett gave a resigned sigh. ‘I have since deployed a thorough scour of the area from uniform; Simms, you’re handling the CID end – what avenues of enquiry are you pursuing?’
No longer under the super’s gaze, Frost’s attention returned to Clarke. (It was strange how Mullett’s briefings were often the only opportunity he had to think properly.) Could she be seeing Derek Simms again? Bill on the front desk suspected as much. Mullett had dismissed the body parts as low priority, and Simms was now waffling on about the death of a paperboy, but was interrupted by some contradictory information from uniform, sparking an argument and causing the super to bang his stick in fury. Some took this as a cue to leave.
‘Wait, wait!’ Mullett screeched above the hubbub. ‘Remember the roster for computer training over the weekend. Staff are to be made computer compliant, with a debrief on Monday at nine.’
Even this couldn’t dampen the air of relief that pervaded the room as most of them made their escape and headed towards their offices.
‘Bleedin’ computers,’ said Frost to a young blonde WPC sitting next to him, folding away her notebook. She gave a polite smile before swiftly getting up and walking off.
He stood up and lit another cigarette. Clarke glanced back at him as she left the room.
‘Wait,’ he called after her quietly. ‘OK, suit yourself.’
His stomach rumbled angrily. When was the last time he’d eaten? A prawn vol au vent about this time yesterday probably. He checked his watch and found it said 7.45. Blast! He held it to his ear – yes, it had stopped. The wall clock read two. He took the ancient Rotary off and wound it up.
‘Ah Jack, there you are.’ His tubby friend, Detective Constable Arthur Hanlon, entered the briefing room.
‘Funny, Arthur, my stomach rumbles and magically you appear …’
‘There’s been an armed robbery. Gregory Leather on the industrial estate – their weekly wages nabbed at gunpoint.’
‘When?’
‘Half hour ago. There’s a man down too. A factory worker took two bullets. And the attacker took a pot-shot at a passerby.’
‘Blimey, it’s all kicking off – shootings left, right and centre!’ Frost pushed the plastic chairs out of the way and exited the room at pace, Hanlon lumbering behind him.
‘The gunman … was a woman …’ Hanlon puffed, struggling to keep up.
‘You’re kidding?’ Frost stopped in his tracks; his immediate thought was of the Baskin hit – surely it must be the same woman.
‘How old?’
‘Not sure – report has it she was in disguise.’
It was more than coincidence, Frost thought – but Baskin’s office had been littered with cash and his attacker hadn’t touched a note. Why would she then go out and commit armed robbery?
‘Better rally the troops, then,’ he said finally.
‘That’s not all.’ Hanlon pursued him down the corridor.
‘Really? Well, it can’t be anything more dramatic than that.’ Frost pushed open his office door to discover the computer man in the lab coat on his hands and knees beneath his desk. ‘Go on, then, what else?’ Frost asked Hanlon, grabbing his overcoat and hunting for his wallet; he simply had to eat at some point soon.
‘Your mother-in-law called again. She got me this time. Their expensive painting has been nicked.’
‘You what? When?’
‘Well, they didn’t notice it until about ten this morning when they started clearing up, but
they reckon it was done last night. Right under their very noses.’
‘Bloody hell. Now we really are in trouble.’
Frost took a deep breath as he entered the main CID office. The fact that he could joke about the theft of his in-laws’ prize possession felt good. With the funeral behind him, a weight had been lifted, and the time was right for a team chat. Fortuitously, thanks to the afternoon briefing, most of CID and uniform casework staff were still at Eagle Lane.
‘Right, everyone.’ He clapped his hands and stood on the office threshold. ‘Events are mounting up; on top of everything else, we now have an armed robber … but before we go any further, I’d like to say a few words.’ He surveyed his audience. Paperwork was put aside and conversations died. ‘I think it’s fair to say I’ve been distracted for the best part of this week – longer, in fact – with personal difficulties.’ Heads were shaken and mutterings made to the contrary, but he held up his hand to silence any further comment. ‘Let me finish; you’re a great bunch, and I thank you for your support – but I’m back in action and you have my full and undivided attention, such as it is.’
This remark was greeted with a round of applause, sparked, he thought, by Waters.
‘Enough …’ Frost hated sentiment, and whilst glad to have acknowledged his predicament himself, he was keen to move on. ‘Now, Arthur, you took the call from Control – what’s the situation regarding this armed robbery?’
‘Uniform are already on site, and area cars have all roads out of Denton covered, plus the surrounds with the assistance of Rimmington Division. The female gunman got away clean, on foot.’
‘OK, we’d better get someone from CID down there. There’s some juggling to be done …’ Frost mulled over the options. ‘Mullett is on my back about the rape, so Waters and Clarke, stick with it. Simms, what you on?’
‘The dead paperboy, and there’s the missing persons routine to go through – and I was first on the scene at Bask—’
‘Drysdale got back to you yet on the boy?’
‘No.’ Simms dragged on a cigarette. ‘Tomorrow morning.’