Mrs Simpson shook her head, mouthing ‘no’. Despite a chink of light the shutters remained down; she didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. Instead she removed a bag of ice from a built-in freezer and poured a healthy measure of Scotch into the cut-glass tumbler. He could never charm the old bruiser. He was itching for a cigarette, but knew the Simpson household was one place where smoking was strictly forbidden. He realized he’d get nowhere until he had Mary to himself, whenever that might be. And what then?
He decided to change his tack. ‘I saw old Father Lowe today.’
‘Father Lowe?’ A flicker of interest passed across the tired eyes. Beryl Simpson poured herself an equal measure and left the bottle uncapped. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing much. Someone’s been nicking the lead off the church roof.’ Frost mustered a smile. ‘A roofer, naturally enough … or he was.’
‘Some things never change,’ Beryl Simpson said, pulling up a kitchen chair, ‘they’ve been stealing lead off that church since before the war.’
‘The good father asked after you,’ he lied.
‘Did he?’ she replied. ‘Well, it was only the other day I was at St Jude’s – after Easter …’
‘We talked about Mary, mostly,’ he fabricated, confident that she was too preoccupied to question his veracity, ‘about when she was a teenager.’
‘A teenager?’ Beryl Simpson’s pencilled eyebrows moved upwards to meet a raft of forehead creases.
‘Said she was a smashing kid,’ Frost gabbled on, shifting uncomfortably against the kitchen work surface – he’d have killed for a cigarette – ‘but got mixed up in some sort of a teenage cult.’
Mrs Simpson said nothing.
Frost continued, ‘Yes, a bunch of girls messing around with witchcraft. I can’t imagine it got that far, myself. Though for one girl it ended tragically …’
Beryl Simpson moved to the bag of ice on the counter that now sat in a growing pool of water and banged it to loosen the cubes with a ferocity that made Frost jump. Slowly and methodically she fixed herself a refill.
‘Tell me … William,’ she said slowly, turning to face him with a look filled with malice. ‘Or is it “Jack”? … Tell me honestly that you’re not here on business. This evening. Now.’
Frost felt his throat seize up.
‘Yes,’ she said spitefully, ‘here you are – good old “Jack” Frost from Denton CID – asking questions about my daughter, your wife. Not about how … how she is … or your sham of a marriage, but obscure questions about what she got up to twenty years ago. A witch! Have you no shame?’
Frost reached for his cigarettes and moved towards the door, but the vision in the doorway stopped him dead.
‘The School of the Five Bells,’ Mary Frost said.
Thursday (1)
FROST PULLED UP behind a panda car. He was clearly the latecomer to the scene; Maltby’s old Hillman was already there, next to an ambulance.
Frost had waited nearly an hour for DS Waters at Eagle Lane, but at ten to nine had given up. He should have arranged to pick him up at Fenwick Street. He’d telephoned but there was no reply. Cheeky sod has overslept, Frost thought – up all night humping, no doubt. He tried to smile but found it only brought him close to tears – if it wasn’t for the hangover from last night’s bottle of Black Label keeping him together he felt sure he’d crack.
Is Mary all right? The thought he was trying to ignore kept piercing his consciousness, making him shudder every time. As a distraction, he tried to focus on what she’d said about the teenage ‘witches’, or the School of the Five Bells, as she had referred to them, but the tired look of Beryl Simpson resurfaced in his mind, pushing everything else out of the way.
On reflection he thought his mother-in-law looked drained. Was something up? No, she was probably going through ‘the change’. He should have insisted Mary came home. If anyone’s really knackered, it’s me, he thought.
Frost gripped the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. ‘Right, son. Keep it together,’ he said to himself, lighting a cigarette before getting out of the car.
The area was cordoned off and police tape flickered in the early-morning breeze. The white van, complete with its macabre cargo, stood in the middle of the Pink Toothbrush car park, front and rear doors open. So, he thought, here’s where it’s all happening this week; Clarke being stabbed, his own late-night vigil after the soliciting accusations, and now this. Harry Baskin was giving a statement to PC Jordan, gesticulating angrily with his cigar. He caught Frost’s eye but the detective decided he could wait.
He did a reconnoitre of the scene. As indicated by the earlier complaints about soliciting, the car park was overlooked by the flats at Baron’s Court. Uniform would carry out a door-to-door, though he bet when it came to something this important those nosy bleeders wouldn’t have seen a thing.
Frost wandered over to the crime scene, a white Bedford van. The dishevelled Maltby emerged from the rear, and two Forensics officers in boiler suits exchanged remarks with him before climbing in. Frost glanced inside briefly, taking in the poles and brushes – a chimney sweep’s van, as the caller, Harry Baskin, had explained down the phone to a half-asleep Sergeant Johnny Johnson at seven o’clock this morning.
‘Ah, Sergeant Frost. Good morning to you,’ Maltby said.
‘Doc,’ Frost nodded. ‘The sun’s out, so it can’t all be bad.’
‘Yes, it seems the fine weather has returned after yesterday’s deluge.’ The crumpled doctor looked around him appreciatively. Frost peered into the van cabin before being ushered away by Harding, the senior Forensics officer; the cab had yet to be dusted for prints.
‘What have we got, then?’ Frost asked Maltby, lighting a cigarette.
‘Male, mid sixties.’
‘Dead?’
‘Very.’
‘Not here to try out Harry’s new massage parlour, then?’
‘It would take more than a rub-down from one of the ladies to bring him back.’ Maltby sniffed. ‘Been dead at least a full day – thirty-six hours or so.’
Frost moved to the front of the van and noticed the windscreen wipers were stuck in mid-sweep. The only rain in the last week had been yesterday afternoon. ‘You sure about that?’
‘That’s as accurate an approximation as I can give in the field,’ Maltby said, removing his gloves. ‘Rigor has passed. The corpse is softening.’
‘That’s good enough for me, Doc. Garrotted, wasn’t he?’
‘No, stabbed through the throat, though by what it’s hard to say. I’m satisfied that it didn’t happen in the van; there would have been a tremendous amount of blood, much more than is in there, so I would hazard he was murdered elsewhere and dumped here.’
Frost looked in the back again and waved at one of the Forensics men.
‘Fancy a video cassette player?’ he muttered, seeing half a dozen assorted machines stacked in the back.
‘Not in the slightest – I don’t own a television set.’
‘Wise move,’ Frost said, taking in the severed leads poking out of the VCRs. Was the man a thief on the side, he wondered? He stepped back to allow the Forensics officer out. ‘All filth and corruption, Mrs Whitehouse would have us believe.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Maltby muttered. ‘Anyway, as I say, the man’s been dead at least twenty-four hours, killed by a wound to the neck.’
Frost clambered into the back of the Bedford and opened the dust sheet to reveal a dead man in overalls, mouth wide open, guppy-like. Extraordinary: a dead chimney sweep found with half a dozen stolen VCRs in a massage-parlour car park. He scratched his head thoughtfully.
‘Don’t suppose there was an appointment book helpfully left behind?’ Frost called out to Harding who he could see through the open doors removing his rubber gloves. The Forensics officer shook his head. Frost thought that would be too good to be true. They’d have to find some other way to trace the sweep’s movements.
‘Frost? Where
are you?’ a voice called from beyond the police tape.
‘Here.’ Frost climbed out of the van.
‘This ain’t good.’
Frost turned to face a worried-looking Harry Baskin. ‘Morning, Harry. You look troubled.’ A Chinese girl hovered behind the gangster like a diminutive shadow.
‘Somebody’s got it in for me,’ Baskin rasped, toking deeply on his cigar, gold-ringed knuckles glinting in the May sun. ‘First the bird getting cut on Monday, now this …’ He flicked ash dismissively in the direction of the van.
‘Popular bloke like you, Harry?’ Frost said. ‘Can’t see it myself.’
‘Don’t get smart. Someone’s trying to shag up my new business. Palmer, I reckon – always had it in for me.’
Martin ‘Pumpy’ Palmer – Frost knew him, a wide-boy wheeler-dealer from Rimmington. ‘The Pump? Not his style. No, I doubt it, not unless the pair of you are trying to muscle in on the chimney-sweep business.’
Baskin shrugged.
‘A sweep with a side line in VCRs,’ Frost added.
‘He could have the whole of Rumbelows in there for all I care. I want him shifted, pronto. How long are your lot going to be here? We open at eleven.’
‘Keep your hair on, they’ll be done soon,’ Frost said, watching Forensics lift the body from the van. Baskin’s Chinese companion looked nervously down as Frost made eye contact with her. She was slight, but very cute. Must pay the parlour a call, he thought – if he ever had time, that is.
‘I thought it was strictly a nocturnal establishment?’ Frost enquired.
‘Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays we open at eleven, for Denton’s ladies of leisure who want a bit of pampering, and all that.’
‘What does a “pampering” involve?’ His gaze still lingered on the girl.
‘Nails.’
‘Nails?’
‘Yeah, you know, fingers and toes.’
‘Oh.’ He was pretty sure the drunks he saw on Tuesday night weren’t after a manicure. Still, he didn’t have time for that now.
‘Good.’ Baskin coughed, looking at Forensics packing up. ‘Let me know if I can assist with your enquiries in any way. Any way at all.’ He grinned. ‘I try to look after you coppers where I can.’
‘A pillar of the community you are, Harry. My superintendent was saying so only the other day.’
‘Mullett?’ Baskin raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Queer one, him. Saw him at the golf club yesterday. Horrible business, that. Got your hands full at the moment, ’aven’t you? I’d best let you get on then.’ He made to leave.
‘We let your lad go, Mark Fong,’ Frost said.
‘Wondered where he’d got to,’ Baskin said. ‘His uncle must have pressed him to come forward. Any use to you?’
‘Nope,’ Frost said. ‘I don’t know what sort of deal you’ve struck with him, but I’ll be watching out for that lad.’
‘If he doesn’t like it, he knows the alternative – the first slow boat back to China.’
Baskin clearly couldn’t give two hoots about the welfare of his staff, and Frost was determined to be true to his word and keep an eye on them. Of more pressing concern to the gangster was why a murdered man had been left in his car park. And a good question it was, Frost thought. Why here?
‘Harry, one final thing,’ Frost called out. Baskin stopped and faced him. ‘I’m sure you’ve already given PC Jordan a statement, but bear with me a sec. The body was wrapped in dust sheets in the back of a Transit van, in an empty car park, left some time in the last twenty-four hours. When did you first notice it? What prompted you to break into it?’
‘Bastard was in my space. Couldn’t park in it this morning when I arrived.’
‘Of course, fair enough.’
‘And I didn’t break in – it was unlocked.’ Baskin turned his back and made for the old laundry, the girl scurrying along behind him.
‘Morning, guv.’ PC Jordan had appeared at Frost’s side as Baskin and the Chinese girl disappeared inside the building.
‘Morning, son. So, the van was open, then?’
‘Yes, and keys were in the ignition. Pardon me, sir, but on a different subject, I’ve just had a message from Control. DS Waters’ motor was done over last night. Tyres slashed – he had to walk to the nick, and he left the keys at the garage next door.’
‘Flamin’ hell. I wondered where he was this morning.’
‘Also, Mr Mullett would like an update on the burglaries.’
‘Burglaries? Sod his posh mates’ cut glass – I’ve got two dead kids and Dick Van Dyke here to deal with.’
Frost looked at his watch – 10 a.m. This new body had really thrown him off course. That was the job, though, and he knew it. And now he’d have to go to the lab yet again, on top of everything else.
St Mary’s School for Girls was out towards Rimmington. Right, he thought, I’d better get my skates on. School first, see my old mate the headmistress, then stop and see Drysdale about the sweep, then I’ve got the Hardys arriving at the station, and Mullett wants an update this afternoon. In between all that he had to type up the Ellis report. Before he even started he’d have to get back to the station to pick up Waters because his car had been vandalized. What next? Flaming hell, this week was getting complicated, all right.
Simms had arrived at his desk at just gone eight thirty. He’d left Waters to lie in – he knew John had been out on the tiles, not that the nightlife here had that much to offer, as far as Derek Simms was concerned.
He rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully and considered the stacks of files on the desk in front of him, and which pile to tackle first. If he could crack these bloody muggings he’d score points with Mullett and could then get on with something more meaty. There was plenty to go around, and Simms wanted a piece of it.
Still, first things first. There was literally daylight robbery occurring on the streets of Denton, and it needed to be sorted. But was he any closer to a breakthrough? Would a disgruntled paperboy hold up his own employer? No, it was just too obvious. He scratched his head and reached for his cigarettes. He didn’t have much time; Clarke had just called to say that Frost had also assigned her to the woods expedition, and that she’d meet him in an hour. She was stopping first at the bookshop on Market Square to buy an Ordnance Survey map, as per the DS’s instructions. She sounded stroppy as hell. Whatever it was he had once seen in her, that seemed a distant memory now. Frost was welcome to the moody cow. She nearly bit his head off when he asked if she’d checked out the Scout leaders about their troop movements last weekend as Frost had asked. Myles was going to take her own car and meet them there.
He sighed at all the files on his desk. On the left were files of all known juvenile offenders from the last eighteen months; and to his right were Clarke and Myles’s list of kids expelled in the current school year and their personal files. Simms drew heavily on the stale Rothmans he’d found – one left behind by Frost – and frowned; the tedious task of cross-referencing lay before him.
Maybe he could just grab a gyppo off the Bath Road site and have done with it? The thieving baskets were always nicking stuff, so who would argue? Mullett would certainly back him and Frost had other things on his mind.
‘Morning,’ Waters said flatly, and the sight of him caused Simms to almost choke on his cigarette in shock.
‘Bloody hell, what happened to you!’ Waters’ right eye was badly swollen.
‘Tripped over,’ he said dismissively, lighting up a JPS.
‘Come off it,’ Simms said. ‘A shiner like that. Someone’s given you a pasting.’
Waters shrugged. ‘Any word from Frost? I was supposed to meet him here at eight. Had a spot of car trouble.’
Simms looked at the wall clock. It was gone nine. The police accommodation was little more than a five-minute walk away. ‘What – did you push it to a garage, or something?’
Waters waved off answering.
‘What happened?’ Simms insisted, determined to elicit some proper answ
ers. There was clearly something very wrong. ‘OK, let me guess. You were out with a bird last night. A white bird.’
Waters winced in pain as he gradually lowered himself into his chair.
‘Denton isn’t exactly the cosmopolitan melting-pot you’re used to. The only place people see a face like yours is on The Black and White Minstrel Show and on marmalade jars.’
‘And on Love Thy Neighbour,’ Waters added wryly.
‘Yeah, exactly. It’s fine so long as it’s on the other side of the TV screen. Hope she was worth it. Are you OK?’
‘It’s not that bad. This’ – he pointed to his eye – ‘was from the kerb—’
‘Time to sit around and chat, have we?’ Superintendent Mullett suddenly loomed before them, his uniform as impeccable as ever. Just looking at him made Simms feel he needed a bath.
Simms reached to pick up the phone, thinking now would be an appropriate time to wheel the mugging victims in to trawl through the photo files. ‘Excuse me, sir, urgent call to make,’ he said, flicking hurriedly through his notepad as he tried to find the estate agent’s phone number, leaving Waters to chew the fat with Mullett.
Thursday (2)
CHRIS EVERETT WAS at his wits’ end, and hadn’t slept a wink on Wednesday night. After his initial feelings of outrage at having been mugged by a bunch of kids – the jab with the knife was nothing, barely a scratch – panic swiftly ensued. Clearly, given what was in the briefcase, he needed to completely detach himself from the crime, and of all the rotten luck, it was witnessed by a plainclothes copper, just passing in the street. To cap it all, DC Simms from Denton CID had just requested he come in to go through photos and maybe even a line-up, along with ‘other unfortunates’, as the detective called them. Well, none of them was as bloody unfortunate as him, he thought, sipping his fourth coffee of the day.
Originally he thought that placing the video recorders in the chimney sweep’s van was a good idea, a great idea, in fact. A red herring, leading the police to assume the old boy was mixed up with dodgy dealings. That, of course, was before there’d been the slightest risk of Everett being caught for house-breaking. Those bloody kids. His carefully woven plans were starting to unravel all over the place.