by Danny Miller
About the Book
Denton, 1984. After a morning’s betting at the races, bookmaker George Price is found in his car, barely alive with a bullet in his head. As he’s rushed to hospital, Detective Inspector Jack Frost and the Denton police force start their hunt for the would-be murderer.
But with a long list of enemies who might want the bookie dead, the team have got their work cut out. And with a slew of other crimes hitting the area, from counterfeit goods to a violent drugs gang swamping Denton with cheap heroin, the stakes have never been higher.
Will Frost find the answers he’s looking for before things go from bad to worse?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Prologue
Friday (1)
Friday (2)
Friday (3)
Friday (4)
Saturday (1)
Saturday (2)
Saturday (3)
Saturday (4)
Saturday (5)
Saturday (6)
Sunday (1)
Sunday (2)
Sunday (3)
Sunday (4)
Monday (1)
Monday (2)
Monday (3)
Tuesday (1)
Tuesday (2)
Tuesday (3)
Tuesday (4)
Tuesday (5)
Wednesday (1)
Wednesday (2)
Wednesday (3)
Wednesday (4)
Wednesday (5)
Wednesday (6)
Thursday (1)
Thursday (2)
Thursday (3)
Thursday (4)
Thursday (5)
Thursday (6)
Thursday (7)
Friday (1)
Friday (2)
Friday (3)
Three Days Later
Acknowledgements
Read More
About the Author
Also by Danny Miller
Copyright
A Lethal Frost
DANNY MILLER
Prologue
As the horses rounded the last turn and came into the home straight the crowd roared. The favourite, a locally trained thoroughbred, thundered past the winning post after leading the field from the off.
But he wasn’t watching the race; he was watching them. He watched as she kissed him goodbye. It seemed obscene to him: the man was old enough to be her father. He was over sixty and she was only thirty-two. Her birthday was next month. He knew all about her. She was everything to him. She was everything he desired in a woman.
And he knew he had to be with her and he was sure she felt the same. They were meant to be together, whatever the cost. There was only one thing standing in his way. He’d reconciled himself to that fact. It was a hoary old cliché, but one that had been proven time and time again. The course of true love never did run smooth. There was always an obstacle to overcome. Perhaps that’s what made the prize so tantalizing, the thrill of the chase. It was the stuff of all great love stories, and at this stage, with the constant ache that he felt for her pulsing through his body, he was sure he was a character in one of those stories, maybe the greatest one of all, he told himself.
As he watched the big lump of an obstacle make his way to his car, with his disgusting wrinkled liver-spotted hand gripping the leather bag, a bag stuffed full of money, he knew what had to be done. There was only going to be one winner in this race.
He followed the old man to the car park, which was little more than a roped-off field with two geriatric stewards guiding the traffic in and out. He could do it right here, he thought. A bullet, up close, and if he timed it properly the roar of the crowd for the last race would cover the shot. It would take bottle to pull the trigger up close like that; you’d hear the man gasp, see his face contort with shock, maybe get blood on you. It wasn’t like shooting game, some target in the distance. It would take stealth, guile and a firm hand. But he had all those qualities, he was sure. He’d convinced himself that killing the old bastard would be easy. And his hatred for the man was such that he’d dehumanized him a long time ago – as far as he was concerned, the old man was dead already. All he had to do was keep his nerve, get up nice and close and squeeze the trigger to make what had been playing over and over in his head a reality.
As his target lowered his considerable bulk into the little Mercedes, he got into his own car. Yes, the car park was a distinct possibility, but he knew the route the old man would be taking today, and for the next two days. And from Radleigh Park Racecourse to North Denton, where the old man lived, there were also plenty of opportunities to kill him. He turned the key in the ignition, pressed down the accelerator and felt the power of the engine revving behind him, all the time keeping his eye on the prize in front of him.
He followed the Mercedes at a safe distance, but not too far behind. He knew the old man’s eyesight wasn’t that great, but he was too vain to wear glasses even when driving on his own. So he wouldn’t recognize who was following him, it would just be a red blur in the rear-view mirror.
Out on the open road, he almost started to feel sorry for the old bastard. He was no longer the enemy, the obstacle. He was his quarry, his victim. He was as good as dead already.
Friday (1)
Frost was standing in Paradise and looking out over Eden and Utopia.
He pulled a pack of Rothmans from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and sparked one up. He took a long thoughtful pull on the cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke in the direction of Utopia and in a weary voice said, ‘Not much of a view. To be honest, I was expecting more.’
‘But as you can see there’s plenty of parking space. Do you have a car, Mr Frost?’
‘A company car, and I can park that anywhere. It’s one of the perks of the job. But I do have a motorbike. Very temperamental, only likes the hot weather. Currently it’s leaking oil all over the mechanic’s garage floor.’
‘The building does have a gym, Mr Frost. Great for that after-work workout.’
‘Pulling the ring off a can of Hofmeister is about all the exercise I can manage after work.’ Frost had to laugh at the sheer cheek of these property developers; the boxy little ‘apartments’ were hardly anyone’s idea of paradise, no matter how hot the property market was right now.
‘As I was saying, Mr Frost—’
‘Jack, call me Jack.’
Jack. Jack Frost?
Frost tore his gaze away from the vista of the new four-storey developments, whimsically named Eden Gardens, Utopia Tower and Paradise Lodge, and turned his attention towards the young estate agent. ‘What’s so funny about that?’ he asked with a straight face.
‘Nothing, Mr Frost … just …’ The young man cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘If this isn’t to your liking, on the other side of the building with its north-facing aspect you get an oblique view of the Three Elms Forest.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s not been planted yet, but the land has been approved for forestation.’
‘Well, son,’ said Frost, ‘looking out at some little trees growing is something to look forward to in my dotage.’
The estate agent was a bit of a young sapling himself, not long out of his teens. With a head full of hair gel and a top lip furred with bum-fluff, all eight stone of him was slotted into a shiny double-breasted suit that really looked like it was wearing him. His striped shirt was obviously fresh out of the cellophane and still had unsightly creases, but with the addition of thick red braces and a tightly knotted nylon tie that was pilling mercilessly, he probably thought he looked the business.
Frost wasn’t in the mood to shatter the lad’s delusions or confidence, so he threw him an avuncular smil
e and said, ‘Just the three of them, is there?’
‘Eh?’
‘Elms, just the three of them.’
‘Er, I’ll have to check with the office, Mr Frost.’
‘You best do that, son, because three trees does not a forest make. And along with Paradise, Utopia and Eden, you could get nicked under the Trades Description Act for talking utter cobblers.’ Frost gave him a friendly wink, and had another quick recce around the flat, which consisted of three rooms of roughly the same size all painted in magnolia.
The brand-new one-bedroom apartment was the polar opposite of his present accommodation, a furnished studio flat above the Jade Rabbit Chinese restaurant in the High Street. But as characterful as that place was, it had taken its toll. And Frost had come to the conclusion that man cannot live on Kung Po and lager alone, no matter how hard he tried, or even how much he wanted to.
There was also the case of the missing bird. Frost had been put in charge of looking after Monty the parrot, which had once graced the takeaway counter, but after a visit from the health inspector had been moved to share the upstairs flat with Frost. And as much as Frost had forged a career out of locking up the bad guys, the sight of the innocent Monty confined to its cage, literally doing bird for a crime it hadn’t committed, depressed the detective. So every now and then Frost would grant it parole and let it fly around the flat. The lure of cuttlefish and Trill always brought it back to the cage. However, so frequent had these flights become, that Frost had forgotten to check if Monty was back in its cage that particular night before flinging open the window to air the place of its inevitable sweet and sour odours. The minute he’d opened it, Frost felt a flurry of feathers against his cheek as Monty flapped past. And he was sure it squawked ‘See ya’ in his ear as it made its heroic escape.
This had been last week. Old Mrs Fong lost her famed inscrutability and let out a tirade in Cantonese that wasn’t entirely lost in translation on Frost. Monty was in fact Monty II: a recent, much flashier and more expensive replacement for the African Grey that had died a few months earlier (Frost suspected continued exposure to monosodium glutamate had done for it). Which made Monty II’s flight for freedom even more keenly felt by the Fongs. The detective inspector was issued with an ultimatum: unless the bird was back in situ and banged up in its cage within the month, Frost could consider that as his notice period.
Frost said he couldn’t promise anything, and held out little hope of finding Monty. He really couldn’t envisage Superintendent Mullett releasing the necessary manpower that would be required to make such a search successful. But for the last few days Frost had found himself looking up to the heavens more often than usual. He had effectively been homeless since his in-laws had sold the semi that he’d once lived in with his late wife, and he didn’t relish the prospect of finding new digs yet again. But needs must, hence his sneaking out of the CID office on a slow Friday afternoon to visit Paradise.
‘What’s your name again, son?’
‘Jason.’
‘How much is it, Jason?’
‘It’s on the market for twenty-two thousand.’
Bleedin’ daylight robbery, Frost thought to himself. He weighed this up. It did seem like a lot to him. Then again, everything did compared to the large home he’d once shared with Mary, lost to him eighteen months ago. It was a three-bedroom house, which the in-laws had hoped and expected would be filled with grandchildren. It had never happened.
‘What’s it like for grub around here – any good places to eat?’
‘There’s the Chinese on the High Street.’
‘I’m banned.’
Jason’s brow furrowed. Frost’s pager bleeped into action, helping him avoid the lengthy explanation.
George Price was sixty-two years old, according to his driving licence, well over six feet tall, and to Detective Sue Clarke he looked like he tipped the scales at around eighteen stone. So she fully appreciated the effort involved for the four paramedics to remove him from the car, a compact silver Mercedes-Benz 380SL. Thankfully they’d managed to get the top of the convertible down, but to Clarke’s eyes he still resembled a whale jammed into a sardine can. She watched pensively as they eventually secured him to the gurney and put him into the back of the ambulance. She had wanted to help, and felt rather useless standing on the sidelines watching them struggle with the big man, but getting him out of the car and into the ambulance was a job best left to the professionals.
The bullet in George Price’s head had rendered all eighteen stone of him lifeless – but not technically dead. The young couple who had found him had come to the conclusion that he was dead, and had said so quite categorically when they rang 999. Hence the presence of Dr Maltby, the police doctor, who didn’t as a rule court the living, but who had discerned a pulse, and had spotted that the prone man’s barrel chest was moving ever so slightly. Time was now of the essence if George Price’s life was to be saved.
The siren wailed into action and the ambulance pulled out of the lay-by at speed, just as Frost’s Metro was pulling in. The detective inspector announced himself on the scene with a screech of tyres as he braked just in time to avoid a collision. Frost parked the Metro next to a light-blue Ford Fiesta that belonged to the young couple, who were now being questioned by Detective Sergeant John Waters.
Clarke acknowledged Frost with a nod, and saw that he was still shaking his head and muttering obscenities in the direction of the departing ambulance.
‘His name is George Price, shot in the back of the head,’ Clarke informed him.
‘Mm. Name rings a bell. I take it it’s not a murder case just yet, the way they were driving. Unless they crash on the way to the hospital, which is a distinct possibility.’
‘He’s a bookmaker. Got the shop in the High Street, and one in Rimmington, I think. How was it?’
‘What?’
‘The flat?’
‘Wonderful. Paradise on Earth. And I’m not joking, that’s the name of the block.’ A thought struck him. ‘Radleigh races are on today – does George Price ply his trade there as well?’
Clarke shrugged and changed the subject to something she did know about. ‘He was shot just behind the ear, close range. Just the one shot fired. No exit wound. And yes, he’s still alive.’
‘One shot behind the ear at close range. Very professional.’
‘Only if he dies.’
‘Very true, Susan, very true.’ Frost peered into the car as he patted himself down and located his pack of Rothmans, then repeated the process until he’d found his orange Bic lighter. He took a long drag, the nicotine calming his jangled nerves after almost ending up in the back of the ambulance with the gunshot victim. He took in the scene. It was a lay-by off a B-road that, if you were coming from Radleigh Park Racecourse, would lead you to North Denton, which, until he heard otherwise, was Frost’s assumption for Price’s destination.
The lay-by was deeper than normal, and was partially obscured from the road by the thick hedgerow that grew around it. The surface wasn’t tarmacked, just a mixture of gravel, grass and weeds. It was the perfect place to arrange to meet someone and kill them, and then make a quick getaway.
Frost blew out a jet of smoke in the direction of the young couple talking to John Waters, only to have his view obscured by the figure of Maltby. He made his way over.
‘Jack. We can’t find any shell casings. I did get a quick peek at the entry wound before they took him off, and the bullet looks like it went in at an angle, not head on, as it were, suggesting the victim moved. That might well have saved his life. Of course, we won’t really know until we get the X-rays, or they dig the bullet out. Or, worst-case scenario, he dies … then Drysdale at the path lab will only be too glad to get his hands on him.’
Frost gestured towards the couple. ‘I take it those two found him?’
‘Unless they shot him.’
‘Good point. Got any gloves?’
Maltby took a pair of surgical gloves out of his
pocket and handed them to Frost, then went over to join the Forensics boys crouched over what looked like a small pile of litter.
Frost stretched the latex over his right hand, made his way around to the passenger side of the Merc and popped open the glove compartment. Its gaping mouth revealed a folded AA map, a half-eaten tube of Polo mints, a pair of expensive sunglasses and a metal comb.
His focus of attention then turned to the young couple. The girl was sat in the passenger seat of the light-blue Ford Fiesta; the door was open and her feet, shod in white stilettos, rested on the gravel. Rather optimistically for early spring, her legs were bare, but they were long and tanned, although on closer inspection the skin looked an unhealthy mottled carroty colour. Her arms were folded protectively in front of her and she was hunched over, looking exhausted by the whole episode. The man, in his early twenties, was at the side of the car, his hands buried in the pockets of his stonewashed jeans and rocking from heel to toe in his blue suede trainers. He looked rather excited by what was happening around him. Not every day you find someone who’s been shot in the head. And no two people will react the same way to it.
Detective Sergeant Waters was a picture of denim today: jeans, jean jacket and jean shirt. The only thing missing was a waistcoat courtesy of Status Quo, and he’d have the full ensemble. Waters tested the police dress code, and Superintendent Mullett’s patience, with his choice of clobber every day. Frost just laughed – he knew his friend’s favourite film was Serpico, and Waters had openly admitted to being a fan of Pacino’s wardrobe.
‘Jack, this is Derek Reece and Karen Walden,’ said Waters. ‘This is Inspector Frost.’
Frost gave them both encouraging smiles. Derek started to say something, but Waters cut him off and filled Frost in on the main points of their statement. Reece and Walden had just come from the Feathers pub half a mile down the road, when they’d had to pull in so Derek could relieve himself in the bushes.
At this point, Reece spoke up: ‘I’d only had a pint and a half of Foster’s top. I wasn’t over the limit or anything.’
