Fatal Frost

  ‘Forensics are all over the place,’ Waters said. ‘Mrs H-J really wasn’t happy. She was straight on the blower to the golf club, where her husband was playing with Mr Mullett—’

  ‘I don’t give a monkey’s whether she’s happy or not. Besides’ – Frost checked his watch – ‘they don’t play golf in the dark, and Mr Mullett and co. will already have been on the lash for a good few hours. Did you tell them to check the garden for access to the woods?’

  ‘Yes, they’re checking everywhere with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘That doesn’t stack up,’ Simms interjected. ‘All right, there is access to Denton Woods that way but it’s not as the crow flies, it’s …’

  Frost shot him an angry glance. ‘I’m not interested in your avian observations. Schoolgirls could not have driven the body to the golf course, and they’d never risk it on foot, whatever the hour. No, they had to go via the woods.’

  Clarke could tell Frost was tired and frustrated. She knew as well as Simms from the OS maps that this was an unlikely route and she reckoned that Frost probably knew as much, too.

  ‘What about a motive, Jack? Or do you think they just did it for the hell of it?’

  Frost’s brow creased. She knew he was having difficulty believing pure witchcraft to be the rationale, even though everything was pointing that way.

  ‘Revenge? For getting the girl pregnant?’ he offered. ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I promise. Right, what are we waiting for?’

  ‘Solicitors,’ Waters said.

  ‘Sod them,’ Frost spat. ‘Burleigh is one himself, for starters, and we’re not even charging – yet.’ He got up to take another lager off Simms. ‘OK, Waters and I will take Sarah Ferguson, as we had her on Wednesday. Simms and Clarke: Gail Burleigh.’

  Frost had not met Sarah Ferguson’s father before. It was the mother who had greeted them at the family home on Wednesday. He appeared to be an ordinary middle-aged man, already worn down by life. Here, in the airless interview room he seemed more inconvenienced than cross, as if he’d rather be at home with his feet up in front of the telly.

  Sarah herself looked a far cry from the pouting minx he’d interviewed on Wednesday. The heavy eyeliner and mascara were gone. Sitting before him was a schoolgirl version of her balding father, with acne. She flicked a strand of mousy hair out of her face.

  For a moment he felt guilty about the accusations weighing on his mind. This was a schoolgirl! He tried to push away the doubts and focus on what was at stake – as a friend of Emily Hardy this girl was crucial to the investigation. He assessed her behaviour and appearance. He had to remember she was smart; it was always possible she’d ‘dressed down’ to give the impression of guilelessness and innocence.

  ‘Thank you for coming in,’ Frost opened, sitting down opposite the father and daughter. Waters remained standing. Frost had requested he observe only.

  ‘That’s quite all right. We’d be grateful if you could kindly let us know what the problem is, exactly.’ The man spoke softly, not looking at his daughter.

  ‘We have reason to believe that your daughter, Sarah, attended a party at number 7 Forest View last Friday night.’ The girl raised her bowed head and Frost was struck again by her sparkling green eyes.

  ‘Who lives there?’ said the father, looking at his daughter with a bemusement verging on disinterest. What did he care for children’s parties?

  ‘Relations of Samantha Ellis.’ Frost looked intently at Sarah.

  ‘That was the girl you mentioned the other day,’ she said unexpectedly. Frost was aware of Waters shifting his feet behind him.

  ‘Yes, you claimed not to know her,’ Frost said.

  ‘Come to think of it, the name is familiar.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes.’ The girl made a show of looking towards the ceiling, as if searching her mind, forefinger on bottom lip. Frost offered nothing. ‘Yes, I do recall her … a blonde girl. She went to Guides.’

  ‘Sarah was, I think, a bit intimidated by you the other day,’ Mr Ferguson said. ‘You know, it’s not every day the police come knocking on your door.’ He gave a stilted laugh, then gathered himself. ‘Yes, quite intimidating.’

  Frost kept his eyes on the girl, who fiddled with a hair clip. ‘So,’ he finally said. ‘You’d have recognized her on the train, say, or at a party?’

  The girl snorted defiantly, colouring. ‘She was quite ordinary. I’m not sure I would.’

  ‘Sarah,’ Frost said firmly, pausing long enough for her to look at him. There was no point directly accusing her of lying. They both knew what she had said. ‘You said previously you may have seen Samantha at a hockey match. Why did you not mention the Girl Guides?’

  ‘My daughter is very active socially and meets many, many people,’ Ferguson said lamely.

  ‘Mr Ferguson, your daughter is a schoolgirl, not a foreign diplomat. Whether it’s from hockey or Brownies, I’ll wager she knows exactly who she’s met.’ He pulled out the Rothmans, noticing as he did so that Sarah Ferguson’s fingers were as nicotine-stained as his.

  ‘From memory,’ the girl said, fixing Frost with a look, ‘it was you who suggested I might know the girl from hockey. You didn’t mention Girl Guides.’

  Frost was unsure what he himself had said. Now he thought of it, perhaps it was the mother who’d suggested the connection? ‘Of course. Yes. I beg your pardon,’ he said, climbing down, ‘though there was a Girl Guide camp planned for the bank holiday weekend at Rimmington Meadow which both you and the Ellis girl were down to go to. Which you, Samantha and one or two others pulled out of at the last minute. Why did you do that?’

  The girl was caught off guard. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t go to a party, did I?’ she replied curtly.

  ‘Sarah, will you please tell the detective what you did on Friday night and with whom, so we can go home.’

  ‘It wasn’t a party … I was just with some friends.’

  ‘Where?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Yes, where were you?’ repeated the father.

  ‘Was it 7 Forest View?’

  After a slight hesitation, the girl acquiesced.

  ‘Was Samantha Ellis there?’

  She shook her head. This surprised Frost. Was she still lying?

  ‘Well, what were you doing there, then?’ he prompted.

  ‘Nicola invited us. Nicola Parke. It’s her house.’

  ‘Any boys?’

  Again, she shook her head. Frost asked her to confirm who else was there.

  ‘Gail, Emily and Nicola.’ Sarah Ferguson crossed her arms, as if to indicate that was all there was to say on the matter.

  Regardless, Frost pressed on. ‘You’re sure that at no point Samantha Ellis or Tom Hardy were there?’

  She shook her head.

  So four of the five. And no Tom Hardy. Frost didn’t push her on this and just asked what they had got up to, to which she answered that it had been the usual teenage-girl thing, playing records and raiding the booze cabinet. It all sounded pretty convincing, but he was sure the girl was lying about Hardy and Ellis – she had to be.

  He began to grow weary. His questioning became repetitive, and she had nothing useful to offer on the current whereabouts of Emily Hardy, although she did come across as genuinely worried. Finally, Frost brought up the School of the Five Bells. When she looked at him as if he was mad, Frost opted for a ten-minute break and promised they would not be kept beyond nine o’clock.

  Waters and he went out and rapped on the door to Interview Room 2 to confer with Simms and Clarke.

  ‘They’ll have rehearsed this,’ Frost said on hearing Clarke’s rundown of her interview. Gail Burleigh had given much the same story as her erstwhile accomplice. His cross-examination ploy didn’t appear to be working. He felt truly knackered, which probably wasn’t helping. And he’d finally eaten – going out to grab a Wimpy in the High Street before going back to the CID office, and he always felt tired after eating.

  ‘Is it worth getting hol
d of this Nicola Parke girl?’ Simms suggested. ‘She was supposed to be at her natural father’s in Reading all weekend, and yet she’s hosting house-parties-cum-satanic-rituals in Denton? Someone’s telling porkies there.’

  ‘You’ll get the same story – thick as thieves, this lot – but we certainly need confirmation that Nicola Parke was there.’

  ‘Jack, Jack!’ It was Desk Sergeant Bill Wells bowling down the corridor.

  ‘Shift finished, old son? You don’t usually get so excited.’ Frost looked at his watch. It was bang on eight thirty.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not … They’ve found it. Forensics have found it,’ he said, struggling to get his breath.

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The girl’s diary. Samantha Ellis’s diary.’

  ‘Bingo! Where was it?’

  ‘At the Hartley-Joneses’ place. It’s going to be picked up by an area car …’

  ‘Great.’ Frost made to move towards the front desk.

  ‘Not so fast, mate. It’s not the only thing that’s on its way. The super will be coming along with it. He ordered the area car to pick them up from the golf club, he and Hartley-Jones, who’s furious about Forensics crawling all over his house.’

  ‘Right. I need the phone. I’ve got to speak to Forensics, before Hornrim Harry fouls everything up just because he wants to give his chum a lift home.’

  The area car, a musty Austin Allegro, was slow going in the rain and not the smoothest ride. Mullett sat stewing in the back; next to him was the rattled Hartley-Jones. The weather had finally broken and there was another flash of lightning from the west. The constable flicked the wipers up a gear.

  The afternoon had started well enough; Mullett had got round the course below par, more importantly beating those who annoyed him most: Hudson, the corpulent manager of Bennington’s Bank; the lowlife club owner Baskin, and Hartley-Jones himself. The latter triumph surprised him; normally a far superior player, Hartley-Jones had seemed out of sorts and distracted even at that stage, and had played dreadfully.

  The only one Mullett would have loved to have beaten but didn’t was Winslow, the Assistant Chief Constable, who seemed rather pleased with himself, his boozy lunch apparently beneficial to his game. Yes, now that he thought about it, Winslow was in a remarkably good mood, and Mullett had noticed the ACC was on very good terms with Baskin. Try as he might to ignore it, there was no denying they did seem awfully chummy.

  It wasn’t until evening when the champagne and prawn vol-au-vents did the rounds that Hartley-Jones had got the call from his wife; CID had invaded his home and Forensics were hacking about in the back garden.

  Mullett glanced at Hartley-Jones. Thankfully he appeared calm and remarkably sober as he peered out on to the dark Denton evening. He was beginning to regret what he thought was the generous offer of a chauffeur by way of an area car to the club and back. Frost had better have his facts straight this time, Mullett thought. He’d assured Hartley-Jones that there was no cause for alarm, and that all would be swiftly sorted out. He hoped he was right.

  ‘Ah, looks like we’re here,’ Mullett said. As the car drew to a stop a constable approached the passenger window. Mullett had no intention of getting out in the rain. He wound down the window.

  ‘Yes?’ Mullett squinted. The PC leaned forward, rain cascading off his helmet and into the Allegro’s interior.

  ‘There’s been a disagreement, sir, between the lady of the house and one of our Forensics officers.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Mr Harding has found evidence that he wants removed for—’ Mullett was suddenly aware of the door being flung open and Michael Hartley-Jones hurriedly exiting the car.

  Mullett instinctively realized something was amiss, and though woozy he now felt compelled to follow his friend into the house, which to all intents and purposes had been transformed into a crime scene.

  Inside there was an argument in full swing involving Harding, the senior Forensics officer, and Mr and Mrs Hartley-Jones, who were flanked by a PC and a lad in overalls.

  ‘Can someone please explain what exactly is going on?’ Mullett boomed, brushing rain off his blazer.

  ‘The lady here is withholding evidence,’ Harding said matter-of-factly. ‘Munson here found a diary in the girl’s bedroom. The lady overheard that it had been found and snatched it away.’

  ‘Is this correct?’ Superintendent Mullett asked.

  The woman nodded, moving closer to her husband for support. ‘That belongs to my daughter. It’s her personal property.’

  ‘And where is your daughter?’ Mullett asked.

  ‘With her father,’ the woman answered. Mullett looked in bemusement at the grim-faced Hartley-Jones, who said nothing. ‘In Reading,’ she added. ‘Michael is Nicola’s stepfather.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mullett. He knew that, though thought it prudent to keep a professional distance.

  ‘The diary does not belong to Nicola,’ Harding clarified.

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ Michael Hartley-Jones asserted. ‘The diary is with my stepdaughter for safe-keeping.’

  Mullett was struggling to comprehend why there was such an altercation over a child’s diary. ‘Mr Harding,’ he asked. ‘To whom do you believe the diary to belong?’

  ‘Samantha Ellis.’

  The girl found dead by the train track. What on earth was it doing here? Mullett’s mind might still be cloudy from his overindulgence at the club, but it was clear what the appropriate course of action should be. ‘I see. Well, it’s obviously a crucial piece of evidence and we must be allowed to—’

  ‘Stanley, I beg you, please respect the poor dead girl’s wishes. She wanted Nicola to keep it …’

  ‘Nonsense, Michael. Vera, please hand the item over.’ Mullett held out his hand.

  ‘No.’ Hartley-Jones stepped in front of his wife. ‘I will speak to Winslow before anyone takes possession of any of my stepdaughter’s belongings.’

  Mullett was now suddenly sober and fixed his stern gaze on the sweating husband. ‘Michael, please think what you’re doing before this goes any further. Vera, if I may?’

  Hartley-Jones stepped back, and his wife passed the diary over.

  ‘There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?’ The superintendent flicked through the diary. ‘Most of the pages have been ripped out. Munson, is this how you found it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see what all the fuss was about.’ He slipped the diary into his blazer pocket and patted it reassuringly. ‘Now, I suggest we call it a day. It’s been a trying week all round. It’s getting late. Mr Harding, has your team finished for the day?’

  Harding nodded.

  ‘Good evening.’ Mullett nodded to his friends. ‘Mr Harding, if you’d like to follow me outside.’

  Mullett stood next to the panda car in the rain, which now felt rather refreshing, smoking a cigarette that started to fizzle as soon as he’d lit it. Harding joined him directly.

  ‘For my benefit, can you explain to me what all the fuss was about – or am I missing something vital?’

  Mullett stood listening intently to the debrief regarding the blue-carpet fibre found on Tom Hardy’s sock, which matched the Hartley-Joneses’ carpet. But that, essentially, was it; no incriminating candles had been found, and the thorough search of the garden and its fence had yielded nothing. Even so, Mullett felt something was fishy. His friend’s behaviour was, at best, peculiar, and at worst, incriminating.

  ‘… and when we arrived the lady immediately called the husband who was with you at the golf club.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that much I know.’ Mullett felt mild irritation at the Forensics officer. ‘But what made her so protective over the diary?’

  ‘Her husband had instructed her not to let anything be removed from the house.’

  ‘And what else have you found? Apart from the diary – anything?’

  The swirling blue light of the car and the rhythmic rain gave the scene a melancho
ly air. Harding shook his head.

  Mullett absorbed this information and grunted a goodnight. He climbed into the Allegro and instructed the driver to head for Eagle Lane. On the journey to the station, he racked his brains trying to recall where the Hartley-Joneses had been holidaying last weekend. Was it Wales? He hoped so, or at least somewhere equally as far away from Denton, and completely removed from what looked like a very messy situation.

  * * *

  Clarke returned from the kitchen carrying four coffees, to be greeted by the sight of an ill-tempered Superintendent Mullett, his blazer and plus-fours dripping wet. He looked like a survivor pulled from a Titanic lifeboat.

  ‘The girls are over fourteen,’ Frost insisted, ‘so we have no cause to call Social Services. Both fathers were present.’

  ‘I’m not interested in the age of the girls,’ Mullett fumed. ‘What rankles with me is your sledgehammer approach to the case. You know Hartley-Jones was … is a friend of mine. If you’d suspected the house had been used to host a party of some description, you could have asked me … I’m sure Michael is in no way implicated. He was on holiday at the time. He would have been more than happy to help us with our enquiries, instead of having you lot barge in on his poor wife like a herd of elephants.’

  Clarke didn’t think Mullett looked convinced by his own argument. Frost said nothing; perhaps he too could sense a hint of doubt creeping into the station commander’s tone. In any case, Mullett would know that if CID had good cause to go in, they didn’t have time to fuss about chasing around golf courses for the super’s friends.

  ‘Well,’ Mullett huffed, ‘here’s your diary.’ He slung it across at Frost. ‘Though what little help it is you can judge for yourself … Most of the pages are missing.’

  Frost turned the item over in his hands then tossed it to Clarke. ‘Forensics come up with anything else?’ he asked. ‘Candles?’

  ‘Candles. Ah yes, the altar candles allegedly used in some satanic ritual. No.’

  ‘Well, they were bloody well there!’ Frost slapped the desk, and looked in the direction of Waters for support.

  ‘It’s true,’ Waters confirmed. ‘There was a whole pile of them on Monday, in the porch. And today the old lady almost remembered, but her husband …’