Morning Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘The girl who found them,’ Simms replied. ‘Kate Greenlaw. She’s a twenty-three-year-old “Exotic Dancer”.’

  Clarke rolled her eyes, although she was careful that the girl didn’t see it. She thought Simms looked pale. She asked him to show her the crime scene and he led her through to Harry Baskin’s office.

  Simms talked Clarke through the facts: ‘The lad, Cecil Rhodes, was shot at point-blank range. From the doorway, here.’

  A Forensics officer kneeled by the door, his tape measure stretching several feet from a filing cabinet spattered with blood. Clarke realized that Simms had been waiting for her; though his confidence over the last year had grown, he still valued a second opinion, especially in something as serious as a shooting. As things stood either one of the victims might die, and Eagle Lane would find themselves in the middle of a murder inquiry. It was a wonder that no one was dead already; there was blood everywhere.

  ‘You can tell from the blood smears on the cabinet that he was hit from this angle,’ the Forensics officer said.

  ‘Were either Rhodes or Baskin armed?’ Clarke asked, addressing Simms.

  He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Someone they both knew?’

  ‘Or they were taken by surprise. Looks like a hit to me – see.’ He gestured to the pile of notes scattered on the desk and floor. ‘Unlikely to be a robbery.’

  ‘Better get that accounted for,’ she said.

  Clarke had never been inside Baskin’s office before. Oddly enough, it was not dissimilar to Mullett’s – smaller of course, but wood-panelled with garish furniture and an over-the-top leather chair, trappings typical of the terminally self-important. However, the super’s office had certainly never been sprayed with blood, and she’d never seen as much as a pound note in there either, while there must be at least five grand lying scattered around the desk and on the floor.

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  Simms was at the window, impatiently rattling the latch. ‘The girl was the only other one here. She’d arrived with Rhodes at 9.30, him to admin the takings from last night and she to practise her moves. Baskin was already here when they arrived and she was under the impression he’d been here all night, slept in the office.’

  ‘So, did she hear the shots?’

  Simms finally opened the window, releasing the metallic stench that was starting to claw at Clarke’s throat. ‘Claims she didn’t see or hear anything.’

  ‘Silencer?’

  ‘Possibly. Or maybe she shot them?’ Simms proffered.

  Clarke pulled a doubtful face. ‘An old lag like Harry, it could’ve been any number of people. He’ll have run up dozens of enemies over the years.’

  A cigar, half smoked, lay resting on the blood-soaked carpet by the side of the oak desk. ‘What sort of shape was he in when they found him?’

  ‘Unconscious but alive. He’s a tough old bird. He took a bullet to the shoulder. Just the one, though.’

  ‘Just the one …’ Clarke repeated, following Simms’s line of thought. ‘If it was a hit, you’d think they’d shoot again, just to make sure.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Simms said, his brow furrowed. Then, for the first time since she’d arrived, he seemed to look at her properly. There was an awkward pause. ‘How’s your day been going?’ he asked; though he must have known full well – Sanderson’s foot was all over the airwaves.

  ‘A foot in a field,’ she replied with mock jauntiness. She wanted to ask about the funeral, knowing that’s where he’d been, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so.

  ‘A foot,’ mused Simms, as if it were nothing more unusual than finding a lost dog. He wasn’t interested in her, she realized; he was consumed by the here and now, this bloody mess. She recognized that disconnected air, and knew he was determined – no, desperate – to elicit something from the scene, some clue. She took in the disarray in the office, the open safe, the scattered notes. The shooting, it would appear, interrupted something – Baskin counting his cash. The attack was unexpected, which would explain why Baskin and Rhodes had been unarmed; had it been a business transaction gone sour, they would’ve undoubtedly been tooled up as a precaution.

  ‘Was the door open or closed when the girl found them?’ Clarke said suddenly.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Was the door open or shut?’

  ‘I don’t know – why?’

  ‘Maybe the attacker was in a hurry, that’s why they didn’t finish Baskin off, and if they panicked they wouldn’t have shut the door.’

  ‘Good point,’ he conceded, ‘I’ll check with the girl. Then we’d best get over to the hospital, see if the fat bastard has survived.’

  ‘That was a waste of bloody time,’ said DC Derek Simms, resting his feet on the desk in the main CID office. The hospital could at least have mentioned when they radioed ahead that Baskin was still out of it. He lit a cigarette, watching Sue Clarke settle at the desk opposite. There was something funny in her demeanour that he couldn’t put his finger on. She picked up the phone immediately without answering him, not that he required an answer. Though he did fancy a drink after today’s peculiar chain of events. Never can tell what’ll happen next in this job, he thought.

  He retrieved a half-bottle of Scotch from the desk drawer, picked up a mug, peered inside and decided to take it straight from the bottle instead. After a couple of swigs he paused, watching Clarke nattering on the phone. They had recently called it quits on their on/off relationship. There had been some fun times – well, one or two at least – over the summer. He’d been keen to have her back at first, as there was no denying how well they got on, but he couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she was with him only because Frost had ditched her, on account of his sick wife. The niggling fear that she was on the rebound wore away at him and made him bad-tempered, until eventually he called time on things.

  But now, a month on, Simms suspected he’d made a mistake. He discovered he’d been wrong about Clarke’s feelings yet again. DS Waters, who had become a great friend, was seeing Clarke’s buddy Kim Myles; she’d told him it was Sue who had ditched Frost in May because she’d blatantly had enough, and at the time she’d known nothing of his wife’s illness. Though he wasn’t totally convinced she’d dropped Frost for good, as once Frost’s wife’s condition became common knowledge the pair did seem pretty close … Anyway, Clarke had decided to give it another go with Derek because, well, Derek was Derek. She’d told him as much, but he’d never really grasped the idea that she liked him for himself – it wasn’t until he heard it from a third party and there was some distance between them that it finally registered, and he saw what a fool he’d been. Still, they were young, there was time. There was always time …

  ‘DC Simms! End of the day already, is it?’

  DI Allen’s sharp tone snatched him from his musings. Jesus! He swung his legs off the desk.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir, indeed. Where the bloody hell is everyone?’

  ‘Mary Frost’s funeral, sir.’

  Detective Inspector Jim Allen scratched his beard thoughtfully. Within the worn face his pale grey eyes flickered with mild irritation.

  ‘Are they now. And Superintendent Mullett?’

  ‘He was there this morning.’

  ‘Well, that toerag from the Echo, Sandy Lane, is banging on the front door. He had a call from a farmer – something about a foot in a field. Brief the superintendent – we’ll have to make a statement.’ With an angry frown he disappeared from the doorway as silently as he arrived.

  Clarke was equally perturbed by DI Allen’s surprise visit. ‘What the hell was he doing here?’ she asked as soon as she hung up the phone. ‘I thought he was on secondment to Rimmington on that abduction case?’

  ‘Beats me. Don’t like him one bit,’ Simms reflected. ‘I agree with Frost; never trust a man with a beard. Even if he is a DI.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Besides, you’ve never agreed with Jack on anything. Ever.’
r />   ‘Not true.’

  Clarke chose not to pursue Simms on this point, although she knew he’d argue the sky was green if Jack said it was blue. ‘Anyway, that was the lab.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The foot found in the field was a male foot, and is, as Drysdale put it, “fresh”.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means it was severed recently – in the last twenty-four hours or so. The wound is precise, so it’s likely it was hacked off in one stroke, using maybe a machete, or large meat cleaver.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘That’s not all. The condition of the tissue reveals the body was most likely alive when the foot was severed. Which I guess is significant.’

  ‘Yep.’ Simms swigged from the bottle again. ‘We’re looking for someone with a bad limp.’

  He held up his hands in apology for the dodgy joke. Clarke declined his offer of a swig, so he placed the bottle precariously on the desk and stretched. ‘What a day. Well, Allen is right, the press will want a statement.’

  ‘Bloody farmer, couldn’t keep it to himself.’

  ‘No surprise, really, a town this size – not every day a limb pops up in a potato field.’

  He was right, of course, they’d be lucky if they could keep it under wraps for long. They sat in silence for a minute.

  ‘How was …’

  ‘This morning?’ Simms finished her dangling sentence. ‘Odd. Frost had left all the arrangements to Hanlon. Big Eagle Lane contingent – even Winslow from County – which seemed strange given that most of them hadn’t even met his missus.’

  ‘But you were all there to support Jack – surely that was the point?’

  ‘I guess.’ Simms’s tone was dismissive. ‘Still, I would’ve thought by now at least some of them would have made it back here. It’s nearly three and the place is like a graveyard, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

  Charles Pierrejean was glad to be outside the Simpson residence, however briefly. What a bunch of ignorant fuckwits, he thought, as he opened the car door to retrieve a fresh pack of Gauloises. Oh, you don’t sound like one of those Frogs – positively one of us, hawhaw! And all that crap about the World Cup … on a day like this. C’est incroyable. No respect. He was indeed as English as he was French, but when presented with such peasants he sunk into detached embarrassment.

  Pierrejean had been in Denton for six weeks. He had met the Braziers early last summer, in his father’s family-run restaurant in the Dordogne. It was there one evening that Julian had posited the idea of opening a business in Denton. Charles had a passion for antiques, inherited from his middle-class English mother, far greater than the one for cooking Pierrejean senior wished to instil in him; but it was a passion that went beyond the fringes of legality. England had been hard hit by recession, but, Brazier argued, the flipside was that leases had become cheap, and the well-heeled, who were more affluent than ever, were eager for something to put their money into. Denton had its fair share of nouveaux riches, such as Brazier’s own in-laws, the Simpsons, and was ripe for the taking, all it needed was someone with the right skills and contacts, such as he.

  Pierrejean was well-educated, cultured but unscrupulous; he and his business colleague, Gaston Camus, knew they could exploit the boorish upper-middle class of provincial Britain and were looking for an ‘in’. Somewhere out of the way, a place that wouldn’t draw attention to itself, and in particular that wouldn’t attract the scrutiny of the French authorities. Denton would be ideal.

  The Simpsons were exactly the kind of people Pierrejean and his shady contacts had in their sights. Thanks to over-inflated City salaries and bonuses enjoyed by Simpson and his ilk, they had money to burn and liked to advertise the fact with showy, expensive furniture and decor. However, the shop itself thus far was seeing little custom, hence he found himself here, cringing at a funeral wake of somebody he didn’t know, which had no sign of ending, and with the most bizarre collection of people he’d ever encountered in one place.

  He sniffed the English autumn air. Rain again. It was just coming up to three, and in the time it took to smoke his cigarette his hands were cold enough for him to wish he had gloves. What a miserable, wet country this is, he grumbled to himself, flicking soggy leaves off his Citroën windscreen. God, he thought, making his way back to the house, something better improve, either the weather or business – he could barely imagine anything more grim than a winter in Denton.

  Thursday (4)

  Mullett knew he should leave the Rimmington house – it was growing dark outside – but then he stiffened upon noticing his superior, the Assistant Chief Constable, across the room. He’d spotted Winslow at the church, but having not seen him afterwards he’d assumed he’d returned to County HQ. When the hell did he slip in here? As usual there was tension between them; the ACC was unimpressed with the lack of progress in a rape case involving a teacher from a Rimmington school. The incident had been reported on Monday and all Denton CID had managed so far was to trace the source of some crank phone calls to the victim to ‘somewhere’ on the Southern Housing Estate. Detective Sergeant Waters had then spent two days on surveillance amongst what Mullett regarded as ‘the scum’ of the estate, but with little to show for it. Winslow was furious to hear that an officer whose chief characteristic was standing out like a sore thumb had been chosen for surveillance. He berated Mullett for poor judgement and a row then ensued over the tiresome issue of resources.

  The superintendent sighed. He scanned the room for any other hobnobbing opportunities. He’d put in a good hour sucking up to Sir Keith, the MP for Denton and Rimmington, and the mayor, a blustering old fool by the name of Francis. Old man Simpson’s connection with the Lodge was the reason all these others were here, including Hudson, that great fat layabout of a bank manager. But in what capacity was Winslow here? True, he was a fan of Frost’s, albeit from a distance (but close enough to be pressuring Mullett to promote him by the end of the year), but there’d never been any personal connection as far as Mullett was aware. Perhaps his presence was also down to the Masonic influence?

  Mullett cursed as Hanlon and Wells moved towards the buffet table and obscured his view. He watched them with distaste, scoffing as if it were their last meal, although soaking up some of this alcohol was undoubtedly a good idea. He really should be getting back, but his curiosity about Winslow had given him another reason to stay. Of course, Mullett hadn’t forgotten that the ACC had a skeleton in his cupboard: he’d been spotted leaving the unsavoury Pink Toothbrush sauna back in May. Perhaps this compromising information was something Mullett could use to his advantage? He moved unsteadily towards the two Eagle Lane officers.

  ‘Ah, gentlemen, what a very sad day,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘I take great comfort in seeing so many of Denton’s finest here, supporting our colleague in his hour of need.’

  Hanlon reached his great bear’s paw around the super’s narrow shoulders, and pulling Mullett towards him said, ‘You’re all right, sir, you’re all right.’

  What an idiotic remark, Mullett thought. However, Wells was nodding in sombre agreement, emotion brimming barely below the surface. He conceded that they might both be steaming drunk but at least they were well-meaning.

  Mullett gently extricated himself from Hanlon’s grasp. ‘Why thank you, chaps,’ he said. ‘What are we on here? One more for the road, eh? Wait, where is old Jack?’

  Within a few minutes, as the Simpsons’ grandfather clock chimed three, all thought of Winslow and Mullett’s own Masonic ambitions had dispersed from his thoughts.

  ‘A hand?’ said DC Derek Simms, gripping the telephone receiver. ‘Are you sure? Just a hand?’

  ‘That’s what the man said, son,’ replied Johnny Johnson.

  Simms had started to take down the details when he noticed a very pale-looking Sue Clarke making to go. ‘Johnny, I’ll call you straight back.’ He hung up. ‘Hey, where you off to?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘But it’s only
just gone three. C’mon, you went to look at the foot earlier, this is your case. At this rate we’ll have a whole body by the weekend.’ He was eager to forgo a missing limb, just to keep the Baskin case all to himself.

  ‘I spent all night lying in a field, remember? Besides, the whole of Denton CID can’t all still be getting hammered – it’s a wake, not a party. Anyway,’ she conceded, ‘I don’t feel too good.’

  ‘Oh.’ He backed down immediately. ‘If you’re not well it’s fine, I’ll take it.’ He had to admit, she didn’t look too clever. He knew her health had suffered after the trauma of being stabbed in the leg earlier this year, and he didn’t want a relapse on his conscience. ‘You get off to bed.’ He smiled encouragingly.

  He watched his colleague shuffle off down the corridor, sighed and picked up the telephone receiver.

  ‘Johnny,’ he said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Gimme the details, I’m all ears.’

  ‘It’s that same farmer Miss Clarke went to see earlier.’

  Simms knew he should go after her. For continuity’s sake she ought to take the call. Why the hell hadn’t the whole sodding field been searched straight away? Clarke should have stopped the farmer in his tracks and sealed it off. This was a serious oversight. What was the matter with her?

  ‘OK, mate, get an area car down there. Grab Sanderson’s tractor keys until the field has been combed. I’ll call the lab, put Drysdale on alert, then I’ll be straight down there.’

  Sue Clarke felt a dreadful wave of nausea; it must be my bloody hormones, she thought. She’d sat in the car for five minutes with her eyes closed before she’d started to drift off to sleep. Tired and emotional was an understatement – death-warmed-up was closer to it. She wondered if she had a temperature; she certainly felt feverish. She’d probably caught a chill from her night in the field. She should never have been sent on surveillance on a night like that, and in her condition too. Not that anyone knew, though.