Morning Frost

by James, Henry

‘It’s Mr Hudson for you, sir.’ Mullett groaned and glanced at Frost. ‘Put him through. Michael, how are you?’

  The bank manager wheezed down the line: ‘Stanley … thank God. I’ve got a customer up in arms – claims we’ve given him a fake five-pound note!’

  ‘Yes, it appears there’s the odd one or two in circulation. Put it aside and CID will deal with it on Monday.’ Mullett had little patience for the fellow at the best of times, and now with his hopes for the Lodge going nowhere he felt positively churlish.

  ‘Monday? That will not do!’ Hudson huffed. ‘The bank’s reputation is at stake.’

  Mullett checked his watch impatiently. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’ve already shut – it’s gone midday. Nothing more can happen today. Don’t be alarmist, a pair of fake five-pound notes in Denton is hardly going to spark a bank run—’

  ‘A pair? There’s another? Not from here, I hope?’

  Mullett wasn’t about to elaborate by explaining his own predicament at the newsagent’s. He was left with no choice but to humour the panicked banker. He pulled off the top of his Parker fountain pen.

  ‘OK, Michael, listen – give me the details of the withdrawal.’

  It proved to be a complicated story, but essentially the recipient had not in fact received the cash from Bennington’s but from a third party who had withdrawn it from the bank earlier that week. It dawned on Mullett that all fingers would eventually point to one of Market Square’s three banks, as the hubs for all cash-flow in Denton, and it was probably just chance that both of these cases led back to Bennington’s – it could just as likely have been the Midland or National Westminster in the frame.

  By the time Mullett ended the call he felt much calmer. Somehow the personal anger that had brought him into Eagle Lane had dissipated; he’d regained his perspective. Looking upon the three shambolic officers he felt himself rising to the challenge of taking them in hand. There were pressing issues to deal with – murder, rape and robbery, to name but three. And of course Frost’s promotion, which was never far from the forefront of his mind. Seeing him sitting there dropping ash on the carpet almost caused his hackles to rise again, so pushing the issue aside – though he knew he had to deal with it on Monday – he addressed Simms.

  ‘What’s this about a paperboy?’

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell was all that about?’ Simms cried, grabbing Frost’s lighter. ‘“The system will be fully operational”, blah blah blah – who does he think is he? Darth Mullett on the eve of launching the Denton Death Star?’

  Frost, noticing a smudge of lipstick on Simms’s collar, said, ‘You look tired, son. Give it a break this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Frost shrugged and didn’t argue. ‘What did Drysdale have to say?’

  ‘Inconclusive.’ Simms looked vexed; a far cry from his usual cocky self, Frost thought. ‘He thought the manner of death not necessarily consistent with being thrown off a bike. Though, of course, that in itself doesn’t rule out an accident. Or a straightforward hit-and-run.’

  ‘Well done,’ Frost said, trying to make the boy feel better but not really engaging with what he was saying.

  ‘Cheers.’ Simms took a long drag on the cigarette. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but don’t expect the answer to leap out straight away. Canvass the area; get a fix on who’d had their morning paper and who hadn’t, and you should be able to pinpoint the exact time of death. I know I always say this’ – Frost paused and smiled – ‘and am often unable to prove it, but someone must have seen something. Early birds: posties, milkmen, shiftworkers, dog walkers, etc. – you name it, it may have been early Friday morning, but it’s the middle of Denton. We’ll get uniform to do that.’

  ‘All right, guv, thanks.’

  ‘What about the robbery yesterday?’

  ‘A tart with a shooter.’

  ‘A tart? What, a prostitute? Are you sure?’

  ‘No.’ Simms shook his head wearily. ‘I didn’t mean that. She was made up – like a pop star.’

  ‘Pop star?’ In Frost’s mind the word conjured up the pantomime glitz of Marc Bolan or Gary Glitter. ‘What, like a glam rocker?’

  ‘A what? No, no … Who did the kid say … Like Annie Lennox. But disguised as a granny.’

  ‘Err, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter … but the point is, whoever she is, she’s still in Denton – unless she made it across the fields or woods. Uniform were quick to respond, and had the main roads sealed off—’

  ‘Excuse me.’ A young PC with a manila envelope appeared next to them in the corridor. ‘For Detective Simms.’

  ‘That’ll be him.’ Frost pointed.

  ‘Artist’s impression of the glamorous granny,’ Simms said.

  ‘I think we need to share this in the privacy of my office.’

  ‘Well, that’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot!’ Simms exclaimed, studying the sketch.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Frost leaned over Simms’s shoulder to get a better look at the drawing of the armed robber who’d snatched Gregory Leather’s wages. ‘Well, if it’s what he saw …’

  ‘Could be anyone!’

  Frost reached for the cigarette pack – empty – though he’d only just that second put one out, and studied the heavily made-up face with huge painted-on lips, crowned with a mass of hair and headscarf. ‘Are you sure we’re not after a man in drag?’ Frost spun round in his chair. ‘Ciggy, please, I’m out …’

  Simms looked forlorn. ‘If it’s what he saw, it’s what he saw – there’s bugger all I can do about it. All that make-up – it’s as good as wearing a mask.’

  Frost took one of Simms’s cigarettes. ‘Now, that’s not the can-do attitude Hornrim Harry likes to hear, is it?’ Simms leaned over with the Zippo. ‘Ta … Urgh! What are these you’re smoking?’

  ‘Silk Cut.’

  ‘Blimey, girl’s fags … What’s come over you?’ he teased.

  ‘They’re not mine … I was given … Never mind. OK, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Get this circulated asap. See what turns up.’

  ‘What, in South Denton? The kid reckons she made off through to the Rec, probably cut across the canal and—’

  ‘No, no.’ Frost stretched and got up, moving to the map of Denton on the far wall. What on earth is the matter with the boy? he thought. He usually has a bit of common sense. ‘She’s hardly going to be dressed as an old dear after pulling off the job, is she? No, stick copies up around Market Square.’ He studied the map. ‘My guess is she’d have come in from the north end of town – to reduce the chances of being seen …’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean to avoid retracing her steps – and triggering people’s memories – she wouldn’t have followed them up to the bank through Foundling Street and back again … No, I reckon she’d come at Market Square from the north either by way of the High Street and across, or, if it was me, Gentlemen’s Walk – it’s pedestrianized, so more foot traffic to blend in with, and brings you out at a good vantage point – and there’s the path that cuts straight through the square. Yep, that’s my best bet.’ Frost jabbed the map with his forefinger. ‘Fly-poster the whole square, but we’ll direct uniform towards the north. Get them on it pronto. And what about the ballistics report?’ Frost frowned. ‘I guess we won’t have that until Monday … Reminds me, I’ve not had sight of the Baskin gun. What’s up with you? Looks like you’re about to pee yourself!’

  Simms was staring at Frost whilst feeling around frenetically in his pockets.

  ‘What are you doing with your hands? I know I’m an attractive bugger, but try and control yourself … Go on, off you go … Get on down to Market Square.’

  Simms hurried out of Frost’s office patting his jeans desperately. Fuck, he muttered, leaning against the wall, hastily emptying his pockets. As soon as Frost mentioned the ballistics report, he’d started to scrabble around furiously for the two pouc
hes he’d signed for yesterday – the bullet cases and the lead removed from Cecil Rhodes’s chest. He sighed, retrieving from his jacket the package that he was handed yesterday by the WPC, but the bullet he’d pulled from the Oildrum Lane car was gone. It had completely slipped his mind – everything pre-Sue telling him her news was a blur.

  Waters sipped slowly on a pint of lager while he waited at the bar of the Bricklayer’s Arms on Foundling Street, one of Denton’s less salubrious addresses, for Kim Myles. His lead from Scotland Yard on the released rapist, Frank Bates, had been a non-event. Frank clearly had more sense than to turn up at his parents’ house, where in all likelihood he’d be lynched for every local sex crime it was possible to pin on him. His parents didn’t even know he was out of prison, and didn’t seem particularly keen to see him either.

  He watched the three bar staff shuffling from pumps to dishwasher. The landlady sat on a high stool at one end of the bar, chain-smoking and chatting with the regulars, pausing every now and then between fags and banter for a swig from a bottle of Guinness. Someone had just put an old Nick Lowe tune on the jukebox. It was a typical pub scene on a Saturday afternoon.

  ‘Wotcha, hon.’ Kim Myles pecked him on the cheek, catching him unawares. ‘What a nice way to spend the weekend!’ she jeered. ‘In the roughest boozer in Denton!’

  ‘Hey, you had the movies last night, didn’t you?’ Though he had to admit that her lush blonde mane and sparkling sapphire eyes were at odds with the drab smoky interior of the pub.

  ‘Yeah.’ She smiled. ‘But I didn’t expect to spend my Saturday afternoon on the lookout for replicants hiding themselves in the midst of Denton lowlife …’

  He waved for the barman. The nineteen-year-old student regarded him cautiously, as had everyone he’d caught the eye of in the pub that afternoon – perhaps his reputation preceded him and they realized he was a policeman, or maybe it was just the fact he was black that spooked people. Whatever the reason, this wasn’t his boozer; he knew it, and they knew it. As the boy fetched Kim’s vodka and topped up Waters’ pint, the landlady nodded from the far side of the bar, indicating he was the lad to speak to.

  ‘Talking of replicants, Mullett could do with some help on that front.’ He held out a five-pound note, meeting the barman’s gaze as he did so. ‘Help him spot a fake from a straight.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Tell you later.’ Waters watched the boy clatter with the till. He was tall but spindly.

  ‘There’s a firework display on at the Rec tonight, can you get time off?’ She rubbed his thigh affectionately.

  ‘I’ll try, but I doubt it, it’s crazy at Eagle Lane.’ The crowd of customers was thinning out as the clientele made for the bookies and the afternoon football, whilst in the far corner by the fruit machines an argument kicked off. ‘How’s Rimmington?’ he asked, one eye on the three men involved.

  ‘Oh, all right … quite interesting, really. The IRIS system went live this morning, so fingers crossed. It’s funny how technology will change the way we work … but that Jim Allen …’

  There were two bikers in leather jerkins, one fat and heavily bearded, the other small and wiry with a moustache; Waters watched the latter prodding a third man in the chest. He was stockily built and wore a sweatshirt. Waters thought he looked familiar.

  ‘… pinched my bum! Hey, are you listening?’

  Waters turned to his girlfriend. ‘Every word, baby.’

  Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass.

  ‘Christ!’ Myles exclaimed. ‘What the …’

  ‘Guess this song gets people like that sometimes,’ Waters joked under his breath. The pub had fallen quiet, apart from the jukebox.

  The smaller biker copied his bigger buddy, cracking a Pils bottle against the side of the fruit machine and waving the jagged shards menacingly at the third man. What happened next was over in seconds: the intended victim made as if to tie his shoelace, but instead grabbed the leg of a stool and whipped it up forcefully to smack it against the back of the big man’s head, at the same time thrusting his elbow into the smaller guy’s gut, and then punching him across the bridge of the nose. Blood spurted as if from a fountain.

  ‘Nice move,’ Waters muttered, recognizing the ex-roofer Steve ‘Mugger’ Moore, who seemed remarkably spry, considering his professed back disability.

  ‘Shouldn’t we step in?’ Myles tugged at the sleeve of his denim jacket.

  ‘Nope, no need,’ he replied as the hefty landlady waded in, fiercely reprimanding the brawlers.

  He turned back to the bar, only to see that the boy had disappeared. ‘Wait a sec.’ He jumped off the stool and dashed out of the front entrance. He was greeted by a stiff wind and nothing else.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Myles was at his side.

  ‘Kid behind the bar … just pegged it.’

  ‘Wait – over there. Look, John.’ Across the road, in the entrance to Tile’s the bookies, stood the student barman watching them. Was he waiting for them? Waters moved into the traffic at a jog. The boy walked off briskly, turning down a side road, but Waters easily caught up with him outside Baron’s Court flats.

  ‘Why’d you bolt like that?’ Waters asked.

  ‘I was scared you were going to ask me questions at the bar.’ The boy was well-spoken, which, given his attire – shredded Punk T-shirt and granddad cardigan littered with badges – took Waters by surprise. Never can tell with students, he thought.

  ‘Had me made for police, right?’

  ‘You’re famous …’ The boy grimaced, then added, ‘In a good way …’

  ‘How, in a good way?’

  ‘A cool … err … guy.’ He hesitated. ‘A very cool black dude.’

  ‘How kind. But how?’

  ‘You spoke to the sixth form at Denton Comp in June, just before I left, on racism … Brixton and that.’ Waters remembered more about Mullett’s cringing request to turn up than about the event itself.

  ‘OK. And yet you couldn’t talk to me in front of that crowd, right?’ He gestured with his chin to the pub behind them. The boy nodded, ashamed. ‘Wise move,’ Waters appeased. ‘They’re a pretty short-fused bunch.’ He offered the lad a cigarette. He thought the boy seemed overly nervous.

  ‘Yeah.’ He drew on the cigarette in the affected manner of the young. ‘You’re here because of the teacher who was raped. Doreen said you were after the bar staff’s addresses.’ He paused.

  ‘And you live on the Southern Housing Estate. But they wouldn’t lynch you for that. We’re making enquiries, is all.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sniffed. ‘I share a flat there with two others.’

  Waters pulled out his notebook from his jeans back pocket. ‘Where were you on Monday night just gone?’

  ‘Band practice.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s your band?’ The boy gave Waters the full low-down on Mindsucker, a Crass-like punk band, and the names of all the members involved. ‘OK, cheers, son, we’ll soon rule you out.’ Waters made to go, but sensed the boy had more to say – the reason he’d wanted to talk away from the pub.

  ‘Wait.’ He touched Waters’ sleeve lightly. ‘The landlord, our landlord – for the flat …’

  ‘Yes?’

  The boy looked nervously about him. ‘You might want to have a word with him.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s … a bit odd. Always making excuses to come into the flat. Says it’s to collect his post. Laura, that’s one of the girls I live with, says he’s really creepy …’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to get into trouble or anything … I mean, we live there.’

  ‘I understand – mum’s the word.’

  ‘OK; it’s just, once she bunked off college with her boyfriend and she caught him going through her … you know.’

  Waters took this to mean her underwear. ‘Uh-huh. And what does this landlord of yours do?’

  ‘Well …
that’s why it might be, you know.’ He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, drawing on the butt of the cigarette like it was an elixir; probably makes a change from roll-ups, Waters thought.

  ‘Go on, the suspense is killing me.’

  ‘He’s a teacher at Denton Comp.’

  Saturday (4)

  Charles Pierrejean pulled the sheet away.

  ‘Et voilà!’

  ‘Sacrebleu!’ Gaston Camus exclaimed. ‘C’est un cheval vraiment magnifique! But how?’

  The pair were in the cramped attic above Avalon Antiques on Gentlemen’s Walk. Pierrejean watched his friend inspecting the painting, the late-afternoon sun through the skylight framing his look of surprise. Having taken a close look Gaston stood pensive, thumbs tucked in a natty maroon waistcoat. Charles had known the half-Algerian Gaston since they were at the lycée in Paris together.

  Gaston’s father, a French diplomat, had fled Algiers in the sixties with his Algerian mistress. Finding himself despised by the patrician French, Gaston survived on wit and cunning, and his flair for mathematics and later finance enabled him to excel against the odds. Charles, himself of mixed blood, felt an immediate affection for the diminutive fellow and the pair soon became firm friends. Now, many years later, Gaston managed Charles’s business affairs, but above and beyond that, Charles valued his erudite and lively companionship in this bleak country. Though of late Charles thought even Gaston was looking pale; the poor climate seemed to drain his vibrant Moorish blood.

  ‘It was easy. These English cannot take their drink. Uncontrolled louts, the lot of them.’ The irony of taking the moral high ground, having just committed grand theft, wasn’t lost on him. ‘Gaston, this’ – he could sense his friend’s bewilderment – ‘will help the Simpsons overcome their loss – it will bring them back to the real world.’

  ‘If you say so, Charles.’ Gaston looked unsure. ‘The police will be looking at all those who attended the wake, non?’ Gaston’s accent was strong and in an effort to shake it off, he insisted on speaking in English even when only in the company of Charles.

  ‘Maybe.’ Pierrejean clapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘But believe me, these snobs would not credit a Frenchman with knowing anything about English art. The beast is beautiful and will fetch a fortune in France, eh? If I decide to sell it, that is—’