‘But where is she?’ Big, racking sobs had now engulfed Mrs Hardy and her face disappeared into her handkerchief again. The father seemed lost in a world of his own. Mullett’s own pulse was soaring.
Suddenly the door flew open. In came Frost and Waters. Thank heavens.
‘I’m sorry we’re so late. Traffic …’
‘Yes, please come in, both of you.’ Mullett felt able to regain some composure, all eyes now being on the two dishevelled detectives. ‘Mr and Mrs Hardy – have you met Detective Sergeant Frost?’
The Hardys looked less than impressed. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone. We’ve met Miss Clarke.’
‘Detective Constable Clarke reports to Detective Sergeant Frost who is heading the operation – in the field,’ he added, as if to emphasize his own importance.
‘Mr and Mrs Hardy, I’m so very sorry to meet you under such circumstances,’ Frost said solemnly. ‘Apologies for not getting to you sooner. My colleague DS Waters and I have been out to St Mary’s to see Miss Sidley.’
The parents looked expectantly at Frost. Mullett felt a pang of irritable envy. They now clearly thought this untidy individual held the key.
‘Now,’ Frost continued, ‘how can we help?’
‘We thought you should know,’ Mrs Hardy said, ‘that usually we wouldn’t expect Emily home. She sleeps over at a friend’s on a Wednesday.’
‘At Two Bridges.’ Frost nodded. ‘Which reminds me, and I hate to bring it up at a time like this – Emily is only fourteen and really should not have been left alone for the duration of the holiday weekend.’
Mullett felt the colour drain from his face. He watched the distraught parents regard each other. Their expression betrayed the anxiety of guilt; they knew they were at fault and the blame was just beneath the surface.
But Frost was swift to move on. ‘Am I correct that Emily was expected at Two Bridges?’
‘Correct,’ said the father.
‘Yes. It was that evening when her friend at Two Bridges – the one she was supposed to be staying with – telephoned to ask where she was,’ Mrs Hardy added. ‘We thought you should know …’
‘Which friend might that be, Mrs Hardy?’ Frost asked.
‘Gail. Gail Burleigh.’
‘We appreciate you coming in like this,’ Frost said diplomatically, ‘but it’s best all round if you let us get on with finding your daughter, which is our prime concern at the moment. I understand it’s tough to sit at home just waiting, but I’m afraid it’s the best course of action.’
Mullett watched the exhausted parents rise to their feet to take their leave. He had to hand it to Frost; vulgar though he was, he knew how to deal with civilians. At certain times, at least.
‘Well done, Jack,’ he said after a WPC had led the Hardys out. ‘What do we reckon on the girl? Dead, do you think?’
‘That’s a bit premature, sir. I believe she may well still be alive.’
‘Well, let’s hope so. Keep up the good work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Oh, before you go, Records asked me to hand you this.’ He passed across a faded foolscap file. ‘Girl’s suicide from twenty years ago.’
The dazzling afternoon sun caused DC Simms to brake suddenly as he pulled into Eagle Lane station.
‘What the …’
A huge truck was obstructing half of the car park. In front of it was Superintendent Mullett lambasting PC Pooley, his face glowing with anger and sweat. He was holding something on hangers encased in plastic wrapping. Was that his dry cleaning? Simms wondered.
‘What’s going on here?’ Clarke asked.
‘Looks like the skip-hire people are in a jam.’
Clarke pulled up the handbrake. ‘Well, this’ll have to do.’
‘Oh Christ, he’s coming over.’ Simms folded his sunglasses and hung them from the neck of his T-shirt.
‘No way, I’ve had my fill of him this week. Wind your window up,’ she said, getting out of the car.
‘Afternoon, Super,’ Simms said as Mullett approached, clutching a bunch of shirts on wire hangers.
‘Well, what’s happening with these burglaries?’ Mullett demanded, blinking in the sun.
‘See ya.’ Clarke waved, hastily making her escape up the steps to the main entrance.
‘Hold up there, Clarke, I want you too!’ Mullett called after her. She stopped, deflated. Mullett turned back to Simms. ‘Wells tells me we still don’t have a line-up. I specifically asked you to organize a line-up of possible suspects with a view to making an arrest for this spate of burglaries.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m a little confused. I thought the line-up was for the crimes where those kids were the culprits, like the mugging of the guy with the briefcase and the robbery at the jeweller’s on Merchant Street. What have they got to do with the burglaries?’
‘Jewellery, Simms, use your head,’ Mullett snapped.
Simms struggled to see the connection. ‘But the street-robbers were opportunist kids on bikes. They’re hardly likely to be carrying out carefully planned house burglaries.’
‘You don’t know that. If you had a suspect, which you don’t, perhaps you might be able to find out, but you don’t, do you?’
Simms felt he was in a no-win situation. The super was perspiring heavily and in no mood for disagreement. Nevertheless, it was true that he had yet to organize a line-up so an explanation was needed. ‘A line-up with minors would be complicated,’ he began. ‘I thought it perhaps wiser to have the victims come in and go through photos of known offenders, so they’re coming in this evening at six o’clock.’
Mullett turned away without comment. ‘And you, Detective Clarke, I want you to try and remember something about your attackers.’
‘But I already said—’
‘I know what you said – but I want you to think harder. I need a result.’ His look was intense and piercing. Even Simms felt uncomfortable on behalf of his colleague.
Suddenly, making all three of them jump, a terrific crunch came from behind Mullett. ‘What in heavens …’ he exclaimed.
In attempting to back out on to the road the lorry had taken the top off the wall between the station car park and the neighbouring garage. Pooley stood there shouting, ‘Whoa!’ and gesturing wildly, but the driver either hadn’t seen him or was more intent on escaping than on paying him any heed. Mullett scuttled off to intervene.
‘Is he trying to do what I think he’s trying to do?’ said Simms in amazement.
‘What do you mean?’ Clarke was sporting a pair of aviator sunglasses, making it impossible to gauge her reaction.
‘I mean, is he trying to use you to nail someone for these break-ins?’
Clarke took off her shades, shook her hair and looked at the tarmac. ‘I guess I didn’t really take on board what he was saying to me yesterday. I was too busy being insulted and trying not to throw up to realize he was patronizing me.’
‘What? You’re not making any sense, Sue.’ Simms looked up at her anxiously.
She reached up and playfully tugged his cheek. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. C’mon.’
Thursday (7)
‘THE CRIME SCENE guys are there now,’ said DC Kim Myles. Frost thought she looked very pleased with herself, and rightly so. She had located potentially important forensic evidence: candle wax in Denton Woods more than likely matching that found on Tom Hardy’s face. The others looked less enthusiastic.
DCs Clarke and Simms both appeared tired and bedraggled, although to be fair, thought Frost, they were all starting to flag. The heat takes it out of you, he reasoned, shifting uncomfortably, perspiration having glued his shirt to the back of the cheap plastic chair. They had only the one fan going in the airless Incident Room.
‘They’ve got another couple of hours of decent daylight,’ Frost said, glancing at the wall clock. A quarter past four. ‘What I don’t get, though, is that the body was clean,’ he continued as Waters elbowed his way through the door. ‘If you hack a
body to pieces in the woods and then drag it half a mile on to a golf course, you’d expect the odd cut or graze. A twig in the hair, that sort of thing.’
‘Maybe the body had been out in the rain,’ Simms suggested, sipping his coffee. ‘Washed it down, like.’
‘Nope,’ Frost said decisively. ‘Yesterday afternoon’s downpour was the first heavy rain in over a week.’
‘Which was an added problem,’ chipped in Myles. ‘The SOCOs weren’t too hopeful that we’d find anything in the woods. Harding said the rain would have washed away the blood if there was any there to start with.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ snapped Clarke. Frost thought she looked rankled. Could it be because Myles, the attractive blonde, was stealing all the limelight?
‘Where are the boy’s clothes, that’s what I want to know,’ Frost said crossly. ‘Uniform couldn’t find the nose on the end of their faces. Was there a dog unit in the woods yesterday?’
‘There were dogs, but they found zilch.’
Frost frowned. ‘Somebody must have seen something. That boy didn’t just materialize out of nowhere like an extra from Star Trek. One minute he’s lying at home fantasizing about his French teacher, the next he’s sprawled on Denton Golf Course in the buff with half his insides missing. Someone must have seen him leave the house. Myles and Waters, get over there when we’re done and go door to door again. Map out any possible route. The family live off the Wells Road so try all the routes between there and the woods. Check in the local shops and newsagents; you never know, he may have got peckish and stopped for a Curly Wurly.’
‘This puzzle about the body being clean,’ Clarke said. ‘Well, maybe he wasn’t killed in the woods at all.’
‘What, he was just out to look at the flowers,’ Simms said, directing smoke rings towards the ceiling.
Frost ignored him. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, there’s nothing to indicate that anyone was murdered in the woods. OK, we now have candle wax that matches. But so what? Doesn’t prove there was a murder – only it’s possible Tom Hardy was there. There’s no denying the burial mound itself has importance. Something happened there, undoubtedly. It’s just a question of what.’
Frost thought this remark over, grabbing Simms’s cigarettes off the table. He felt they were going nowhere. Was it time to relay what Mary had told him last night? Or should he just forget it? He didn’t place much credence on schoolgirl pranks in the sixties being connected to a dead boy found on the golf course. Self-harm, tattoos and even suicide were one thing – what happened to that lad was a different matter altogether. ‘Simms, where are you with who exactly was in the woods over the weekend? Didn’t I ask you last night?’
‘I’m on it, Sergeant. End of the day, promise. It’s just that—’
‘I don’t want excuses. If I don’t know by seven o’clock this evening the name of every individual who was in Denton Woods, I’ll pull you off the case and do it myself. Is that clear?’
‘Sir.’
‘Right. Now on to the boy’s sister, young Emily.’
‘Uniform have pulled in her sleepover buddy, the Burleigh girl,’ said Waters. ‘Her old man the lawyer was none too pleased. He was making a fuss in the lobby when I grabbed the coffees – spouting off about human rights and Social Services.’
Frost felt Clarke’s eyes on him. Be careful, her look warned. Social Services.
‘She’s helping us with our enquiries,’ Frost said. ‘Flamin’ hell, you’d think the girl might want to help us find her friend … wouldn’t you?’ His question was met with raised eyebrows. The silence was broken by Superintendent Mullett barging into the Incident Room.
‘Why do I do it?’ he yelled, flinging a newspaper at Frost and causing him to spill his coffee down his light-cotton shirt. ‘Why? Why?’
‘Look what you’ve done to my shirt,’ Frost retorted. ‘It’s my summer uniform.’
‘Never mind that – look at this!’ the superintendent bellowed.
Frost retrieved the paper from underneath an orange plastic chair, and looked at the headline: TRAIN GIRL WAS SUICIDE, SAY POLICE.
And underneath was a photo of Frost. An old one; those mutton-chop sideburns had been a mistake, he thought. ‘Bloody annoying, that. I’ve told Sandy not to use that photo.’
Frost handed the paper to Waters, who grimaced. ‘Not a good look.’
‘Frost, this is serious!’ Mullett fumed.
‘Why?’ Frost showed his palms plaintively. ‘You told me to notify the press.’
‘Yes! But not before you soothe the parents. Imbecile!’ Mullett looked fit to burst. Clarke, Simms and Myles sat watching the superintendent’s outburst in silence.
‘Damn, I knew there was something else I meant to do.’ Frost looked accusingly at Waters, who ignored him and continued to leaf through the paper. ‘John, didn’t I say, remind me to speak to Mrs Ellis?’
‘I’ve had Michael Hartley-Jones, the girl’s uncle, on the phone, accusing me of incompetence. Me! Incompetence! These people aren’t just anyone, you know. They’re not riff-raff. These are well-connected people. They’re friends of mine!’
‘So it’s not actually the girl’s parents you’re worried about, sir?’ Frost replied flatly, turning his attention to the centre-spread of the Echo that DS Waters had laid out on the table.
‘Done us proud there,’ he said, surveying the pages.
KEN SMITH: A TRAGEDY. WHO COULD HARM THIS MAN? And underneath, a poignant photograph of the murdered chimney sweep – bald, bearded and bespectacled with a cheery, sooty smile. Frost skimmed the editorial and accompanying photos. Lane had done a thorough job. If you’d seen this man or his van in the last week your attention would certainly be grabbed, Frost thought. The fact the man’s appointment book couldn’t be found had the DS convinced that the man had been killed by a customer – a customer who did not want to be traced.
‘… after last year’s fiasco.’ Mullett was filling Waters in on Frost’s previous dealings with newspapers. ‘This cretin almost brought the country to a halt with a rabies scare! You are forbidden to talk to the press – do you hear me, Frost?’
‘Loud and clear, sir. Does that mean TV appearances are off?’
Chris Everett poured generously from a bottle of Gordon’s. Shaken, he had returned straight home after valuing the place on Wessex Crescent, to which he’d already been given the keys, as the lady of the house was not available to show him around that week. The shock of seeing, carefully arranged throughout the modern detached property, various framed photographs of the haughty policeman from the TV news had nearly given him a heart attack. He would undervalue the place just to get shot of it – and its owner – quickly. He already had people viewing it tomorrow morning.
Even with nerves bubbling, however, he couldn’t resist a snoop. What he’d found under the bed in a shoebox was enough to give him a nose bleed.
‘Wasn’t this the little man who came to remove the pigeons?’ Fiona Everett said, spinning the newspaper round on the kitchen table.
‘I’ve no idea, darling,’ Everett said carefully, gulping from the cut-glass tumbler as if it contained some sort of elixir. It was a bit early in the day, but he needed it. ‘I told you, he’d gone by the time I got home – if he’d ever been.’
‘Don’t be silly, Christopher – of course he was here when you arrived home. I saw your car turn into the street just as I was leaving to drop the girls off.’
‘I don’t recall, I really don’t, sweetheart.’ Everett fumbled nervously with a pack of Dunhill. ‘Best not mention it, anyway. We don’t want the police to come snooping around here. It’ll upset the girls.’
‘But there’s an appeal for help.’ Fiona frowned tenderly. ‘Poor little chap, I’m sure he wouldn’t have harmed a fly. We really ought—’
‘Fiona, think about it. What would the neighbours say?’
Mrs Everett paused for a moment, struck by a new thought. ‘Oh, quite, the neighbours – we can
’t have that.’
Everett relaxed; that was his wife off his back, at least. But the missing briefcase was still a problem. Fiona knew nothing about the mugging and his summons to the police station. Nor would she – he would fob her off with a tale about an evening viewing when he left in half an hour or so.
He had to be at the station at six. Just thinking about it, he started to tense up again. He would say he didn’t recognize anyone – the last thing he wanted was the little bastards being caught.
‘Nice of him to pop by,’ Frost muttered as Mullett left the Incident Room. Clarke noticed a tangible sense of relief as the superintendent stormed out. Desk Sergeant Bill Wells had interrupted him in full flow with the news that Mrs Mullett’s car had broken down on the M3.
‘Now, from one pain in the arse to another – Social Services. What’s all this about the Burleigh girl?’
‘Not a pain in the arse yet, Jack,’ Waters said. ‘I just overheard her old man banging on about procedures regarding questioning a minor. It’s illegal without Social Services’ involvement, he reckons.’
‘Probably a mistake bringing her in. Maybe we should have called round. But she’s here now, anyway. Clarke and myself will have a chat,’ he said, undaunted.
Clarke regarded Frost with affection. There was something endearing in that hapless but determined approach of his. Here he was juggling three, possibly four fatalities – Ken Smith, Samantha Ellis, Tom and Emily Hardy – fielding everything that came his way, and despite spending half the time looking lost and desperate, he always kept going. She didn’t know how he did it. She felt lost herself, but had the likes of him to look to for support. Jack would always win through, somehow. His drive and dedication was unfaltering.
The phone went. It was Desk Sergeant Bill Wells.
‘DC Simms,’ said Frost, ‘it appears you have visitors.’
‘Shit – that’ll be the robbery victims, here to go through mugshots.’ Simms lifted his feet off the desk.
‘You’d better get on with it, then. Waters and Myles, get over to Denton Close and the surrounds. Check the corner shops first, they might still be open.’