Fatal Frost

by Henry James

  Having identified her daughter’s corpse, Mrs Ellis was convulsing with grief, and it was all the shell-shocked boyfriend could do to stop her collapsing to the floor. The WPC patted her arm. It was one of the worst parts of the job, observing a family’s distress in the cold, grey surroundings of the mortuary. What a god-awful place to kiss your beloved goodbye, Frost thought. He knew there was literally nothing he could say that would make things better, so elected to keep quiet.

  The WPC had begun to lead the sobbing Mrs Ellis out of the room, but the boyfriend stayed back and turned to Frost.

  ‘How could this happen in Denton? How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be responsible for keeping it safe!’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir, we’re doing everything we can. If you’d just like to come this way …’

  ‘I’m not leaving until you promise you’ll do everything in your power to find her killer. I want every officer in your wretched force to be put on this.’

  ‘Now, we don’t yet know if there was a killer. It may have been … an accident.’

  ‘An accident? People don’t accidentally fall out of trains! Do you think she was some kind of idiot?’

  Frost remained calm; he’d been on the receiving end of such anger many times before. What better way to combat your sense of uselessness than by having a pop at a policeman. He could see this was the man’s last great gesture of surrogate fatherhood and was happy to let him have it; it was all part of the job.

  ‘Sir, I realize how difficult this must be for you. If anything comes to mind regarding why Samantha went up to London on Saturday, please do call me.’

  ‘We’ve already told you! She didn’t say! She often went out with friends. It was probably just a shopping trip. Who knows?’ He started to move despondently towards the door of the lab.

  Frost recalled that there were two drunk girls on the train, picked up by the second cab driver. Could they have been friends of Samantha’s? It was worth checking out, although surely they would have reported something if they’d witnessed what had happened. Unless they’d been involved.

  ‘Sir,’ Frost called out. ‘Could you ask Mrs Ellis again about the diary? It could be crucial.’

  Larry nodded as he left the building and emerged into the cool night air.

  Monday (5)

  SUE CLARKE PULLED the duvet up close around her neck and took a massive swig of Chardonnay. A small black-and-white portable was perched on the corner of the dressing table, and a heartrending scene from Brief Encounter was being played out. She could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears, but not in response to the film, which she’d seen at least a dozen times before and found more comforting than sad. No, if anything, these were tears of self-pity.

  When the doorbell had gone earlier that evening she was sure it would be him, and the disappointment must have shown. Derek looked embarrassed and was lost for words. He smiled and mumbled some pleasantries about making sure she was OK, and being worried about her on her own. At least he’d made the effort. She started to wonder if maybe ditching him had been a mistake … but just her luck, he was dating Liza Smith, Mullett’s secretary, and had been for the last six months or so. Well, you know what they say, the grass is always greener …

  She gently rubbed her leg, which was smarting again. She reached over to the bedside table for painkillers and swiftly swallowed two with her wine.

  Clarke’s romance with Jack Frost had begun last autumn, just after the shoot-out in Denton Woods. That was when she’d first worked with Frost; on the bank-robbery case; and the pair of them had nearly been killed. She knew that a secretive affair with a married man and fellow-officer could hardly be more wrong, and she had no one to blame but herself; she’d made the first move. It was after she’d seen Frost’s wife turn up at the hospital; he, the unhappy victim, laid low with appendicitis; she, the sexy, smug victor, complacent in the knowledge that he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. The encounter had brought it home to Clarke. She knew the poor devil would never free himself, despite confessing repeatedly that the marriage was over, and the realization spurred her on. She seduced him.

  It was eleven o’clock when Frost finally returned home. The house was in virtual darkness. He let himself in the front door and closed it gently. A soft flicker of light escaped from the living room, and he peered through the door to see Mary slumped over, asleep in the ancient recliner – an heirloom of his father’s. Some old movie was on the TV; it amazed him that Mary could sleep through the din, as a steam train pulled noisily out of the platform, with a swell of background music. He turned away; he’d had enough of trains and stations for one day. Slipping off his shoes he padded to the kitchen and flicked on the light, the brightness of the blazing fluorescent tube momentarily blinding him. On the kitchen table was a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff with the cap off. No wonder she was sleeping through the racket.

  Frost sighed as he poured himself a measure and lit a cigarette. Leaning against the stove and staring through the window at the moon, he reflected on the day’s events.

  The sound of a creaking floorboard indicated that Mary had finally roused herself and was heading for bed. He picked up the vodka and made for the lounge. The TV was still on; a woman and her husband were sat in a front room, old-fashioned and yet not too dissimilar from his. He switched it off with a shrug. The pair of them hardly kept abreast of modern trends, apart from Mary and her clothes and music, that was. He turned on the standard lamp and sank into the chair Mary had recently vacated.

  Mary and Sue. Sue or Mary. Without warning the image of the poor unfortunate teenager he’d seen today on the slab popped into his mind. He blinked, refocused and caught sight of the stack of old 78s that had once belonged to his mother. Getting down on his knees he began to shuffle through: King Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton and Duke Ellington. Frost slipped ‘Canal Street Blues’ out of its sleeve and flipped up the lid on the turntable. He lifted off a 7-inch of ‘Only You’ by Yazoo, flopped the weighty disc in its place and moved the switch across from 45 to 78 rpm. As the needle crackled in contact with the vinyl Frost moved back to the recliner and picked up a book he’d been reading the previous night, Oman’s Peninsular War, Volume V.

  He tried to engage with the British resistance at Tarifa, but the jazz and vodka took him before he’d even reached the bottom of the page.

  Once he was sure his wife was asleep, Chris Everett slipped out to the garage and retrieved his briefcase from the Rover. He didn’t dare keep it in the house; Fiona was always sniffing around, going through his stuff, suspicious old witch. She never ventured into the garage, though. The videos were hidden in the boot of the old MG, which had been off the road for all but a month since he’d bought the blasted thing four years ago.

  Back in the kitchen, Everett flipped the case open. He’d laid a shirt on the table and now he placed the jewellery on it gently, piece by piece. Half a dozen necklaces – one pearl, a couple of diamond ones, and the extraordinary emerald one he’d picked up at Rimmington, with its matching brooch and earrings.

  Chris Everett, regional manager for Regal Estates, had systematically stored information on every property he had personally valued for the company over the last seven years. His ‘hands-on’ attitude to the business, and keenness to remain in the field had earned him a succession of promotions throughout his career. Little did the customers or Regal management realize he’d revisit the property a couple of years later with copies of the keys he’d cut whilst they were in his possession.

  Of course, he’d always smash a windowpane in order to divert suspicion, but entry with a key was so much quicker and safer than trying to fathom latches and climb through windows. He wrapped the jewellery in the shirt, folded it tightly and placed it in a Bejam carrier bag, and then he made his way quietly through to the living room.

  Tuesday (1)

  DC CLARKE MOVED stiffly in the breakfast queue in the Eagle Lane canteen, where service had finally resumed. Though she had lost quite
a lot of blood, the wound she’d sustained yesterday was largely superficial, and there seemed no reason not to return to work immediately. Better than feeling sorry for yourself in a miserable little flat, she thought; after all it was just a graze by some kid, albeit a bloody one.

  Earlier Control had patched through a Missing Person call. Desk Sergeant Bill Wells had taken details from an upset mother. Apparently she’d returned from a weekend break – a very nice trip to the Lakes by all accounts – and her sixteen-year-old son was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t too concerned, as he was always sloping off to some burger bar or to the Rec with his friends, returning after dark reeking of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. The worrying thing was that as of this morning he’d still not reappeared, and he should have been at school today. Although she dutifully took the details and accepted the request to follow it up, Clarke had struggled to be sympathetic; the truth was she was still preoccupied with Frost.

  She looked across the canteen, and found herself recalling the events of last autumn again, as she had in bed last night. Frost lying prone in Denton Woods, her horror at thinking he’d been shot, and then, as he lay in hospital, the bomb taking out the TA building and damaging the station. Who’d have thought a slovenly, married detective could leave her feeling so exposed. And there he was now, shovelling down a plateful of bacon and eggs and not even bothering to look at her.

  Well, she thought, it didn’t really matter. Given his blatant lack of concern for her welfare, she’d finally resolved to ditch him, or at least bring matters to a head. She had in her bag a letter she’d written last night, expressing her anger and explaining that unless things changed dramatically, she no longer wanted to see him. She would give it to him today.

  She paid at the till and made a beeline for his table before any curious well-wishers could distract her. Noisily she slid her tray across the surface, nudging Frost’s breakfast plate.

  He gave a start before smiling briefly. ‘Morning, love,’ he said. ‘Good to see service has resumed – Dunkirk spirit and all that – Grace is a marvel. Mind you, it was six months ago, so you’d expect things to start improving by now.’

  Typical, she thought. He doesn’t even ask how I am! She was all set to admonish him for his lack of concern but was drowned out by the sudden clatter of workmen beyond the serving hatch.

  Frost folded the Sun. ‘I’m a Times man myself, but you can’t beat the redtops for a bit of chest-beating.’ He pointed with his fork to the GOTCHA! headline on the paper and gave a wry smile.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?’ she said incredulously.

  He looked up blankly. ‘Is there something up?’

  ‘Don’t act as if you didn’t know – I’ll … !’ She clenched her teeth, barely able to control her anger. ‘I was stabbed yesterday morning. Stabbed, Jack.’

  ‘Hey, calm down. I thought it was a more of a nick … you know, just a flesh wound.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘A flesh wound? Who told you that? I lost a pint of blood! Half a dozen stitches, I needed.’

  ‘Really? But when Bill called me yesterday afternoon, he said you’d …’ Frost paused, trying to find an expression that wouldn’t get him into more trouble. He wisely gave up. ‘But you’re all right, though? No lasting damage?’

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you to find out how I was?’ she hissed. ‘To find out if I wasn’t a little upset by this … this flesh wound? No. Instead, while I suffered alone in my flat you were at home with her!’ Too late she realized that the building work had stopped and that her voice sounded loud above the canteen chatter. She felt suddenly embarrassed.

  Frost put down his knife and fork and smiled a pathetic smile. His eyes were on hers, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said calmly. ‘I didn’t finish until late. I had to ID the girl found down by the railway track yesterday morning.’

  ‘What girl?’ said Clarke in spite of herself.

  ‘A teenager, Samantha Ellis. She was found with a broken neck about a mile outside Denton. Mullett would like it to be suicide, but I’m not so sure—’

  ‘Jack …’ interjected Clarke.

  ‘See, Drysdale found skin under the fingernails, which seems to suggest—’

  ‘Jack, please!’ she said, insistent. He stopped mid-sentence. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Frost raised his eyebrows in puzzlement.

  ‘You said we’d be living together.’

  ‘No need to rush things.’

  ‘What do you mean, rush – you said it would be by Christmas! New Year at the latest. Look at us, it’s now May, and you’re still playing the happily married man!’ She felt like a tired record, the grooves blurring from overuse.

  ‘Mary’s ill,’ he said gravely.

  ‘What do you mean, ill? How ill? You always say that. She’s been ill since I’ve known you.’

  ‘Always been a pain, I’ll grant you that.’ He suddenly looked tired, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and sighing. ‘I don’t know. She’s out of sorts.’

  ‘Out of sorts? C’mon Jack, don’t be obtuse. Had enough of you, more like.’

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘I don’t know, Sue,’ he said firmly, meeting her stare. ‘Really. And now is not the time.’

  ‘It’s never the time.’ She sat down wearily opposite Frost.

  ‘Aye aye, what’s this, lovers’ tiff?’ said Derek Simms, grinning down at them inanely. ‘Mind if we join you?’

  ‘Actually, yes, piss off,’ Clarke snapped. After last night she’d briefly felt favourably disposed towards Derek Simms, but as usual he revealed himself to be a total arse in front of his mates at the station.

  ‘Touchy,’ Simms said. ‘And after I looked in on you last night, too.’

  Clarke glanced at Frost: no reaction.

  Waters loomed up behind Simms, holding a tray. ‘Hey, how’s that leg?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  Waters’ appearance seemed to jolt Simms into suddenly adopting a more professional air. Clarke felt he wore it like an ill-fitting suit – awkwardly and without grace. ‘John, you’ve met Detective Constable Sue Clarke. And this is Detective Sergeant Frost.’

  Frost raised a hand in a nonchalant wave. ‘Welcome to Denton, son. It’s a hoot.’

  Clarke moved over to allow the big man room next to her.

  ‘Heard a lot about you, Sergeant Frost,’ Waters said.

  ‘All lies, and please, call me Jack.’ Frost glanced cursorily at the new member of CID. ‘I could say the same about you. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you since you arrived, but there’s been rather a lot on. So, what do you make of it so far?’

  Clarke switched off. No doubt it would all be blokish banter from here on, which left her cold at the best of times. She pushed away her untouched breakfast. ‘Sorry to run, but I’ve got to go out with Myles.’

  ‘You girls off to do a bit of shopping?’ Frost quipped, and the others laughed. God, she loathed him at times. Wincing as her stitches tugged, she gloomily left the table.

  Frost observed Clarke’s painful exit. Cracking curves, that girl. Wounded leg or no, he still fancied the pants off her. And she had certainly been a pleasant contrast to these two ugly Herberts. He lit a cigarette and took a final swig of tea before switching his attention to the large policeman opposite him.

  Frost felt genuinely sorry for the burly black detective sergeant, who might as well have been wearing a sandwich board saying, ‘Look at me, I’m different!’ so out of place did he seem in this parochial police canteen. It didn’t help that there’d been riots in Brixton only last year, causing racial tension everywhere, even in places like Denton where minorities were as rare as hen’s teeth. The police seemed to think it gave them licence to be rude to absolutely anyone not obviously Caucasian, from a Pakistani shopkeeper to the staff in Denton’s Chinese takeaway. Frost, however, would have n
one of it and had made it clear how dire the consequences would be for anyone he caught behaving inappropriately.

  ‘You must have upset someone mightily to get assigned here, pal.’

  Waters was about to respond, but Simms cut in. ‘Did the super give you the school photo?’

  ‘Been missing two days. We visited her old dear last night, up on Bath Hill,’ Waters added.

  The vision of the pretty blonde flashed in front of him once again, a far cry from the pasty corpse he’d seen in Drysdale’s morgue last night.

  ‘It’s her,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘The mother confirmed she’d not been seen since Saturday. She was meant to stop in to feed her aunt’s cat, but she clearly never turned up or she would’ve got a nasty surprise. By all accounts a nice girl; seems odd she’d leave on the spur of the moment, without so much as a toothbrush,’ Simms continued.

  ‘Why did nobody report it earlier?’ Frost asked; he hadn’t felt it appropriate to quiz the mother last night.

  Simms shrugged. ‘I guess they figured she was old enough to look after herself. She’s nearly sixteen, after all.’

  ‘Yes, well, they figured wrong.’ He turned to Sergeant Waters. ‘Sorry we’ve not had time for a proper talk. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to give you a spot of direction.’

  ‘That’s OK, no rush – Mr Mullett has assigned me to Detective Simms here.’

  ‘Has he indeed?’ Frost glanced across at Simms, who had his knife wedged up the neck of an HP Sauce bottle. Even the super could go back on a bad decision once in a while. ‘Well, he’s had a change of mind.’ Simms froze in surprise, the bottle held aloft. ‘Seems that as of last night he wants me to hold your hand, for a while at least. I’ll be back for you about midday.’