Morning Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Simms said sulkily. ‘I’m gutted. Didn’t you tell him I was handling Baskin? That I’d been to the Coconut Grove?’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Johnson rebuked him from behind the reception desk. ‘I said you were on it. But Waters and Frost have already been to the General. And that’s as much as I know.’

  Simms shook his head in despair. ‘You’d think he’d take the bleeding day off. I mean, he has just buried his wife.’

  ‘Not our Jack; he’s back already – just been chatting with our friends the press.’

  ‘I heard.’ Simms sighed. ‘Not sure Mullett will appreciate him announcing that some bugger has been mown down by a combine harvester …’

  He strolled over to the noticeboard, and scanned the missing-persons list. Two children, a teenage girl and a seven-year-old boy. Very few adults, especially men, were ever reported as missing. ‘Balls,’ he muttered to himself. The owner of the severed limbs was hardly going to fall into his lap; he knew he’d have to cast the net wider, around the county for a start. It was only five; he could make a few calls before calling it a day …

  Johnson was talking behind him. ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ said Simms. ‘Didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I’ve got instructions to pin these up on the board, if you wouldn’t mind moving aside.’

  The blue of a five-pound note caught Simms’s eye.

  ‘What, giving money away now, are we?’

  ‘Fakes,’ said Johnson. ‘Been a few found circulating in the county. I’m sure Mr Mullett will brief everyone in due course.’ He handed one to Simms and fixed the other to the board, queen side up.

  ‘They look all right to me.’ Simms pulled the note taut and regarded the Duke of Wellington. ‘Not that I see that many, at least not for long.’

  ‘It’s the texture. Feel.’

  Simms found Johnson was right. Although the note looked sound, the paper quality was different; it didn’t have the crisp, durable feel of a normal fiver.

  ‘We’ve got to dish out a bunch. Must leave a note before I change shift.’

  ‘What do you mean, “dish out”?’

  ‘Give them out to shopkeepers, banks and so forth, so they know what they’re looking for.’ Johnson returned to reception and pulled out a Jiffy bag from underneath the desk. ‘From Scotland Yard, no less. Here, you can sign for a dozen now.’

  Simms took an envelope and slipped it inside his leather jacket.

  ‘They were supposed to go out this morning,’ Johnson continued. ‘But what with the funeral and all … I must remind Bill,’ he repeated.

  ‘Well, I certainly won’t forget sixty quid in my pocket. Cheers.’

  DS John Waters wondered if he had the right woman; Rachel Rayner was certainly not ‘getting on’, to use Baskin’s phrase. Sitting opposite him with her back to the breakfast bar of the smart, pristine kitchen was a remarkably attractive young woman.

  ‘So,’ drawled Rayner, ‘someone finally got fed up and tried to plug the old bastard.’ She took a languid drag of her cigarette, her eyes fixed firmly on Waters. Now she was facing him directly, he noticed a bruise over her right eye.

  ‘Seems so,’ he replied, sipping his coffee. ‘Why would anyone feel that way, do you think?’

  Her expression changed to one of suspicion. ‘You’re new around here, right?’

  ‘Been in Denton six months.’

  Rain began to patter on the window.

  ‘Have you met Harry?’

  ‘Once or twice. You’re implying that it’s no surprise Harry got shot. He’s not exactly a Boy Scout, but we haven’t discovered anything that would warrant—’

  ‘We? What, Frost and the Keystone Cops?’ She laughed, throwing her head back and running her fingers through short, raven-black hair. This boyish feature was offset by a pair of large pale blue eyes, the right one slightly bloodshot, and a plum-coloured pout. ‘No, you’re right. Big, cuddly Harry, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  The tinge of bitterness in her voice intrigued Waters. ‘How long have you worked for Baskin, Miss Rayner?’

  ‘Ten years, on and off.’

  ‘Harry told us you’d retired from the stage.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I manage the place – I don’t perform.’

  ‘He implied you were too old.’ Waters said it with a clear look of disbelief.

  She shrugged matter-of-factly. ‘Harry likes them young.’

  ‘You must see who comes, who goes?’

  ‘I’m not his secretary. I told you, I manage the club, that’s it.’

  ‘What does that involve?’

  ‘Hiring the acts. Running the bar; arranging brewery deliveries. It’s not Camden Palace, but it needs looking after.’

  ‘When you say hiring the acts …’

  ‘The girls, Sergeant.’ She lit another cigarette, gracefully uncrossing and recrossing her slim legs. She gave Waters a knowing look. ‘He’d never get anyone to work there if I didn’t handle it. Harry can’t keep his hands off them; especially the younger ones.’

  ‘Hold on … the girl who shot Baskin this morning, the boy told him she was a stripper.’

  Waters pulled out his notebook and relayed what Baskin had said, along with the description.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like one of ours.’

  ‘Would Baskin and Rhodes have recognized her if she was?’

  ‘More than likely.’

  Waters looked troubled. ‘So Cecil just merrily lets in some stranger off the street. I know Harry’s hardly Don Corleone, but if you think he had it coming, I’m surprised by the lax security arrangements.’

  She considered this for a moment. ‘Well, whoever it was knew that Harry can never resist a pretty girl, and Cecil wouldn’t have wanted him to miss out. He’s not the sharpest tool in the box, our Cecil, but he could hardly be expected to know she was packing.’

  The woman looked at Waters. Faint wrinkles were just beginning to show at the corners of her pale blue eyes.

  ‘And so, back to our original discussion. Who do you think might, in your own words, be “fed up” enough with Harry to want to wipe him out?’

  ‘God, where would you start … Harry’s mixed in dodgy company for years. Could be anyone.’

  Waters glanced around the large, neat kitchen. ‘Pay you well, does he?’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’ she snapped.

  ‘No, we’re just finding out as much as we can about Harry.’

  ‘Of course, sorry – I’m just tired.’

  ‘What are your hours, Miss Rayner?’

  ‘Six p.m. to three a.m.’

  Rayner gave an account of the previous night at the Coconut Grove. Her story checked out with Kate Greenlaw’s statement. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and Harry was still at the card table when Rayner left at ten past three on Thursday morning.

  ‘Whoever shot him knew he’d still be there at that time in the morning, and not at home. Did he often spend the night in his office?’

  ‘I have no idea. I don’t give him a kiss goodnight and I’m not there in the morning …’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Harry?’

  ‘I’ve put up with him for ten years.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s about the best I can say.’

  Waters wondered just how much Rayner’s evasive manner might be concealing. He was about to start probing further when a telephone rang from somewhere within the house.

  ‘Do you mind if I get that?’ She slipped elegantly out of the room without waiting for an answer. Waters stood up and took in his surroundings in more detail, running his fingers across the granite work surface and admiring the shiny, German-made appliances. It seemed unlikely Miss Rayner could’ve kitted out this kitchen solely on her wages from Baskin’s. Did she take on customers of her own, Waters wondered?

  She returned and leaned alluringly against the doorframe, an amused look on her face. ‘It’s Harry on the phone, calling from his hospital bed. He
wants to make sure I open up this evening as per usual …’

  Waters raised an eyebrow; this Denton lot were a hardy bunch, he’d give them that. Someone had clearly wanted Baskin dead, but the wounded club owner’s main concern was to keep his joint open. Waters was about to ask about her eye, then thought better of it; this woman was probably as tough as Baskin and would not welcome concern from a black copper she’d only just met.

  ‘I’d best be out of your way, then,’ Waters said, and slid his card across the table. ‘But if you think of anything, give me a call.’

  The street was deserted. Having claimed to know his way around Rimmington, Superintendent Mullett, head swimming with booze, was reluctant to tell his two companions that he hadn’t a clue where they were headed. They’d been wandering down leafy avenues and picturesque lanes for what seemed like ages. One thing is clear, though, he thought with a pang, Rimmington is certainly a desirable place. Mr and Mrs Mullett had been all set to move to Denton’s upmarket neighbour last spring, but unfortunately the sale of their house had fallen through. Mullett shuddered as he recalled the charges of robbery and murder against the estate agent who’d been handling it; it had tainted the whole business and they’d promptly taken their house off the market, cheering themselves up with a two-week vacation in the South of France.

  The area he now found himself in wasn’t even vaguely familiar. It was all very different on foot, he reasoned.

  ‘Down here, guv?’ said a wet DC Hanlon, indicating a cobbled lane to their left. ‘I seem to remember a pub being somewhere around here.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Art,’ Sergeant Wells agreed. ‘The Barley Mow, I reckon.’

  ‘Sounds plausible to me, gents,’ Mullett offered lamely.

  As they struck off down the lane, a relieved Mullett could indeed make out a pub sign creaking gently in the middle distance. It was at the superintendent’s insistence that the three of them left the Simpson place to look for a hostelry to round off the day. A bit of bonding with the rank and file was just what was required after sucking up to that bunch of snobs, although the attraction had somewhat worn off after half an hour of bumbling around in the dark.

  Once inside, however, Mullett felt better. The Barley Mow was a welcoming pub with a roaring fire, and somewhere there was a jukebox playing Elvis at a comfortable level. Hanlon went straight to the bar and got a round in with surprising alacrity, while Mullett and Wells took seats in the corner next to the fire, the heat of which compelled Mullett to loosen his tie and remove his jacket. They drank thirstily.

  ‘So, men,’ opened Mullett. ‘Tell me, how exactly did the Frosts get together?’ Emboldened by drink, he couldn’t resist asking how Frost had infiltrated such a fine upstanding family, one that he himself yearned to know socially. By the end of his pint, he wished he hadn’t bothered. To the everstriving, unjustly rebuffed Mullett this unlikely couple’s tale was as clichéd and unedifying as they come. Mary Simpson had, it seemed, fallen for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks mainly to annoy her father. Though William Frost was a policeman, ostensibly a respectable figure, Mary’s father saw merely someone shambolic, uneducated and unlikely to go far. The young Frost had been a tearaway too – no surprise there, Mullett thought – and even before they married there was turmoil relating to drinking and infidelity. Sadly, marriage to Mary did little to curb Frost’s wilder tendencies; instead Mary herself fell into increasingly bad ways – in fact, you might say Frost corrupted her.

  ‘And then the other one, Mary’s sister, she married a second-hand-car dealer!’ exclaimed Hanlon. ‘Now, there’s a rogue if ever there was one.’

  Mullett was distinctly nonplussed. Another round was in order. ‘OK, men, my shout.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get these, guv,’ Hanlon piped up.

  ‘No, I insist,’ Mullett affirmed. ‘You got the last round.’

  Despite it being Mullett’s turn, Hanlon followed him to the bar and gave a nod to the landlord. He was a veritable ox of a man with a full, yellow beard.

  ‘Evening, squire. What’ll it be?’

  Mullett viewed the taps on offer. He seldom visited public houses and plumped for the only name he recognized. ‘Three pints of IPA, please, landlord.’

  Having pulled the pints, the landlord, in response to a gesture from Hanlon, thrust his hand towards Mullett as though inviting a handshake. The superintendent thought it peculiar behaviour but reciprocated. The big man’s grip was firm – Mullett felt a pronounced pressure from the man’s thumb above his own.

  ‘That’ll be one pound twenty.’

  Back at the table Mullett raised his pint. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘Should’ve let me get that, guv,’ Hanlon murmured quietly, taking his seat. ‘Wouldn’t have cost.’ Hanlon and Wells exchanged furtive glances.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m not with you,’ Mullett replied after a mouthful of beer. Then it suddenly clicked into place – the very issue that had been troubling him all day. ‘Are you saying he’s … that you …?’

  They both nodded ever so slightly. Good Christ, Mullett thought, whatever next!

  Thursday (7)

  ‘I’ve checked the missing-persons lists as far afield as Reading. No males under thirty reported missing in the last two weeks.’

  It was gone seven and Simms had been about to jack it in when Frost had wandered into the CID office, wanting the lowdown on the day’s developments. ‘Apart from Rimmington, that is, where they couldn’t tell me. Their computer’s swallowed the list.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think we need alarm ourselves just yet about a hand and foot; anyway, I fobbed off the press, to buy us a bit of time,’ Frost said, slurping his coffee noisily.

  ‘So I heard; old Sanderson was pretty nonplussed at having uniform wandering all over his farm.’

  ‘He should keep his cakehole shut, then, instead of blabbing to the Echo. But nevertheless, leave no stone unturned. Might find something nasty in the woodshed. Now’ – he coughed – ‘the Coconut Grove.’

  As confidently as he could muster, Simms told him what they had, which wasn’t much. The ballistics report would be in by the end of tomorrow.

  ‘The question is, how did she get there?’

  ‘I told you, nobody saw a thing.’

  ‘If she’d come by car then surely someone would have heard her pull up. Baskin, for example – his office overlooks the car park.’

  ‘Sounds a bit risky.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Frost confirmed. ‘So, maybe she parked some distance away. But it’s a narrow lane, no lay-by, and no parking on the main road either, so she’d either have had to leave her car somewhere really conspicuous …’

  ‘Or come by foot,’ Simms suggested. ‘But if she did it’s a bloody long way – out of the lane and then a good two miles down the Bath Road, back to Denton central …’

  ‘So, she either walked or got dropped off.’

  ‘So we might be looking for an accomplice,’ Simms concurred.

  But Frost had drifted off in thought. The room was oddly quiet.

  ‘Err … how is Baskin?’ Simms asked.

  ‘He’ll survive.’ Frost shrugged. ‘Not so sure about the boy.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should request that the super unlock the cabinet?’

  ‘No, we are not tooling up.’

  Simms knew Frost was anti-gun, but he nevertheless persisted: ‘But there’s someone out there armed and dangerous – a wo—’

  ‘A woman too, I know.’ Frost rubbed his jaw anxiously. ‘A further cause for concern, I agree, but until we have a fix on a suspect I see no reason to start dishing out shooters to you lot. That would only add to my worry.’ Frost looked him in the eye. ‘No, we’ll follow procedure – unusual move, I know – and when we find who’s responsible we’ll call in those who know what they’re doing: the firearms unit. Then and only then, if necessary, will we take the dubious step of arming ourselves.’

  Simms knew it was pointless to argue and changed t
ack. ‘I couldn’t understand why she didn’t finish off the job.’

  ‘There’re a number of possibilities.’ Frost explained his main theory, that Baskin was hit for cheating at cards, so it was more punishment than murder attempt. This to Simms’s mind seemed ridiculous, especially given that Rhodes was shot too. Frost proceeded to show him the names of four card players whom he wanted to question. Simms was on the point of objecting, but took one look at the tired, bedraggled Frost and decided he’d leave it until tomorrow, when after a night’s sleep the overwrought DS might see the error in his logic. Simms would, however, draw the line at knocking up card players at eight o’clock in the evening, and was about to assert this when he was interrupted by the phone. Frost picked it up. ‘This is not my phone,’ was his inexplicable retort into the receiver before wearily hanging up.

  Simms was once again about to protest when DS Waters ambled in.

  ‘Wotcha, Sarge,’ said Frost. ‘What news of the retired stripper?’

  Waters flopped down in the chair opposite. ‘Well, for a start she says she’s no stripper, never was, in fact. She didn’t have much to say, except she’s the one who books the girls, not Baskin.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. Does she recognize our hit-woman from Baskin’s informative description?’ Simms quickly interposed.

  ‘Huh. Blonde and big knockers, yeah, right. Doubt it. But she said they weren’t expecting anyone in.’

  ‘Well, why did they let her in, then?’ he pressed eagerly.

  Waters yawned. ‘Harry can’t resist a looker …’

  Both Simms and Frost concurred knowingly. The phone started to ring again.

  ‘Forget it.’ Waters waved the noise away. ‘Baskin called while I was there to make sure she opened up tonight.’

  ‘Ha! That’s the spirit,’ Frost clucked. ‘What do you say to that?’

  ‘I know! There’s a pint of his blood still drying on the carpet!’

  ‘Sergeant Frost.’ A young PC appeared in the doorway with a vexed look on his face. The young constable was on the front desk, having just relieved Johnny Johnson. ‘There’s been a disturbance in a pub in Rimmington.’

  ‘Rimmington? What’s it got to do with me?’