Fatal Frost

  ‘What did Mullett say, Jack?’ Clarke persisted, her finger on the telephone cradle.

  ‘Do nothing.’ Frost sighed.

  ‘If Emily Hardy is safe, a couple of minutes won’t make any difference.’ She tried to pacify him, but his doubts were infectious.

  ‘I doubt the girl’s mother would appreciate you saying that. What if she’s sleeping rough? Anything could be happening to her.’ Frost reached for his cigarettes, and turned his full attention to Clarke. Until this moment he’d barely registered it was her in front of him. ‘Now, tell me, where did Mr Hartley-Jones go in his Land-Rover? Some farm out near Rimmington or Two Bridges, no doubt, for a spot of shooting.’

  ‘Not as far as that. He parked in the overflow car park used on match days at the bottom of Foundling Street.’

  ‘Can’t imagine there’s much to shoot down there, except perhaps the odd footballer.’ He shrugged. ‘After the season they’ve been having, though, it might be an idea to have a few pot-shots at the back four. Wake them up a bit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clarke asked. ‘Shoot what? He was off to the game. Denton are at home today.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Frost said, sharply. ‘Not his scene at all. Besides, he’s dressed up to go decimating the wildlife. Wellies, Barbour and twelve-gauge.’

  ‘Sounds like a different man altogether,’ Clarke said. ‘He was wearing a denim jacket, footy scarf and trainers when I saw him get out of the car.’

  ‘Eh?’ Frost stood up from behind the desk. ‘Why would he do that? Unless—’

  ‘He was going somewhere he shouldn’t … or at least where he didn’t wish to be seen.’ She suddenly realized what had happened. God, she’d messed up.

  ‘Or going to see someone he shouldn’t. Someone he’s holding captive. Someone who’s been missing for the best part of a week. And what better way to lose yourself in a crowd – pretend to the wife you’re off with your cronies to bag a few pheasants, kitted out in full shooting garb, then slip off the Barbour and mingle with the hundreds heading for the afternoon match.’

  Clarke nodded as it all became clear.

  ‘What else is round there?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Nothing much,’ Clarke replied. ‘Football stadium on one side, and the old mill on the abandoned industrial estate on the other. The canal runs along to the south.’

  ‘Did you see which way he went?’

  ‘There were people everywhere. I was stuck in the car, and I assumed he’d gone to the match. Sorry, Jack.’

  ‘Get on to Control,’ Frost said urgently, looking at his watch. ‘Get all available area cars down to the old industrial estate and seal off the Piper Road exit. If he’s on the estate we can net him – but we’ll have to move quickly, before the match is over, or we’ll lose him.’

  ‘And if he’s not there?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Then he’s at the match, although I doubt it, and we’ll pick him up at home after a chat with the super. Ah, boys, how did you get on with the Everetts?’ Clarke turned to see Simms and Waters behind her. Waters started to speak but Frost cut him off. ‘No, tell me en route, we’ve not got time now. Simms, take Clarke and head for Oildrum Lane off Piper Street, towards the industrial estate. We’ll meet you in the middle. She’ll fill you in. Go, off!’

  Simms looked at Waters in disbelief. ‘Is no one interested in … ?’ But it was too late, Frost was halfway down the corridor.

  Saturday (3)

  DESK SERGEANT BILL Wells looked up from the Sun’s racing pages. Only minutes previously Frost and Waters had hurtled out of the front door; now DCs Clarke and Simms followed suit.

  Frost had mouthed ‘not a word’ as he’d hurriedly exited the building, which usually meant ‘you’ve not seen me’. That could indicate only one thing – the divisional commander was expected. Wells shuddered. On a Saturday? Most unusual.

  From what he could make out from Ridley on Control, a siege was planned on the old industrial estate by the canal. The estate had augured bad tidings for many years now; originally it had been occupied by the cotton mill, which had once been the heart of Denton; this had closed shortly after the Second World War, and since then a number of business ventures had started up on the site. None had lasted. The most recent attempt was to convert the old building itself into flats, but the construction company had gone bust when the recession started to bite last year.

  ‘Wells.’

  ‘Super.’ Wells looked up, surprised to have his thoughts actuated so soon, and fumbled to turn the wireless down, although Superintendent Mullett marched straight past the front desk and turned not left towards his own office, but down the corridor towards CID. Wells amused himself by trying to guess how soon it would be before the super returned; he was moving at some pace, so his money was on less than a minute.

  ‘Where on earth is everyone?’

  Forty seconds.

  ‘It’s Saturday, sir.’

  ‘I know what day of the week it is, Sergeant. Where the hell is Frost? I said I’d be here directly.’

  ‘He left in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘And where are the rest of them? I thought we were on the verge of a breakthrough?’ He appeared exasperated. Wells said nothing. ‘How can there be nobody here? And why is the back door wide open?’ He paced the lobby, troubled.

  ‘The builders are in, sir,’ Wells suggested, ‘to sort out the problems with your rear entrance.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The station commander stepped up to the desk.

  ‘The back door, sir. It’s going to have to come off.’

  ‘This really is the limit,’ Mullett huffed. ‘Get me Frost, immediately. In the meantime I shall deal with the tradesmen.’

  Wells wondered whether he ought to tell him that they had the housebreaking suspect, Everett, in the cells. Surely that would lift his spirits? It was too late, though. Mullett had already stormed off back down the corridor to the rear of the building.

  As he reached for the telephone, which had been mercifully quiet all morning, it rang.

  ‘Sergeant Wells.’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Miller. PC Miller. Is Sergeant Frost about? I meant to call him earlier but I was desperate for a kip.’

  ‘He’s out on a call,’ Wells said, ‘but no doubt he’ll be back later today.’

  ‘Let him know I called, will you?’

  What would Jack want with that reprobate Miller? Terrible attitude, that lad. Then he remembered Miller had been seconded on surveillance duty in the centre of Denton …

  The roar of the crowd carried on the breeze from the stadium half a mile away and reached the two men who were standing in front of a chicken-wire gate. Waters clocked a shabby BEWARE OF THE DOG sign hanging off the fencing. He doubted there was still a security guard in place.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Waters asked, regarding Frost dubiously.

  ‘There isn’t one,’ Frost said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll go and poke around inside while you wait here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we both went in?’

  ‘Nah, I need you here to keep a look-out. And to keep in contact with Simms and Clarke on Oildrum Lane.’ He reached inside the car’s glove box. ‘We can keep in touch with these.’

  ‘Christ, where’d you get those, the War Museum?’ Waters said, wiping what could best be described as ‘matter’ off a walkie-talkie. ‘Wouldn’t we be better off with a plastic cup and a bit of string?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Frost said, frowning and thumping his handset on the roof of the car. It burst into life. ‘There, you see, it works. Seen better days, I’ll grant you … Go easy on the batteries, they may be low on juice, so we’ll keep usage down to a minimum.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Look, somebody’s helpfully left the gate open.’ He nudged it and it gave easily. Behind it was a cluster of vacant Portakabins, and beyond that the towering, derelict cotton mill.

  ‘OK, well, keep it on. And give me a sho
ut in five minutes,’ Waters said reluctantly. He didn’t feel happy about this. Frost looked dog-tired, and although he was an experienced officer and an intelligent guy, Waters couldn’t help but feel concerned for him. ‘Are you sure it’s safe in there? I mean, the structure and that …’

  But Frost was already halfway across the concrete wasteland.

  Simms twiddled with the car radio.

  ‘I checked with Control. We should be able to pick up Frost’s frequency,’ he said reassuringly.

  Clarke was standing outside the car, peering through binoculars; at what, she wasn’t sure. It was an old Victorian building with not a sign of life. A panda car pulled up beside them. It all seemed a bit excessive, and surely if Hartley-Jones caught sight of uniform he’d panic? And then what?

  ‘Sorted,’ Simms said, leaning out of the Escort. ‘Waters says Frost has just gone in.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, uncertainly.

  Simms got out and stood next to her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘You’re as jittery as Waters.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Hartley-Jones isn’t armed, is he? I know Frost saw him leave with a shotgun, but he wasn’t carrying anything when you saw him park up, was he?’

  Clarke felt a rasp of panic in her throat. She wasn’t sure. Having seen Hartley-Jones leave his vehicle she’d assumed he’d gone to the match and hadn’t paid attention to what, if anything, he was carrying. It was only when she’d arrived back at the station and the possibility arose that he probably wasn’t heading anywhere near the match that she’d realized her slipup.

  ‘What’s up? You don’t look sure.’ He frowned at her.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She turned to look at Simms. ‘I don’t know whether he was armed or not – I can’t be certain …’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Simms dived back in the car for the radio handset.

  Clarke scoured the building again with the binoculars. It wasn’t her fault, she told herself. Hartley-Jones may well have a concealed weapon on him anyway; he was suspected of murder after all! Bloody Jack, always charging off without thinking …

  Frost looked up. The timber ceiling creaked again. Somebody was moving around on the next level. The floorboards groaned repeatedly in the same place, indicating that someone was pacing back and forth overhead. He switched off the walkie-talkie and retraced his steps to the front entrance of the mill where the main staircase was situated.

  Once he’d reached the first floor he made his way gingerly across the atrium, careful to avoid the plentiful debris of Coke cans, campfire remains and loose masonry. One wrong step could alert his quarry to his presence. Directly in front of him were rows of industrial skeletons, machinery that over the years had gradually been stripped bare. To the left were the overseers’ offices. A sudden noise that sounded like a chair being scraped or dragged came from within one of them. All were glass-fronted, except, from what Frost could make out, the centre one, which was panelled, and he could see that they were linked by adjoining doors. As carefully as he could, he edged towards the office next to the panelled one.

  As he drew closer he heard voices – no, a voice, a deep, mellifluous voice. Frost stood motionless outside the door, barely breathing, listening intently.

  ‘I’m afraid, my flower, there’s no time. No time left for us at all.’

  Frost collected his thoughts. He stood pressed to the door that led to the panelled office, gripping the handle. He had no doubt that it was Michael Hartley-Jones waxing lyrical on the other side.

  ‘We will never bloom.’

  Suicide: is he talking about suicide? Frost decided he had no choice. He gently opened the door.

  ‘Damn.’ Waters tossed the radio on to the passenger seat. Simms had just told him that Hartley-Jones might be armed. Of course he might be armed. He tried the walkie-talkie. Nothing, which was fair enough, really. If Frost was creeping around in there, he would hardly want that antique relic crackling away. I should have insisted on going in with him, he thought. He gazed at the building. Dark clouds had moved in from the south, giving the Victorian edifice an air of foreboding. ‘Damn,’ he repeated, slamming the car door shut and making for the mill.

  He hadn’t seen which entrance Frost had chosen. The grand front vestibule struck Waters as too open; he reckoned the rear was the safer option. A side door was open. He entered and stood stock-still for a moment, assessing his surroundings. The building was silent. He quickly ascertained that nothing was happening on the vast, open-plan ground floor and stealthily made his way up to the first floor by the back stairs.

  As Frost entered, Hartley-Jones looked up, startled. He stood behind a chair, to which was tied a girl of about fourteen. She was gagged and very distressed.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Frost said with half a smile.

  ‘Ah, the tenacious Inspector Frost,’ remarked Hartley-Jones with uncanny composure, strikingly at odds with the words Frost had heard through the door.

  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ Frost corrected. ‘The rank of inspector as yet eludes me.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, Jack; Mullett is forever apologizing for your … how should one put it … ?’ Hartley-Jones placed the tip of what Frost took to be a fisherman’s knife quizzically on his chin. ‘… pig-headed blundering?’ He smiled. ‘To the extent that he’s worried he might just have to promote you. Stanley, bless him – you should have seen his face on the golf course when the boy was discovered. My, it was worth it for that alone!’

  ‘So, you admit killing poor Tom Hardy?’

  Frost then spotted the 12-gauge standing prominently in the corner of the room. Hartley-Jones noticed Frost’s gaze, but continued, ‘And we don’t want that, do we?’ He flicked the knife between thumb and index finger, upending it so the point rested on the girl’s cranium.

  Frost couldn’t look at the girl; he knew the terror in her eyes would distract him. ‘I think that unlikely, Mr Hartley-Jones. Or can I call you Michael?’

  ‘Mr Hartley-Jones to you. Familiarity from the working classes is not something I like to encourage.’ He sighed. ‘But I’m glad you’ve turned up. A change of plan has come to mind. There was I growing maudlin, feeling troubled that things just … weren’t going my way.’ He looked at Frost for corroboration. ‘But then you – shabby, unconventional Jack Frost – blunder in. And suddenly things aren’t looking so bad.’ Hartley-Jones straightened himself and stood erect, without releasing the pressure on the knife.

  ‘Not going so bad? You’re in it up to your neck. I know all about what you’ve been up to. You treated Emily here and her friends like your own personal harem. A bunch of schoolgirls! You got one of them pregnant, you bloody pervert.’

  Hartley-Jones convulsed with laughter. ‘Idiot! You don’t understand it at all. The girls and I had such a precious bond. They worshipped me! Little Gail and Sarah, lovely Emily here, naughty Samantha … even Nicola, until she began to get wilful. And then Samantha started screwing Tom Hardy.’ Emily winced. ‘That’s when it really fell apart. It was he who impregnated her, the filthy little piece of scum! Not me.’

  ‘Well, it’s all over now,’ said Frost, ‘and there’s nothing to be gained from terrorizing young Emily, so why don’t you pack away the knife and come quietly.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so.’ Hartley-Jones smiled. ‘Everything that’s been said will stay between these four walls. Precious Emily here would never breathe a word.’ He stroked the quivering girl’s chin. ‘So now, Detective Frost, you have a choice.’

  ‘A choice?’ Frost felt for his cigarettes. As he did so he caught sight of the handle of the door to the next office, behind Hartley-Jones, slowly moving downwards.

  ‘Yes. You or the girl. You see, you’re the problem, aren’t you? You disappear, and we can all carry on as before. Myself, Gail, Sarah, little Emily here …’

  ‘Nothing’s as it was before! Emily knows you sadistically murdered her brother. And the motive is even more twisted than we thought. The poor h
apless lad was a goner the second he asked her out. You couldn’t stand one of your girls being touched by anyone but yourself … sick bastard.’ Frost was having difficulty maintaining his composure. He was fighting every instinct to rush the man and send him tumbling to the ground.

  ‘Very good, Sergeant. Too good. And that’s why you must sacrifice yourself now.’

  ‘Yes, sacrifice, a pertinent choice of word. Exactly how you wanted the Hardy boy’s murder to appear – as a ritualistic killing that could implicate your stepdaughter and her friends; the so-called School of the Five Bells. No one would suspect you, not even your stepdaughter. Tom Hardy arrived at your house on Friday night, came in, unusually, and like a well brought-up boy took off his shoes. You knew he was likely to escort Samantha there. You waited for him to leave and offered him a lift. Then you killed him. Heaven knows why you had to go so far. Wouldn’t a stern warning have been enough?’

  ‘Ahh, Sergeant, you still haven’t grasped the dynamics of the situation. The girls seem to think they don’t need their Uncle Michael quite so much now they’re growing older. But what if the outside world believed them all to be evil, sadistic witches and they were ostracized by society, and I alone understood their predicament? And that is why I took so much trouble. Aside from that, I’m impressed with your detective work. I think Mullett does you a disservice. So how exactly did you find out about the School of the Five Bells?’

  ‘A tattoo. At Samantha’s post-mortem.’

  ‘Poor Samantha. Yes, and the other two were on the same train. Now, you can’t hold me responsible for that one. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head.’

  ‘Then why hurt Emily? Hand her over to me, and we’ll do a plea bargain for diminished responsibility – driven insane with jealousy.’

  ‘What sort of fool do you take me for? They’ll throw away the key. No, this one here made the mistake of telling Nicola she had read Samantha’s diary. You’ve met Nicola, have you? A fiery one that one. She’s innocent, though. She tried to warn me. The diary had things in it one would rather didn’t get out. And as you knew about the Five Bells it would only be a matter of time until you got to Emily, having already hauled the other two in. If only Samantha hadn’t been such a loose cannon, I could have kept it all under control without it coming to this. Come, Mr Frost, time marches on. What’s it to be?’