Mullett had not forgotten the weekly Monday-afternoon slot, and nodded resolutely.
‘Anyway, that’s not the reason I’m here.’ Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to the super to wonder why Winslow had even bothered turning up, having missed the IRIS briefing. ‘No, the reason I came was to congratulate Frost on his promotion.’
‘Ah, I’m glad you brought that up, Nigel.’
‘Oh, problems?’ The eyebrow went up again.
‘The murder of DC Simms was practically on Frost’s doorstep.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I thought it imprudent to promote Sergeant Frost while there’s a shadow over him—’
‘A shadow? How do you mean? He’s not under suspicion, is he? You just told me you have a suspect, this Daley woman?’
Mullett speculated idly as to why some bald men’s heads were as shiny as polished marble and others not, as the midday sun pierced through the Venetian blinds and struck his superior’s endless forehead.
‘Well, as you say, we’ve yet to catch her. I just thought it prudent to …’ The superintendent was aware of his own contradictions as he tied himself in knots; he sensed defeat.
‘Thought what? Piffle. Call him in now.’
Mullett hesitated, then picked up the phone. ‘Engaged,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Come on, don’t be so curmudgeonly; he deserves it and you know it. Do it, Stanley,’ Winslow said sternly. ‘Anyhow, I must be away.’ He rose to leave. ‘By the way, talking of Simms, it’s a strange coincidence, but your one new recruit in uniform is a Simms. I signed the papers, just the other day. Perhaps they’re related?’
‘Perhaps. Very good, sir. See you soon.’ Though hopefully not that soon, he thought, smiling tightly.
There was no ‘perhaps’ about it; when he visited the deceased’s parents in Lexton a brave and proud father informed Mullett that his second son was on his way to Eagle Lane, and pressed him not to allow the same fate to befall him. ‘Look after my boy,’ the man demanded from the doorstep. Mullett frowned at the recollection. This was the last thing he needed, a relative to feel responsible for, and what if the lad now had a vendetta to let loose on Denton?
‘Bingo!’ Frost slammed down the phone. ‘We’ve got a fix on our man. Dorset police will intercept the truck on the outskirts of Bournemouth, having lured an unsuspecting Tricky Whiskers to give himself away over the radio.’
‘How do you mean?’ Waters asked.
‘Mister Whiskers is back on air and gloating across the airwaves while the princess is sleeping. Dorset police have requested what’s known as an “eyeball” – a butcher’s to you and me – and consequently have got a fix on their location.’
The phone rang again. But Waters could tell Frost’s mind was in Dorset.
‘Shall I get that?’ he offered.
‘Hell, no. We’re going on a road trip.’
‘What, now? They haven’t caught them yet.’ It was close to twelve thirty; Waters baulked at the prospect of tooling down the motorway with Frost all fired up at the wheel of the new Sierra. He’d much rather wait until the Dorset plods held her – if indeed they caught her – before going anywhere.
‘So?’ Frost snapped. ‘We should get our skates on so we can make sure she doesn’t slip through their fingers, like she did through ours last year.’
Waters acquiesced, knowing Frost’s fixation with the Daley girl. Reluctantly he pulled on his denim jacket and, feeling chilly at the prospect of what lay ahead, swathed his neck in the long multicoloured scarf Kim had knitted him for his birthday. It was going to be a long and probably cold afternoon.
‘Nice scarf,’ Frost joshed, his mood visibly improved since the ordeal with Mullett and the computer. ‘Who’re you aspiring to be, Doctor Who or Orinoco Womble? All you need’s the floppy hat.’
‘You’ – he poked Frost in the back as they left the office – ‘are in no position to say anything, dressed like some hairy reject elf … and an out-of-season one at that. The Doctor, for your information, has traded his scarf for a stick of celery; and on that note we’re stopping for food before we hit the motorway.’
‘Good idea!’ Frost grinned. ‘I’ll get Control to send an area car to the Codpiece and put our order in, as we’re heading that way – we can have some fish and chips en route.’
Charles Pierrejean’s stomach rumbled not with nerves but with genuine hunger. He and his business associate Gaston Camus had been sitting in the poorly lit room – there were no windows – with only a small lamp on the low glass table in front of them, and a dim green glow above one of the pair of snooker tables, for the best part of two hours, waiting for the arrival of Martin ‘Pumpy’ Palmer, the man who had ‘urgently’ requested their company.
When their black Mercedes pulled up Charles was initially relieved to see a familiar neon sign, the cigar-smoking penguin with cue nattily held between its flippers, and not some cowshed in a field where, in his vivid imagination, British villains did away with problems. However, upon entry to the club he was perturbed to find it shut until the evening and the place deserted – devoid of a living soul including their host, Palmer himself. Where was he?
The clack of snooker balls in the far corner of the room drew Charles’s attention back to their two companions, the tall man and the driver, and not for the first time Charles considered just standing up and leaving. But fear prevented him from acting; what if the door were locked or the tall man moved to block them, then … then he would know it was serious. Thus far, a veneer of cordiality existed: Palmer had sent his apologies; drinks had been offered and consumed.
The door opened silently, allowing daylight to enter from the club foyer. Gaston fidgeted uneasily beside Charles on the leather couch. No sooner had the rectangle of light appeared than it was eclipsed by the rotund silhouette of the club owner himself. At last. Charles had decided that the best approach was to deny everything – he was French after all.
‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Palmer wheezed. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting – had to visit the hospital.’
‘Oh, nothing serious, I hope?’ Charles asked in spite of himself.
‘Nah.’ The big man slipped down into a chair on the other side of the glass table. ‘Just extending good wishes to a friend. Robert, turn the lights on, for heaven’s sake.’ Palmer took a drinks tumbler that was handed to him from behind. ‘Cheers.’ The cut glass twinkled in the grateful podgy fist. ‘Now then, what’s all this about funny money?’
‘Je ne comprends pas. I am sorry, I do not understand.’
‘C’mon, Chaz.’ Palmer leaned forward. ‘Don’t play the innocent Frog with me.’
Charles could only just make him out – his stooge having still not turned up the lighting. He shook his head in ignorance.
‘Yes, you do understand. Young Louise got nabbed by a pair of rozzers at a petrol station, and she called you at that poncy little antiques shop you two front. Am I wrong?’
‘Yes, she did call … but I didn’t understand,’ Charles bluffed. Only now did he wonder what had happened to her. He had presumed she was already in police custody – why else would he be here?
‘I like you, Chaz, don’t get me wrong. You might dress like a noofter, but I’m a progressive sort of bloke in the modern business arena. But one thing I can’t abide is lies. I don’t put up with them from people round here, like Harry Baskin, and I certainly won’t have them from a pair of garlic-munchers like you.’
‘C’est quoi un “noofter”?’ Gaston whispered in Charles’s ear, not being familiar with English hoodlum vernacular. Charles silenced him with a light touch to the forearm.
‘Mr Palmer, why would I lie to you? We are both men of business, ourselves recently arriving in Denton to set up an honest antiques business – art and collectibles. Like you, we are men of culture. Why would we dabble in matters of fraud? Let alone the mademoiselle.’
Palmer sighed. ‘Don’t give me that old pony – you’ – he pointed at him with a stubby
finger – ‘were poking her.’
Charles wrinkled his nose in an involuntary gesture of disgust.
‘And you probably knew she was short of a bob or two.’
‘We did meet, that much is true. I am, believe me, very fond of Lou— Miss Daley, but I was not aware of her financial—’
Before Charles completed his sentence a soft thud, such as is made by a heavy cushion when dropped to the floor, accompanied the sight of Palmer slumping forward on to the glass table.
‘Enough of this romantic bollocks,’ the tall man said as the lights were finally turned up. Gaston emitted a tiny squeak. ‘Right, you two, pick him up.’
‘How?’ Gaston exclaimed in shock.
‘Don’t argue – pick him up and put him on the table.’ Charles and Gaston both looked at the prone man sagging across the tiny glass table. ‘Not that table – that one.’ He pointed towards the snooker table where the driver of the Mercedes appeared to be a laying a sheet of stainless steel. Another man appeared with two very large sports bags and pulled out two sizeable sheets of polythene.
‘But ’e is so big,’ Gaston said, drawing Charles’s attention back to the unconscious club owner.
The tall man stopped and considered, as if for the first time taking in Palmer’s true size. ‘Trev, you’ll have to give these guys a hand – we don’t want to make a mess of the carpet.’ He smiled and produced something that glinted from within his overcoat.
Charles felt himself go white with fear.
Monday (4)
‘Sit down, Detective.’ Mullett smiled broadly; he’d always liked Clarke – for a woman she was quite acceptable. ‘Frost? Any ideas where he might be?’
‘He’s on his way to Bournemouth, sir.’
‘Bournemouth?’
‘After a suspect.’
‘Ah yes.’ Mullett stroked his moustache thoughtfully. He’d caught wind of this development and had heard the crunching of gears in the car park as he’d closed the door on Winslow. ‘Jolly good, let’s hope we get a result pronto. Now then, I believe the rape case has been assigned to …’ He tapped a forefinger delicately on the computer keyboard and waited. He rocked back in his executive leather chair and looked expectantly at the blank monitor before him. Nothing. Then a groan was emitted by the grey box, as though the machine were straining with all its might, then a light started to wink frantically on the console, followed by a stream of green binary code shooting across the screen. ‘Christ alive,’ he mumbled to himself. Clarke leaned over the desk to try to get a peek. Mullett retaliated by twisting the monitor round further towards him. ‘Security, Clarke. You don’t have clearance for this level.’ He tutted.
Clarke sat back, unperturbed. ‘Sergeant Frost has assigned me to follow up the Marie Roberts case, if that’s any use?’
‘Good, good. I just had an earful from the ACC, who fortunately hadn’t heard about Sergeant Waters’ bungling of … Anyway, that’s no concern of yours.’ He stopped himself, then said, ‘Well, I imagine the reassignment of Detective Simms’s caseload has yet to be logged … That would be it.’ He looked suspiciously at the machine that refused to give him an answer.
He noticed Clarke bow her head at the mention of Simms, which triggered a thought: was it her who had a thing with him, or was it that Myles, the blonde who wore her skirts too short? ‘Shame about Simms. Promising lad,’ he said pointedly, at which she smiled. ‘Still, I gather we’re to get his brother.’
‘His brother?’
Mullett consulted his notepad, having followed up the ACC’s mention that a relative of Simms was coming to Eagle Lane. ‘Yes, Charlie – no, David – starts in uniform tomorrow.’
The girl looked thoughtful.
‘So can we expect progress with the Roberts case very soon?’
‘Yes, sir, we’re on the cusp – we’re investigating a likely explanation for the Marie Roberts incident. Though I’m not sure it immediately resolves the attack last Monday,’ she said hesitantly.
But Mullett didn’t care to split hairs – to clear up one would get the ACC off his back; solving two would be too much to hope for. ‘Well, press on. Keep up the good work, Susan. And let me know the minute we make an arrest. Understood?’ he said keenly. ‘Send in Miss Smith on your way out, please.’
Disinterestedly he watched the girl’s curvaceous rear leave the room. Sighing, he turned his attention to the now-dormant machine in front of him. If this blasted system wasn’t going to work there was no hope of him nailing Frost on account of him not following procedure. He banged the side of the grey box in frustration.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ Miss Smith appeared anxiously in front of his desk.
‘Yes. Blasted machine doesn’t work.’
‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what Colin says.’
‘Who the blazes is Colin?’ he said, vexed.
‘The young gentleman who installed the computers. Or there’s a helpdesk number – would you like it?’
Mullett stared at the useless flickering screen; all he could see was a horizon strewn with problems and pointless, timewasting nonsense, and all the while the clear-up stats list growing ever longer.
Louise played with her food; a transport café fry-up this late in the day was not particularly appetizing, and watching the way her companion mopped up his fried egg with a piece of bread did nothing to encourage her to eat, even if it had been hours since her last meal. But she wasn’t about to grumble when Whiskers was picking up the tab, given her quandary about dipping into her own cash – what if she brought out another fake? Would the staff out here be aware of fraudulent notes in circulation? Possibly not, but there was no point risking it – especially not in a roadside café where there was always the chance of coppers pulling in, as before.
‘Another cuppa?’
She nodded and smiled. ‘Whiskers’, as he was known, was all right, despite being rough around the edges; he had woken her ever so gently for fear of startling her when they had pulled over just outside Bournemouth, suggesting they stop for food.
She had been encouraged by her telephone call to Charles – he was mystified as to the fake notes but was willing to help. If she had to skip the country because of trouble, he had given her a name and address to call on in Calais. Funny he didn’t question what sort of trouble she might be in … Pumpy, on the other hand, was guarded and difficult to read over the telephone; he said he’d check out Pierrejean. What that entailed she didn’t quite know, but deep down she felt he’d lost patience with her and thought her too much of a liability. Fair enough, he could be forgiven for thinking that. She lit a cigarette. Whiskers had stopped to engage in conversation with two scruffy men in denims; other truckers, most likely. She snorted at their grubby appearance; personal hygiene was clearly low on their priority list. One had greasy and limp blond hair, and the other looked like he could do with a good scrub. Still, underneath the grunge there was something oddly attractive about them.
Whiskers headed for the loo, and the two men, who looked to be in their mid-twenties, made their way over to her table.
‘Hi there, mind if we join you?’ the fair-haired one asked.
‘Sure,’ she said, and slid over in the booth. They apparently had no food or drink with them – lecherous pair, only interested in one thing, she thought. ‘Where you guys heading?’
‘To the nick – with you, sweetheart.’
In an instant her face was slammed down into the plate of cold baked beans and her arm twisted behind her back so hard the pain produced the unfamiliar sensation of tears.
Clarke waited outside the school gate. Most of the children had gone; there were just a few left monkeying around by the bike sheds, tossing a lit cigarette around. It was the same in her day – the same bunch who were reluctant to go to school in the morning were the same ones who were in no hurry to leave at the end of the day. She herself had been a latchkey kid. The first of
the teachers began to leave, in a red 2CV followed by a pale blue Morris Minor. Marie did not drive to the school – Clarke knew that from her interview on Friday. Clarke got out of the car in anticipation, slipping on her sheepskin – it was getting chilly as the afternoons disappeared more quickly now.
Clarke mused on the fact that Derek’s brother would be joining them at Eagle Lane. She didn’t even know he had a brother. Leaning against the car, it occurred to her she hadn’t really known Simms at all – perhaps it would have been hasty to rush into marriage off the back of her predicament. She’d never know now.
Marie Roberts emerged from the main school entrance along with a young colleague. The pair paused on the steps laughing, she touching his forearm. Then the man, who was bearded and wore a tweed jacket with elbow patches, noticed Clarke leaning against the car and watching them. His smile vanished, prompting Marie to look in her direction. The pair said goodbye and the man scurried off to the staff car park.
Marie walked slowly but deliberately, clutching schoolwork to her chest. ‘Hi,’ she said with an affected air of surprise that instantly got Clarke’s back up.
‘Hi, Marie, how are you?’
‘Bearing up, getting along, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Clarke said abruptly, causing Marie to frown in puzzlement. ‘Mind if we take a stroll together?’
‘No problem.’
‘How was your weekend?’
‘Quiet. Your colleague came by on Saturday to check up on me. I must say, you’re very kind to take so much care.’
Clarke stopped in her tracks. ‘It’s not so much that we care, Miss Roberts – it’s more that we suspect you’re not telling us the whole truth.’ She deliberately did not use the word ‘lie’, although that’s what she meant. Clarke had learned early on that an indirect statement could work wonders and avoided hysterical accusations.
‘About what?’ the teacher asked, the cold afternoon chilling her breath.