The Murder Map

by Danny Miller

  ‘I need you to dish the dirt on the couple, to add the big emotional angle and turn the night from a dull public service event into something more newsworthy and sexy. Like the Oscars, Miss World, Rear of the Year. Imagine the headline, fellas.’ Lane winked, stretching out his hands before them as if to frame the front page. ‘Wife runs out in floods of tears due to high price of heroism … Personal cost of copper bravery breaks up happy home … Heartbreak and loss of copper couple … Rumours of three-in-the-bed romp finally tear apart hero copper’s marriage—’

  ‘How dare you!’ said Winslow.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ said Mullett.

  ‘Ever drop litter in Rimmington and we’ll bang you up for life!’ said Barksdale.

  The reporter raised his hands in surrender to fend off the two supers and the ACC.

  ‘There is no such story to be had, Lane,’ said Winslow, with an authoritative edge hardening his voice.

  ‘DC Kim Waters is a professional of the highest order,’ added Barksdale, the Rimmington super.

  ‘All our officers are professionals to their very core,’ stated Mullett. ‘They’re not given over to tawdry, rash displays of emotion and—’

  All in the function room stopped talking and every head turned towards the doors. If they could have, they would have all carried on towards the huge marble staircase that swept up from the entrance hall of the grand old Victorian building. Because it was here that Kim Waters and Sue Clarke, arms around each other’s shoulders, were belting out the big power rock hit of last year:

  ‘… I want to know what love is!’

  They were, if not pitch-perfect, then certainly word-perfect. Like they were singing the lyrics straight from a copy of Smash Hits.

  Then they segued effortlessly into another big hit from a couple of years ago.

  ‘… A total eclipse of the heart!’

  Arthur Hanlon was the first to raise his Bic lighter above his head and fire it up. Taking the big fella’s cue, the rest of the Denton and Rimmington coppers followed suit with their Bics, Zippos, Ronsons and Swan Vestas, and joined their two vocal, but unseen, colleagues, and before long the whole room raised the roof and belted out the finale …

  ‘… Purple rain! Purple rain!’

  Sunday (5)

  At this time of night, Harry Baskin’s Coconut Grove was the only joint in town where you could get a drink. It was also the only joint in town where you could watch cavorting strippers and strobe-lit pole dancers, and be served drinks by the seriously underdressed Baskin Bunnies. You could press a fiver on them for a tip; but try pressing anything else and Bad Manners Bob, the 300lb bouncer, would launch you out through the back door.

  But not tonight, because tonight it was all about the rigours of elite sport. It was all about darts. The strobe lighting had been replaced with bright halogen spots to illuminate the oche, the board and the 7 feet and 9¼ inches of hotly contested air that separated them.

  The only real allusion to the club’s other enterprise was that every time a 180 was scored, one of Baskin’s topless Bunnies would parade in front of the crowd, a score card held aloft. The celebrity MC came out with some gamey quips whenever it happened, and it had already happened twice since Frost and Waters had entered the club. Local player Keith ‘Keefy’ Keathson was on fire; and every time his arrows hit the top-twenty spots, or the grandstanding bull’s-eye, the crowd erupted.

  Frost and Waters soon found themselves ensconced in a booth, furthest away from the action. They’d had their heart to heart on the way over, in the cab, and it had lasted about six and a half minutes. It mainly consisted of Frost saying, ‘Don’t know what to tell you, mate,’ and ‘I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,’ and eventually, ‘I don’t know, mate, when it comes to this stuff, I haven’t got a naffin’ clue.’ All of which was true. He had no advice for Waters because, as Frost told him, everything he said would just have sounded trite, like lines off the telly, the usual second-rate, hand-me-down received wisdom that people like to spew out at times like these; more for their own benefit than that of the poor sod who had to listen to it. And anyway, who the hell was he to impart his insights on other people’s marriages when his, by the end of it, was little more than a sham. Waters would have to work this one out for himself.

  However, he wasn’t all callous indifference to Waters’ domestic plight. Frost had seen the glint in the DS’s eye when he told him the news from Captain Cavanagh, and he knew that work would take Waters’ mind off his floundering marriage, even if only for a momentary respite. And work was the reason they were here.

  On entering the Coconut Grove, Frost had put into action the plan they’d hatched in the remaining ten minutes of the cab ride over to the club. It wasn’t long before one of Baskin’s Bunnies, with two bull’s-eyes about the size of bottle tops replacing the customary tassels, had sashayed over and told them Harry would see them now. Of course he will, thought Frost, my message written on the back of a napkin wasn’t that cryptic. It alluded to what Baskin had always suspected, but was dying to know for sure.

  ‘Unbelievable … unbelievable … I really can’t—’

  ‘Believe it?’

  ‘It’s unbelievable.’

  Frost and Waters glanced at each other, both with bemused smiles. They’d never seen Harry Baskin so undone by a piece of information. The club-owner was at his desk, dressed in the same formal evening attire as the famous comic MC out front.

  There was a depleted bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue on the desk, and Frost’s and Waters’ crystal tumblers accounted for some of its sorry state.

  ‘But Harry, you’ve always suspected that Jimmy McVale had something to do with it,’ said Frost. ‘You’ve always had him in the frame.’

  ‘Yes. But to hear it laid out like that … well, it beggars belief. And Conrad Wilde … he nicked it off him and buried it in Denton?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve heard.’

  ‘Reliable source?’

  ‘The best. Wouldn’t be wasting your time otherwise, would I?’

  Baskin nodded in agreement. ‘So why are you wasting my time with it?’

  Frost shrugged. ‘No reason – like I said, Harry, nothing you didn’t know already. Just thought I’d satisfy your curiosity. And if you hear anything on the grapevine, you know, you scratch my back, quid pro quo?’

  Harry Baskin raised a glass to this. ‘You haven’t told me what was in the box.’

  Frost shrugged. ‘Don’t know. That bit my reliable source couldn’t tell me.’

  Waters piped up, ‘But whatever it was that Conrad Wilde buried, McVale’s obviously found it.’

  Harry took some meditative sips of his whisky, then asked, ‘How do you know he’s found it?’

  ‘Because of the land he’s buying in Denton. We’ve just come from the town hall, a contact in land registry told us. Still all very hush-hush, but the word is, he’s bought some sizeable acreage, including a parcel in Denton Woods. Plans on building a place from scratch, like Southfork, I’d imagine, knowing the ego on him. Invest in some other properties around town. Makes sense, there’s a boom on.’

  ‘He’ll be your new neighbour,’ said Waters. ‘There goes the neighbourhood!’

  Frost laughed along. ‘Yeah, just a heads-up, so now you know where your new neighbour got all his money from, and it’s not from selling his rubbish book, it’s from finally getting his hands on the Bond Street haul.’

  Harry Baskin swallowed this information like it was a dry old walnut. Still in its shell. ‘My new neighbour, you say?’

  Waters nodded benignly. ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘I thought he was just visiting?’

  ‘Why would he just visit?’ asked Frost. ‘It’s Denton, not Disneyland.’

  ‘Once you’re out of town … Some of the best scenery in the country,’ insisted Waters.

  ‘Really?’ Baskin looked bemused.

  ‘It is if you’re from Bermondsey, which he is.’

  ‘How do you
know this, because that’s not—’ Baskin pulled out of what he was going to say sharply, but not sharply enough.

  ‘Not what?’ asked Frost.

  ‘Not … not what I imagined he’d do.’

  ‘Well, how do you know? You said you haven’t seen him.’

  ‘I haven’t. I’m from Stepney, we were from different sides of the river, we didn’t fraternize.’

  Frost said, ‘Anyway, mate, just thought we’d warn you.’

  ‘Warn me?’

  ‘I think what Jack means, Harry, is that if McVale does decide to settle here, and it looks that way, we don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Why would there be?’

  ‘You’ve been good to us in the past, Harry,’ said Frost, ‘we just thought we’d tip you the wink. Jimmy McVale could be serious competition for you, right?’

  ‘He’s retired. Writes books.’

  Frost let out a hit of laughter. ‘Do they ever really retire, Harry? Men like Jimmy McVale? Nah, it’s in the blood.’

  Frost and Waters finished their drinks with lavish ‘ahhs’ of satisfaction; not only because of the smoothness of the superior blend, but because of the smoothness of the execution of their strategy. It was working a treat.

  Harry Baskin grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and quickly refilled their glasses. ‘Hold up, lads, hold up. You’ve just told me you’ve heard it from the top that he committed the 1967 Bond Street job – you’ll be nicking him for that, won’t you?’

  ‘No evidence,’ said Waters. ‘The only witness, the only person who saw him, was Conrad Wilde. And he’s dead.’

  ‘How did Jimmy McVale find out where Conrad had buried the box?’

  Frost and Waters, now feeling the effects of the booze, slumped in their chairs, barely managed some who-gives-a-monkey’s shrugs.

  ‘I have to say, I’m disappointed in you, Mr Frost, Mr Waters. Especially you, son, you’ve just won copper of the year. This isn’t what I pay my taxes for: murderers and robbers left alone to walk the streets of our fair town.’

  ‘You’re showing a lot of civic pride all of a sudden,’ said Waters.

  ‘Denton’s been very good to me.’

  ‘And you want it to remain so, right?’

  ‘I have nothing to fear, Inspector Frost, I pay my taxes and I’m a legitimate businessman.’

  Waters said, ‘But with Jimmy McVale around, that could put a serious dent in your margins, no?’

  Baskin countered, ‘Make a tasty titbit for the Echo. Imagine the headline: “Hidden bank robbery haul in Denton funds convicted murderer’s property portfolio.”’

  ‘Very good, Harry, you’ll give Sandy Lane a run for his money with headlines like that one,’ said Frost.

  ‘I’ll run it by him next time I see him. Denton’s top crime reporter is very easy to find. If he spent any more time in this place he’d be a bar stool.’

  ‘What do you care?’ asked Waters with a face full of mock confusion.

  ‘Like you said, I’m very civic-minded these days.’

  Frost said, ‘It’s an old case, Harry, and we’ve got bigger fish to fry, like getting that little girl back.’

  This stymied Baskin’s faux outrage; he couldn’t argue that point. He took a thick slug of his drink.

  John Waters offered, ‘And anyway, we can’t move on the case unless we hear anything worth moving on. We need hard evidence. All trails have gone cold on that job. It was almost twenty years ago.’

  Frost agreed wholeheartedly with his colleague, couldn’t have put it better himself. Though when they were rehearsing the routine in the back of the cab, he was pretty sure he’d phrased it a little more emphatically, so he added, ‘That is, of course, unless you hear anything about McVale and the robbery that might liven things up. Or anything about McVale at all that we could use.’

  ‘Grass? What do you take me for?’

  ‘The number two in town?’ said Frost.

  Harry Baskin’s bottom jaw lurched forward, his brows knitted and his eyes darkened, and he looked like the intimidating presence that must have first set him up in business all those years ago, and had made him the number-one gangster in Denton.

  Frost said, ‘Relax, Harry, keep your toupee on.’

  ‘Another vicious rumour. Anyway, that’s rich coming from a man in a PVC keyboard tie.’

  Frost glanced down at the offending item, whilst Baskin contemplated the contents of his crystal tumbler. Knowing they’d given Baskin quite enough to think about, the two Denton detectives got to their feet. They told Harry they’d talk later, they wanted to get back to the darts. There were some big names making an appearance, more for the appearance money than the sporting prestige. Jocky Wilson was on next, and there were bound to be more 180s flying around – a small man, but a big player. It was worth it, just to see one of Baskin’s Bunnies hold up the score card.

  They stepped out of the office and closed the door behind them, leaving Harry nursing his whisky and mulling over his fragile-looking future as the self-appointed capo di tutti i capi of Denton.

  ‘Look at you, the sexy inspector, all dressed up and looking like the cat that got the cream.’

  Frost, who was patting himself down in search of his keys, and whistling a jaunty little tune, shot his head around to see Shirley walking behind him in the hallway of Paradise Lodge. She was wearing a little black number with high-heeled red pumps. She’d obviously been out for a big night herself.

  ‘Shirley, I didn’t see you …’ Frost sniffed the air, and an imperceptible smile slipped into place.

  ‘Chanel N°5. Looks like it brings back memories?’

  ‘Recognize it anywhere. Dead give-away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m not following you. I just caught sight of you hobbling into the lift. I was going to get you to hold it, but I wasn’t fast enough and you got away from me. Been doing the town, all dressed up? Nice tie, does it play a tune? Bet I could get one out of it.’

  ‘I bet you could.’ Frost pulled out his key.

  ‘You seem pleased with yourself? Have you just brought down Mr Big?’

  Frost gave it some thought. ‘Well, in my line of work, sometimes we’re the last people in the world who can catch the crooks. Sometimes it takes a crook to catch a crook. But to do it, you have to set it up carefully. And I think that’s what I’ve achieved tonight.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll catch him?’

  ‘I don’t even know if he’s done anything yet, not for sure. But sometimes you have to shake the tree as hard as you can to bear fruit.’

  ‘A man after my own heart, that could be my motto.’

  Shirley leaned seductively against the wall.

  Maybe it was the booze throwing his world into soft focus; expensive whisky had a delightful tendency to dapple the light, give everything a glow. But she looked good. The fur jacket she was holding fell to the ground like a bored cat jumping from its owner’s clasp. It was clear to Frost that she was shaking the tree. He considered the fruits. Then he dutifully bent down to pick the jacket up. Maybe it was all the talk of spooks, ’60s capers, and all the tuxedos on display that night, but Frost was aware of the moist-lipped smirk he was wearing, Sean Connery-style. But the veneer of 007 sophistication quickly fell away as his hand grabbed the fur and his face contorted in pain like one of Blofeld’s hastily dispatched henchmen.

  ‘Oh … Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Oh, Jack, let’s not bring him into the equation, and spoil the mood.’ She looked concerned as he ratcheted himself up and handed her the fur. ‘You all right, pet?’

  ‘Just a twinge,’ he said, his voice wavering with pain and hitting all the high notes. ‘All … all in the line of duty …’

  ‘Where does it hurt?’

  Frost made a vague gesture with his hand to indicate the area of pain.

  Shirley puckered her lips and considered him with the demeanour of a well-practised doctor. ‘Lower back pain. Common enough. There’s a tight pack of nerves aroun
d there.’

  She jolted herself away from the wall and put her hands around his waist, her right hand reaching under his jacket. She could feel the involuntary spasm of him sucking in his gut. She smiled. Touch a man just about anywhere and he’ll try and flex something. Her right hand dug into the zone of pain. She could tell by the flutter of his eyelashes that it felt good. Painful, but good. She disengaged from the detective, then fished out her own key from the little red clutch that matched her red pumps and opened her front door.

  ‘Those muscles need a good going-over, your nerves are in need of some relief. I’ve got the hands and the know-how.’

  ‘No need, Shirley. I’ll get Dr Maltby at work to give me the once-over.’

  ‘Most doctors know bugger-all about back pain. My old man was in the profession.’

  ‘I thought he was a chiropodist?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘That’s feet, isn’t it?’

  ‘Same field.’

  ‘I’d say not even the same country.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, haven’t you heard the song?’

  He shook his head. She, in a low, breathless and impossibly sexy voice crooned it for him: ‘The foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone, the ankle bone’s connected to the leg bone, the leg bone’s connected to the thigh bone …’

  She grabbed his keyboard tie and pulled him in. Frost knew what the thigh bone was connected to, and Shirley was reminding him of that anatomical fact with each tug of his keyboard tie. She was playing him beautifully.

  Monday (1)

  It must have been during the second volley of thunderous banging on the side of the van that Clive Banes opened his eyes. His clothes were stuck to his skin, soaked in cold sweat. He’d woken up in the middle of the night shaking, nauseous, dry-heaving. It felt like the flu. He cursed at the idea of this, the bloody flu. A common cold was bad enough, but it was a mere niggle compared to the flu, which could wipe you out for weeks. He didn’t have weeks. He had days, maybe even just a day, and the clock was ticking. He knew that the net would close in soon. It always does. And he knew that the ones who get caught are the ones who lose sight of that and can’t walk away.