Fatal Frost

  He regarded the car propped up on bricks in the drive, an old Hillman of some kind. Why were there so many cars on bricks in this town? They sat there, raised exultantly all over the estate, cars wheel-less for all eternity.

  A big-nosed woman in curlers answered the door.

  ‘Afternoon, madam. I wonder if I might trouble you to call your husband?’ Frost said politely.

  ‘’Usband? I ain’t got no ’usband.’ The woman scowled.

  ‘Does one Bill Travers not reside here?’

  ‘’E’s me brother. And ’e’s in bed.’

  ‘No, I’m up,’ said a voice from inside the hallway. A grey-haired man in a string vest appeared at the woman’s shoulder. The two of them glared at Frost like a pair of heavy-beaked vultures.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Travers.

  ‘Denton CID,’ the detective replied, holding up his badge.

  The pair’s expressions remained unchanged.

  ‘Mr Travers, you picked up off the final Paddington train on Saturday night?’

  ‘I did – what of it?’ Travers growled, scratching his stubbly jaw.

  ‘There was an incident on the train. I’m making some routine enquiries. Do you remember who you picked up?’

  ‘Yeah. A young Chinese feller. Dropped him off at Market Square.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t suppose you noticed how many got off that train?’

  ‘Four. Very lean for a Saturday night – specially as the train went no further. Nah, nothing much. Charlie picked up two pissed birds,’ he added, rubbing his belly. ‘People ain’t got the cash for cabs no more.’

  ‘That would be Charlie Feltham?’

  ‘That’s him.’ The driver yawned.

  ‘And the woman would have gone with …’ Frost said, prompting.

  ‘Woman? Didn’t see no woman.’

  Once in the Cortina, Frost sat back and lit a cigarette. He’d established that the woman got off last, and the two girls were a short way behind the Chinese bloke. According to Travers’ account, he’d spent a couple of minutes working out where the Chinaman wanted to go – even went so far as to check he had the cash to pay the fare.

  The other driver, Feltham, lived up in North Denton, off Merchant Street. Flipping heck, he was fast growing sick of this driving lark. The radio crackled into life before he could start to miss his mate and stalwart driver, the portly DC Hanlon. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, deciding he would call on Feltham later, and mulling over the choices he was left with. It was Eagle Lane and Hornrim Harry, or Denton General and DC Sue, and he didn’t relish either one.

  * * *

  ‘That is one worried woman,’ Simms said as the mother of Samantha Ellis closed the door on them.

  ‘I agree there,’ Waters replied, shaking his head. ‘She sussed we were police before we’d said a word – though if she was that worried, why didn’t she report it sooner?’

  Simms, for all his inexperience, knew why. The pair had called on Mrs Hartley-Jones’ niece to discover that, as they’d been told, the girl was indeed missing. The mother was distraught. Samantha was fifteen and a sensible girl, not one in the habit of shirking her duties, let alone vanishing without a word. The arrival of CID had brought the fears she’d been suppressing to the surface; she’d suddenly had to accept that her only daughter might actually be in trouble, as opposed to having run off on a jolly with a boyfriend or her mates. Mrs Ellis had been on the verge of reporting her missing when the pair turned up; she knew she’d been tardy in doing so. Well, it was difficult to know if the police would take the disappearance seriously. After all, Samantha wasn’t a child. She was about to start her CSE exams and would soon go on to secretarial college. She was almost a grown woman. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Here’s my theory,’ said Simms, opening the car door. ‘There was trouble at home, so she robbed her aunt’s place and then did a runner.’ He paused to allow time for Waters to digest this and then acknowledge his brilliant insight, but instead the Londoner frowned, perplexed.

  ‘Listen,’ persisted Simms, ‘the circumstances fit: the girl’s about to leave school, has a row with her mum and mum’s boyfriend, knows auntie’s got a few bob – easy. She’s got keys to the house, everyone’s away, and she knows where the jewels are. And she’ll be halfway to Gretna Green with some hippie by now.’ He slipped the girl’s school photo into his pocket and looked back at the house; the mother, an attractive redhead, was visible behind the net curtains.

  ‘Neat theory,’ said Waters. ‘Just two little problems. For a start, she just doesn’t seem to be that kind of girl – at least not if the mother’s to be believed. And secondly, that body found this morning fits her description perfectly.’

  Simms took this in and realized Waters was right. He’d foolishly conjured up some Bonnie-and-Clyde-style fantasy when all the time the most likely explanation was staring them in the face. ‘I guess we’d better notify Frost, then.’

  ‘Back to Eagle Lane?’ Waters asked.

  Simms glanced at his watch. Nearly five o’clock. ‘The super’ll be expecting a progress report. But what do you say we grab a pint first, for Dutch courage?’

  ‘They’re not open for another hour.’

  Simms turned the ignition. ‘You’re not in the big city now, Sarge. The Eagle’s a coppers’ boozer. It’s always open.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant Waters, how did you find your first day?’

  In an effort to make him feel welcome, Mullett casually slid his pack of Senior Service towards DS Waters, at the same time scrutinizing him closely. These chaps, he mused, can’t really make out what they’re thinking. Dress sense seems a little awry – denim flares? Why do officers working undercover seem to think it gives them a licence to dress like Al Pacino? Simms was little better, sitting there with slicked-back hair and a scruffy leather jacket like an extra from Grease. The lad was barely recognizable from the moon-faced youth in uniform last year.

  Waters gave an account of the house break-in and the missing girl.

  ‘So, in all likelihood, it’s the same girl.’ Mullett grimaced at the sweet teenager smiling up at him from the desk. ‘I needn’t remind you the Hartley-Joneses are friends of mine – but the matter will now be handed over to Frost’ – Mullett picked the photo off his desk – ‘and I will be pointing this out to him, too, should he ever turn up. Anything else?’ He forced a smile.

  ‘We also took an armed-robbery call on the Southern Housing Estate,’ Simms chipped in.

  ‘Is this at the newsagent’s? I overheard Wells blathering on some nonsense about it and told him I wanted Frost on this – what’s all this about midgets?’

  ‘The shopkeeper was a little overwrought,’ suggested Waters. ‘It was probably just kids.’

  ‘With a firearm? In Denton? I think it unlikely. We’ve never had a case of children with guns out here. This isn’t the East End, Sergeant.’

  ‘We’ve never had an armed midget, for that matter,’ said Simms, grinning.

  ‘This is not a laughing matter, DC Simms.’ Mullett scowled. ‘Still, if they are indeed midgets, they should be easy to catch – I can’t say I’ve ever seen one in Denton. The gypsy site, perhaps? No, knives are the weapon of choice for Denton’s young delinquents.’ He got up from his chair to adjust the blinds and shield the officers’ eyes from the evening sun’s glare. ‘Well, Sergeant Waters – it seems your partner here has shown you many sides of Denton thus far.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Simms said, blinking.

  ‘Has anyone checked on DC Clarke?’ Mullett asked. Both shook their heads. ‘Lives alone, doesn’t she? Simms, would you be good enough to check the girl’s all right? She discharged herself, but I imagine it must have been quite a shock to the system.’ He could see Simms about to protest but cut him short. ‘Heavens, man, it’ll only take you five minutes.’ And with that he slapped both hands on the desk to indicate the end of the debrief. Both men made for the door.

  ‘Oh, Waters,’ Mullett called after them
. ‘Is your accommodation all right?’

  ‘Not checked in yet, sir.’

  ‘It’s not the Ritz, I’ll grant you, but better than a B&B, one would hope.’ The two men nodded and left the superintendent’s office.

  Mullett leaned back in his chair. The evenings were definitely getting lighter. If things remained this quiet there was every chance he could get a game of golf in one evening after work, in celebration of Wednesday’s reopening. His sense of smug contentment barely lasted a moment as he fingered the note left by his wife and realized with a pang that he’d done nothing on it. But it was a bank holiday. Would the dry cleaner’s be open? The estate agents were. The Chinese gentlemen worked terribly hard in his experience. He’d give it a try. But first, where on earth was Frost?

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ Simms said.

  DS Waters followed DC Simms across the threshold of the police quarters in Fenwick Street. Judging from the hall, it was as grotty inside as it appeared to be from the outside – like a neglected council house, only dirtier.

  ‘There are four rooms upstairs. Only myself and Miller are here at the moment. The lounge is in here.’

  Waters peered in at a tatty leather sofa that appeared to have seen a lot of action, a huge Grundig TV, and a video recorder almost in the middle of the floor, leads trailing to the Grundig. An assortment of video cassettes was scattered around both.

  ‘Video, eh? But I thought you said … ?’ Waters was reflecting on this morning’s conversation with Mrs Hartley-Jones.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know what I said,’ Simms said dismissively. ‘That one isn’t officially ours, if you see what I mean.’

  He led on down the hall, along a hessian carpet that could best be described as filthy. ‘And down here is where we find mother.’

  ‘Great, I’m starving.’

  Sat at a cheap Formica table was a pasty PC in his uniform shirt sleeves. He was eating beans on toast, washed down with a can of lager, as he leafed through a newspaper.

  ‘Frank Miller, John Waters,’ Simms said.

  ‘Wotcha,’ Miller said, without looking up.

  Simms was a little embarrassed by his colleague’s curtness, Waters thought. ‘Frank’s had a double-shift; he’s feeling a bit tetchy,’ he improvised by way of explanation. Simms reached into an overhead cupboard in an effort to locate something to eat. ‘C’mon Frank, we’ve a guest,’ he said encouragingly.

  ‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ Miller grunted.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Simms placed several items on the kitchen work surface. ‘Well, John, lean times, I’m afraid. Spam and beans OK with you? I think there might be half a packet of Smash kicking around too if we’re lucky …’

  ‘Any chance we could dine out?’

  ‘At last!’

  Although it had gone eight o’clock, Superintendent Mullett was reluctant to go home to an empty house, so decided instead to remain at Eagle Lane to complete a report. It also meant he could wait for Jack Frost, who he had instructed to check in before the close of play. And here the shabby detective finally was, in a tatty short-sleeved shirt that would not have looked out of place on Ronnie Biggs in Rio.

  ‘The girl you found this morning, could this be her?’ Mullett passed him the school photo. ‘Samantha Ellis. Fifteen years old. Lives with her mother out on Bath Hill. Been missing for two days.’

  Frost frowned at the picture. ‘Not sure. This one has a nicer smile and bit more colour in her face.’

  Why did he affect not to care when Mullett knew damn well he did? Sardonic remarks like this did nothing more than irritate.

  ‘Is it the girl or not?’

  Frost turned to go. ‘Could be. I’ll have to get the family to ID,’ he said, his hand on the door handle.

  ‘That’s a start, then. I’ve alerted the lab, they’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘Very good of you, sir …’

  ‘Wait. Come back, Jack. Sit down. A word if you please, before you go.’

  ‘About the crime clear-up stats …’ Frost began, slouching in the chair opposite and busying himself with a crumpled cigarette pack.

  ‘No, no.’ Mullett waved off the mention of the severely overdue figures. ‘Other than the dead girl, what’s your caseload like?’

  Frost paused.

  Mullett could tell he sensed danger. ‘In general, how’re things going?’ he said in a placatory manner. ‘What, shall we say, is rumbling along?’

  Frost relaxed, and exhaled smoke towards the ceiling. ‘There’s still the female bank robber on the loose – the driver, Louise Daley. We’ve had a couple of leads …’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Mullett snapped, the mask of pleasantry instantly dropping. ‘Surely you’re not wasting time on that? It’s hardly a priority.’

  ‘Closure, sir.’

  ‘Closure? That’s never been an issue in the past,’ Mullett huffed.

  Frost was about to object but Mullett raised a hand. ‘How many times have we been over this? We nailed three of them, all now inside, one of them in a wheelchair. Forget about it. There’s something else, something special you can do for me – for Eagle Lane. Look good on the record sheet.’

  Frost said nothing, but sat stoically opposite as though awaiting final judgement.

  Mullett steeled himself. ‘I want you to pair up with Waters, the chap on loan from the Met,’ he began, pausing before adding, ‘You know who I’m referring to? Nice chap, was out with Simms today.’

  ‘Heard his name come up on the squawk box. Isn’t he the same rank as me? Wouldn’t it be more beneficial if you teamed him up with a junior? He’s not much use to me; I’ve got a dead girl to deal with – more routine.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Frost. But DS Waters is … different.’

  ‘Why, because he’s from the Met? We’ve had them before – bit cocky, but basically the same deal.’

  Mullett frowned. ‘If I have to spell it out to you, as it seems to have escaped your notice, DS Waters is a black officer.’

  ‘Really?’ Frost said indifferently. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him. Missed the briefing this morning. Why, is it a problem?’

  ‘Not for me, Sergeant,’ Mullett retorted forcefully, ‘but some officers are, perhaps, a little less forward-thinking.’ His mind went back to the heckling this morning.

  ‘Are you suggesting there’s racism in the police force, sir?’ Frost’s eyebrows shot up his forehead in mock surprise. ‘Here, in this day and age? Surely not.’

  ‘I’d like to think it’s only on the fringes,’ Mullett said, not meeting Frost’s eye. ‘Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, from here on you’re responsible for him.’

  ‘What, like a chaperon?’

  ‘You’re the most senior-ranking officer present, therefore it’s your duty.’ And, Mullett thought, the men respect you, although heaven knows why. ‘Besides, DI Allen’s away. Simms, Clarke, Myles – they’re all under your jurisdiction now. Use them and Waters any way you see fit. Just ensure that this burglary gets cleared up – it’s the third in as many weeks.’

  ‘Ah yes – one of your chums, so I gather. The cat in the fridge case, isn’t it?’ Frost said chirpily.

  Mullett got up from behind the desk and paced the office. He ran a finger inside his collar. Before Mrs M disappeared off to visit her sister, he’d been prompted to launder his own shirts as a test run, just in case the need arose while she was away. Too much starch, he now realized. It was irritating the hell out of him, and shortening his patience to a minimum.

  ‘The previous week a dog was also garrotted,’ Mullett said stiffly.

  ‘What sort of dog?’ Frost asked.

  ‘How the blazes should I know? Does it matter?’

  ‘But how did it fit in the fridge?’

  ‘It wasn’t found in the fridge! The dog was dumped on the compost heap. This is all irrelevant – just get on top of it, will you. I know you already have the dead girl by the railway line, but I can’t have Simms foul thi
s up. Good lad though he is, he’s very green. No arguing – that’s an order. Dismissed.’

  Frost got to his feet and left the office without a further word. Almost immediately Mullett regretted his harsh tone. Wells had informed him this morning, whilst discussing DC Hanlon’s bereavement, that Frost’s own mother had died last month. The man, to Mullett’s knowledge, had not missed a single day, apart from that of the funeral itself.

  He loosened his tie. It was pressing on the scratchy collar and he was tired. But overall the day had not turned out too bad. Winslow, the odious little man, may have actually done him a favour in foisting Waters on Denton. Mullett’s gambit to bring him under Frost’s jurisdiction was a good one. The situation might well become incendiary if Frost screwed up, and the odds were that, his colleagues’ respect notwithstanding, Frost would indeed screw up. And with it lose his chance of promotion, something Winslow had been hassling Mullett to expedite ever since DI Williams’s demise.

  Yes, Mullett thought to himself, from this perspective he really couldn’t lose.

  * * *

  Frost and the WPC stood respectfully at a distance while Mrs Ellis identified her daughter’s body. Drysdale solemnly replaced the sheet.

  Accompanying her was her long-term boyfriend, Larry; Mrs Ellis was widowed three years ago and Samantha had, apparently, learned to regard him as her dad. Accordingly he seemed just as distraught as any father would be.

  Not surprisingly, it hadn’t been easy to probe the pair for information prior to leaving for the mortuary, but Frost had tried his best. Mrs Ellis was vague about her daughter’s movements in the hours before her death. As she’d already reported, Samantha had gone out on Saturday and had not returned; where she’d been, or who with, the mother didn’t know. She was often out at the weekend. It was difficult for Frost to judge whether the girl had been secretive, or whether the mother just wasn’t interested in what her daughter got up to. At this stage he didn’t really like to push the questioning too far.

  From what he had observed at the family home Samantha had been quite an unusual teenager. Her bedroom was devoid of the bright popstar posters that seemed to be the norm for girls of her age; instead it was filled with sombre astrological paraphernalia. Mrs Ellis knew of a diary, but had searched for it in vain when she realized the girl was missing.