Morning Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘Not as sly as you, Harry.’ He shuffled the deck proficiently. ‘Important information, my arse.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Jack.’ Baskin looked woeful. ‘It’s lonely in here – and the missus isn’t talking to me. She’s very fond of Cecil.’

  ‘I’m not surprised she’s peeved.’

  ‘It’s not my fault my sister’s boy got plugged, it’s their fault for foisting the useless worm on me in the first place. It could have been me six feet under, how’d she feel then?’

  The door went.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate on how she’d receive that piece of good fortune,’ Frost replied idly. A red-headed nurse entered the low-lit room without a sound and removed the thermometer. Frost eyed her and pondered for the millionth time why a girl in uniform seemed instantly desirable. Judging by the smile on his face, Baskin was equally appreciative, but this switch into ‘lecherous old uncle’ mode surprised Frost. Harry had always pleaded immunity to female charm due to over-exposure. The young girl, oblivious to all of this, or simply disinterested, shook the instrument.

  ‘You’re doing well, Mr Baskin. There’s some colour in your cheeks too.’ That’ll be the vodka, Frost thought.

  ‘Thank you, nurse. I must admit I’m feeling pretty perky.’ Baskin grinned.

  ‘Well, we’ll see how you are tomorrow morning, but I think we might be able to let you go home after breakfast.’

  ‘Really, nurse, that would be grand.’ She picked up the water pitcher and made to top up the two glasses on the table. Harry swiftly covered his. ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ he said, a little too hastily.

  ‘Very well. But don’t be playing cards with your friend all night.’ She glanced at Frost with a faint trace of a smile.

  ‘I promise not to keep the old boy up all night, nurse.’ Frost smirked.

  As soon as she closed the door behind her, Harry whipped the Smirnoff bottle out from underneath the covers.

  ‘“Friend” is pushing it a bit,’ Frost scoffed.

  ‘Ahh, come on, we rub along.’ Baskin smiled, topping up the glasses.

  ‘Tell me, was there any chance the lad was in debt? Drugs?’

  Baskin shook his head. ‘Nah, might have done a bit of weed – would certainly explain his lack of spark – but nothing to warrant getting taken out.’

  ‘What about his girlfriend?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She know anything, you think?’ Frost dealt the cards.

  ‘Nah.’ Baskin squinted at his cards. ‘’Ere, pass me my specs.’

  Frost reached over and took the spectacles off a tatty copy of The Ipcress File.

  ‘Tell me, Harry,’ Frost mused. ‘If it was you trying to shoot you, how would you go about it?’ He had left it until now to quiz Harry properly. He figured that now he was calm and out of danger he might be thinking straight.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, first of all, where would be the best place to do it?’

  ‘At the club. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so precious little chance of witnesses.’ The Grove was in an isolated spot down an unsurfaced road that stretched away for half a mile or so; there were woods on one side, fields on the other.

  ‘But there’s only one way there, along that narrow road,’ said Frost, ‘so more of a risk of being seen, surely?’

  Harry ruminated. ‘Ah, but there’s a path; runs out from the back of the club through the woods, along between the field and the hedge. Can’t see it from the back of the club – need to know it’s there. Bert Williams would certainly have remembered it from back in the day. The girls used to use it when we got raided, before we had a licence …’

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘Yeah – runs all the way along to the main road. They didn’t always need to go that far – sometimes they’d hide by the hedgerow, wait till they’d see the flashing blue light bomb back up the road – then double back and pick up where they’d left off.’ Baskin laughed in a soft, gravelly tone.

  ‘Don’t you see then, Harry, it must’ve been one of your girls who plugged you?’

  He shook his head. ‘She couldn’t have come that way. This bird was dressed up to the nines … heels, the works. Not the sort of clobber for traversing ploughed fields and the like.’

  ‘But did you hear a car pull up or anything like that?’

  ‘Can’t recall it.’

  ‘Tell me, where exactly does this path join the main road? I might just go for a ramble tomorrow. Breath of fresh air might do me good. Hospitals: unhealthy places, wouldn’t you say?’

  Brazier filled his French friend’s wine glass right to the brim, as only one unaccustomed to drinking wine with meals would do. Typical of this primate of an Englishman, thought Pierrejean. The red liquid, only a fraction lighter than the gaudy diningroom interior, was unpalatable.

  ‘Good stuff this French vino. Brought this bottle along myself – Piat d’Or. The right stuff, or what?’ D’Or was pronounced du oar. Pierrejean smiled faintly; to him this watery table wine would be an insult to children – still, this French invasion had opened doors to entrepreneurs like himself.

  ‘So,’ began the large, pockmarked man sitting next to him. ‘How do you find the antiques business in Denton, Monsieur Pierrejean?’

  ‘Charles, please.’ He shrugged. ‘Flat, but it’s early days. I’m sure there are many hidden gems out here – one just has to familiarize oneself with the county.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ The girl who was seated next to Brazier smiled. ‘Anything valuable within a twenty-mile radius of Rimmington Marty’s already stolen.’ The girl – and it was the girl; there was no mistaking her beauty – had remained quiet and aloof during introductory cocktails, but the third-rate plonk had brought a glow to her cheeks and she had relaxed her guard a fraction. Yes, it must be the woman who had checked herself in his shop window. Though her hair was blonde then; not the short auburn look now on display.

  ‘Is that so,’ he replied, gently pushing away the rock-hard melon starter. The glacé cherry alone was enough to make him nauseous. ‘But Mr Palmer is a shrewd businessman with a snooker club to run, he has no time for what are really no more than baubles.’

  Palmer snorted loudly.

  ‘You’d be surprised at what he dabbles in,’ the girl cut in before Palmer could speak, reaching over and clutching his podgy fist, ‘though watch it … He’s a wily one, and not always reliable, are you, eh, Pumpy?’

  ‘Too much drink is bad for little Loulou – careful, my sweet; we want you to wake up tomorrow.’

  Pierrejean, who now even dreamed in English, found he was lost at Palmer’s remark, which had wiped the smile off the girl’s face in an instant. He attempted to lighten the mood. ‘Tell me, Mr Palmer, how does one acquire such a cute nickname?’

  ‘I can tell you that, it’s—’ Brazier burst out.

  ‘Quiet, Jules!’ exclaimed his wife in alarm.

  ‘See that cabinet in the hall?’ Brazier blurted out, topping up his own glass.

  ‘Cabinet?’ Pierrejean was confused.

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s a gun cabinet. Shotguns.’

  ‘I see.’ The connection still eluded him.

  ‘Your usual crim round here favours a sawn-off – but not Marty. When it comes down to business, he settles for nothing less than a Remington or Winchester pump-action.’

  Pierrejean sensed Palmer stiffen next to him.

  ‘Darling, enough,’ Brazier’s wife hissed. The table had gone quiet. Only the girl looked amused.

  A waiter entered the room and started to collect up the plates.

  ‘You mustn’t listen to tittle-tattle, Charles,’ Palmer said. He noticed the waiter clearing barely touched melon. ‘Our fruit not up to French standards?’

  ‘At least we’ve got some decent French wine,’ Brazier insisted.

  ‘The wine’s piss, Julian.’ Palmer snapped his fingers at the manservant. ‘Cable.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘F
etch something expensive from the cellar, would you?’ He wiped his hands on a napkin and tossed it over his shoulder. ‘Not much I can do about the fruit, but I can at least make amends for the wine.’

  Pierrejean felt obliged to say something complimentary. ‘I did detect a most divine aroma from the kitchen – something familiar, although I couldn’t quite place it.’

  ‘Duck à l’orange,’ the girl said with a flourish, her good mood seemingly restored.

  ‘Really?’ He rubbed his taut stomach in a sign of appreciation, then noticed his host’s considerable distance from the table, enforced by his voluminous paunch, and stopped.

  ‘And Marty had a hand in it himself.’

  ‘Louise is not wrong,’ Palmer confirmed with glee. ‘Shot the buggers myself. Serves ’em right for straying from the lake out back.’

  Pierrejean saw a comic opening. ‘So in England, they stuff a chicken and “pump” a duck?’ As laughter erupted around the table the waiting staff appeared with the aforementioned waterfowl.

  The Frenchman took the opportunity to quiz his female tablemate. ‘And what, if I may enquire, do you do, Louise?’

  ‘I used to be a dancer.’

  ‘Oh really? What kind? Ballet? Disco? Flamenco?’

  ‘Glamour,’ Palmer said sniffily. ‘Burlesque.’

  ‘Not much glamour at the Coconut Grove now!’ Brazier chuckled. ‘More of a blood bath.’ He lit a cigarette even though the main course had just been placed in front of him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Pierrejean raised an eyebrow towards the car dealer.

  ‘It’s a tatty nightclub just outside Denton. The owner and a lad were shot on Thursday morning. Nasty business. Of course, the police haven’t a clue.’

  It was the first Pierrejean had heard of that shooting. And it was not the only shooting in Denton – they also had to find an armed robber who had made off with a payroll, as he was currently hearing. Both crimes appeared to have been perpetrated by a woman.

  ‘The women in Denton,’ Charles said aside to Palmer, though his gaze was on Louise, while Brazier prattled gaily on, ‘are handy with a gun, eh?’

  ‘Some more so than others,’ Palmer said, then added, ‘But yes, I wouldn’t trust them – dangerous bints, all right.’

  Charles thought he hadn’t followed Palmer’s words but he wasn’t concerned; happily Denton Police appeared rushed off their feet and his own crime seemed very ‘small beer’ in comparison. The wine relaxed him and he studied Louise chatting energetically. So, she was a common stripper? In spite of this tawdry fact he still regarded her as a beauty, and not just for the obvious reasons, although he could hardly ignore the frankly magnificent cleavage bursting out of a sparkling purple dress that seemed more appropriate for a discotheque. She and Brazier were heatedly discussing the club, Louise having rallied to its defence.

  ‘Come off it, you two. Let’s not dwell on this rather sordid event – Charles, tell us what you’ve been up to this week?’ Palmer brought him back down to earth.

  Pierrejean gave a deferential nod to Elizabeth Brazier. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Palmer, it’s been something of a solemn week.’ Palmer shot Elizabeth a sympathetic look, having just put two and two together.

  ‘Apologies, yes.’

  ‘Sorry, have I missed something?’ Louise enquired.

  ‘My sister …’ Elizabeth started.

  ‘Elizabeth’s sister, Mary, was buried on Thursday,’ Brazier said soberly.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’ Louise flashed a look at Palmer as if to say, why didn’t you tell me?

  ‘It’s all right – it wasn’t sudden,’ Elizabeth Brazier replied, regaining her composure. The waiter offered her the wine to try and she gratefully accepted.

  ‘Your parents’ hospitality was exceptional,’ Pierrejean soothed.

  Brazier patted his wife’s cheek supportively. ‘Yes, it was, as they say, a bit of a do. Although rather too many policemen there for my liking.’

  ‘That was unavoidable, Julian,’ his wife admonished.

  ‘How so?’ Louise said casually; Pierrejean watched her intently. Just how cool was this woman, he wondered?

  ‘Mary was married to one of Denton’s finest – Detective Sergeant Jack Frost. A colourful character,’ Palmer explained. ‘Wonder how he’ll cope.’ Pierrejean didn’t really know his host, but gauged the remark was made with little concern for Frost’s welfare.

  ‘He’ll be just fine,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘I doubt he’ll even notice.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Charles asked, his interest piqued, having briefly met the man in question at the wake.

  ‘Married to the job,’ Palmer said. ‘Tenacious bugger – never at home. Only the other week, one of my boys found him asleep in his car out on the Denton Road.’

  ‘All the more reason he should give back the house,’ Elizabeth said bitterly. She saw the others needed an explanation. ‘My parents lent them the money to buy it. A substantial Victorian semi – very nice.’

  ‘Oh really, where’s that?’ Louise asked innocently, her greeny-brown eyes flashing over her wine glass.

  ‘Vincent Close, on the outskirts of Denton, off Green Lane.’

  Charles Pierrejean was beginning to change his mind about Denton. He sensed it was an extraordinary little town and was intrigued to see how things would develop. He took a healthy swig of the Pinot Noir, which was, to his surprise, first-rate.

  Frost didn’t notice the water as he crossed the threshold, leaving the key in the door and clutching a Kung Po Extra-Ping from the Jade Rabbit. Nor did he even flinch as he splashed down the dark hallway. He was thoroughly shattered, and it was not until he flicked on the kitchen light that the sensation of wet feet connected with the flooded room.

  ‘Balls,’ he said softly. He surmised that the washing machine had broken down. It was ten-ish, so there was nothing to be done about it now. He scrabbled around for a corkscrew, then picked up the spoon out of yesterday’s dinner bowl and shoved it in his back pocket.

  He glanced into the lounge, where the standard lamp had been left on since the previous evening. The room was also sodden, but he breathed a sigh of relief – at least he’d picked up the records from the floor yesterday. He grabbed volume five of Oman’s exhaustive history of the Peninsular War from the settee and wedged it under his arm – he could do with hearing of a win, and Wellington’s decisive victory at Salamanca in 1812 would be just the ticket, should he manage to stay awake for more than a minute.

  He felt the draught as he re-entered the dark hall. Flaming heck, he cursed, I can’t even remember to shut my own front door. But no sooner had he thought this than he became aware of a presence in the doorway. Too tired to pussyfoot around, Frost brazenly marched up to meet the figure.

  ‘You left the front door open.’

  Frost’s hand brushed by the intruder’s shoulder as he switched the light on.

  ‘There’s a bell!’ he pointed out to a pasty Derek Simms.

  ‘Jesus – you’re flooded!’

  ‘You’ll make a detective yet, son. Come upstairs to the temporary dining quarters.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what it’s about?’

  ‘I imagine it’s of some crucial urgency, otherwise it would surely wait until the morning.’ Frost paused on the second stair. ‘However, I have a crucial urgency for this Kung Po Extra-Ping, and a discounted bottle of French plonk.’

  ‘It can wait, I guess … Sorry to disturb you,’ Simms said hesitantly.

  ‘Come in, you’re here now – here, hold that, and come get a glass.’ Frost passed the book over, and sploshed towards the kitchen to grab the bottle and takeaway. ‘Picked up this little French number from the offie – buy two, get one free. Not bad … never used to be able to get decent wine in Denton.’ Frost was glad of the unexpected company, but sensed something must be troubling the lad for him to make a trip out on a Saturday night, and wanted to put him at his ease. ‘Now, what’s the problem?’


  ‘Well, it’s not much – it’s thanks to bad luck I’m here; the car broke down at the crossroads, I knew you were nearby, so chanced it you’d be in and I could call a cab.’

  ‘That little red number of yours?’ Frost ushered him into the upstairs study, thinking it unlikely that he would be the first port of call unless something really was on Simms’s mind, given the pub on the corner.

  ‘Yeah, the Alfa. Bloody exhaust just fell off.’

  ‘Well, it is a bit of a hairdresser’s car,’ Frost joked, flicking on the desk light. The boy looked like he felt, exhausted, though it wasn’t much after ten. ‘Take a pew.’

  Simms sunk into the old armchair, quite literally; the seat had gone, it need restuffing and recovering, or perhaps, now Mary had gone, throwing away. Frost passed him a glass of wine and tucked into the lukewarm Kung Po, having offered the first orange spoonful to the young DC, who shook his head.

  ‘Marie Roberts,’ Simms started uncertainly. ‘I think she’s lying.’

  Frost nodded, but said nothing; he’d had suspicions from the instant he’d left the school that something didn’t stack up. Simms went on to elaborate about how Clarke had asked him to check out the woman’s story about her movements on Friday night.

  ‘Of course, there’s nothing wrong with her going out, even if it did seem surprising after what she’d been through that morning, but Sue reckoned she’d been so adamant that she’d had no interest from men, so it was worth checking out …’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Frost said, taking a gulp of wine. ‘And where is DC Clarke? Do you know?’

  Simms was looking towards the floor. When he lifted his head his expression had changed. ‘In Colchester, in Essex.’

  Where her parents live. That much Frost did know; and he now suddenly clocked the true motivation behind Simms’s visit. He held Simms’s eye and with his best avuncular smile said, ‘And perhaps that’s the real reason you’re here?’

  Simms left the Frost house shortly before twelve. It was a grim, foggy night, and being a Saturday the wait for a minicab would have been an hour plus, so Frost had kindly lent him the Cortina. He’d originally offered him the spare room, but Simms felt that was overstepping the mark.