by Danny Miller
The DS shifted in his seat before answering. ‘Yeah, I suppose I am. You were the victim of a crime, Jack. You were mugged. I checked – a couple of years ago Radleigh races had a spate of drunks being rolled in the car park. It’s easy pickings, they’ve got a wad of cash on them, their guard is down, and they’re followed out of the bar and then coshed over the canister and relieved of their winnings. Easy money for the muggers.’
‘I wasn’t drunk, I was working. Very productive, should go to the races more often, most of the villains in Denton are there. Bumped into Frank Trafford.’
Waters looked blank, as he wasn’t working the case now, and the name meant nothing to him.
‘Long story, but he’s got a moustache, a vicious temper and a weak alibi.’
Waters nodded along, then let out another long plangent whistle for the plight of Frost’s formerly cash-packed wallet. ‘Wow, man, four hundred quid, that’s a lot of bread to win … and then lose.’
‘And the book, the little black book, Jimmy Drake reckoned whoever took a potshot at George Price might very well be in that book. Gambling debts. Makes you think, eh?’
‘It makes me think that you might have lost a valuable piece of evidence that doesn’t belong to you. If, or when, George Price wakes up, he’s going to want his book back. And if Mullett finds out—’
‘Cheers, John! Are you trying to bloody cheer me up or what?’
‘Just saying.’
‘Sod Mullett, Hornrim Harry’s the least of my worries.’ Frost took a moment to think about his situation. Then he let out a plaintive groan and went to shake his head, but it hurt too much. ‘Where’s my Hamlet cigar now, when I need it?’
‘Uh?’
‘Nothing. Did his nibs send you down here?’
‘No, I was already in here last night. I saw them bring you in so I stayed.’
‘You’ve been here all night?’
‘Slept in this very chair.’
‘Your new missus won’t believe that.’
‘You can back me up.’
‘I know I can – and that’s why Kim won’t believe a word, she’s a copper too!’ Joking aside, Frost gave Waters an appreciative smile, as the denim-clad DS rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and indulged in some noisy yawns. As grateful to his friend as Frost was, Waters’ actions also sent a wave of despondency through him as he pondered his present predicament, and it dawned on him just how alone he was. As much as he liked the affable DS, he’d have much preferred to have woken up and seen someone who wasn’t a copper, and who definitely wasn’t a bloke, with a concerned expression on her face as she lovingly unwrapped him a strawberry soft centre from the big tin of Quality Street she’d brought him. In that split second, Frost realized it was time to get back out there again. Make a concerted effort to bag himself another Mrs Frost, or at least get himself a few dates. If only to have someone to watch over him when he got banged on the head, which was an occupational hazard.
‘Who were you here for, Bomber Harris?’
‘No, Tommy Wilkins,’ said Waters. ‘I caught up with him on the SHE.’
‘Did he confess to shooting Bomber?’
Waters laid out the story to Frost, and the whole weird Pax Romana that seemed to be taking place between the two feuding factions. And also the fact that they had both discharged themselves from hospital that morning, together, and then both had been picked up in a black BMW 733i. Waters said that as well as absolving each other of their crimes, they did it all with the minimum of fuss or verbals. They were so uncharacteristically cool and well-behaved about the whole thing that Waters suspected that they’d undergone a frontal lobotomy whilst in hospital.
‘Nah, you have to have a brain in the first place to have one of them,’ said Frost. He then threw back the sheets, sat upright and swung his legs round.
‘Where you going?’
‘First off, I’m going to check on George Price. Then I’m getting a uniform posted outside his room, twenty-four/seven.’
‘Mullett won’t like that. And he wasn’t best pleased you didn’t make the briefing yesterday morning.’
‘Briefing? Oh yeah, I do remember a memo about it, and I also remember filing it under a-sodding-waste-of-my-time,’ said Frost as he ran his fingertips over his bruised ribs like he was gently strumming a guitar. Despite expert medical opinion, they felt broken to him. Whoever had robbed him had taken the opportunity to give him a good kicking too. Which led Frost to believe that he might have previously encountered the perpetrator in a professional capacity.
‘It was a three-line whip, all CID were expected to attend,’ said Waters. ‘It was quite a presentation.’
‘I was busy at the races, doing my job.’
‘That’s the problem – Mullett thinks it’s a waste of time. Case closed, Terry Langdon did it. Uniform can take over from here.’
‘Well, experience has taught me that doing the exact opposite of what our great leader thinks is bound to get results.’
‘Tell you what, though.’ A lubricious smile spread across Waters’ face. ‘That DI Eve Hayward from the counterfeit unit, she’s quite a looker.’
Frost, with fresh determination, said, ‘Right, let’s get out of here,’ and pointed in the direction of his clothes. ‘Pass us those.’
Waters turned round and saw the Y-fronts that may or may not have been white at one time or another draped over the arm of a chair, and grimaced. ‘Not without surgical gloves. You can get them yourself.’
Stanley Mullett was at home, in the garden, powering the electric mower across the lawn with athleticism and precision. He was aiming for the perfect finish, the manicured criss-cross of the hallowed Wembley turf. Not that he was a fan of football, as it seemed to be the preserve of hooligans and took up far too much of his men’s time and resources with policing the wretched games, but the work of the groundsmen had always impressed him.
He was feeling so much better than yesterday, the hangover now a distant memory. Today there would be some sherry before dinner, and maybe a pint at their favourite country pub on the usual Sunday drive with his wife, Grace, but nothing like the session he had endured with his fellow superintendents.
And yet, the image of Eve Hayward in her crisp white shirt and black pencil skirt, with her shiny auburn bob and striking features, had not left him. And somehow, a whole Sunday at home with Mrs Mullett seemed like a life sentence. He wanted to be at Eagle Lane; he knew that DI Hayward would be going about her duties today, visiting markets, boot fairs and local suppliers in her search for counterfeit goods.
As buttoned up as he was about his emotions, he recognized the impropriety of his thoughts about Eve. And maybe that’s why he was doing such a thorough and vigorous job mowing the lawn. He was really putting his back into it, trying to exhaust himself, to take his mind off her, expunge all thoughts of her.
‘Darling?’
He didn’t hear his wife, calling to him from the French windows. His mind was on other things, going through the throes of a romantic tryst with Eve Hayward. There she was standing before him, just as she had been at the briefing, but now it was just the two of them. Everything that had been so damned enticing about her yesterday was even more so now: the lips were redder, the fitted shirt was tighter, the skirt was shorter, the heels were higher, the pointer she had in her hand now resembled a rider’s crop, and she was—
‘What on earth is wrong with you?’
He felt the sudden jab on his arm. He turned and saw Grace, his sour-faced wife, with an especially curdled expression on her now. His disappointment was palpable.
‘Sorry,’ he uttered, ‘I was …’
‘You were what?’ She was slowly looking him up and down with a scowl of disgust. ‘Just as well it’s the rear lawn, I suppose, where the neighbours can’t see you! It’s the phone, for you,’ she barked before turning her back on him and stalking up to the house.
Mrs Mullett hadn’t had to read his mind to know what he was thinking out there in t
he back garden – his train of lust-filled thought was very pronouncedly made flesh – and she was most definitely going to give him the cold shoulder for the rest of the day.
Two hours later, and Stanley Mullett was at the Denton and Rimmington Golf Club, teeing off for a quick seven holes with Peter Kelsey. Mullett was delighted at the call from Rimmington’s superintendent. It had facilitated his escape from Grace, and it should break him out of his immoral thoughts of Eve Hayward; it was Sunday, after all. Though even out here on the greens, every now and again images of the delectable DI were popping up when he least expected or needed them – he was pretty sure he’d sliced the ball on his last shot because of her.
And there was the added bonus that he enjoyed Kelsey’s company. He was younger than Mullett, and full of ambition. Which would normally be grounds for the Denton super to take an instant dislike to the man. But a pleasing rapport had prevailed between the two, especially recently, when the older officer had rather taken on a mentoring role to the young superintendent. And Mullett was happy to help. If he could give Kelsey one piece of advice, it would be about his dress sense, especially on the greens. Mullett, who largely based his golf on Gary Player, with his steady determination and unfussy game, heartily approved of the Black Knight’s predilection for wearing sober black on the course, and was himself never seen in anything racier than dark blue. He considered Peter Kelsey to be a bit flash. The younger superintendent was again wearing the most lurid of golfing attire: as on Friday afternoon, he was a riot of colour and argyle patterns. Mullett thought he would take this opportunity to steer him in the right sartorial direction, as it was not the sort of thing he wanted to encourage at the golf club; probably around the fifth hole would be the time to broach the subject.
‘Good shot, Stanley. You’ve avoided the rough.’
It was a good shot, Mullett thought, one of his better ones, but still plenty of room for improvement. ‘Too close to the trees for my liking.’
‘Have you ever played the links up in Scotland? I still have a place back home, near Fort William. It’s little more than a croft, but it’s comfortable enough and there’s always a few wee drams to keep the cold out. The wife doesn’t like it much, too far away from the shops.’
‘I can imagine. I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, Peter, but you certainly have a very attractive wife. You’re a lucky man. The few times I’ve seen her, she’s looked like she’s stepped off the set of Dynasty. Must cost you a fortune.’
‘I am lucky. And it’s an expense I’m happy to live with – if Patricia’s happy, I’m happy.’
‘Yes, I’m glad to say I’m not encumbered with such an expense …’ said Mullett, starting off cheerily, then trailing off gloomily as the dowdy Mrs Mullett came to mind.
‘But do give it some thought. If we could get a week off work, just the two of us, we could go up there and play the links. St Andrews, best course in the world. I think you would love it.’
‘Very generous of you, yes, I think I could wangle that. You Scotsmen certainly know your golf, I’ll give you that!’
With that, Peter Kelsey hit his ball straight down the middle. The Scotsman smiled wryly, uttered something about getting lucky on that one, and they strode off to join the queue. The course was unsurprisingly busy, which was just how Mullett liked it. As the club chairman, he enjoyed soaking up the adulation and respect that came with the role, in the form of deferential nods and greetings from the great and the good of the area.
‘So, how’s the shooting of the bookmaker going, Stanley? What’s the chap’s name again …?’
‘Price, George Price.’
‘Of course, it’s not a murder case yet, is it?’
‘No, he’s still in a coma. I believe he is to have a second operation soon. But even if he pulls through, with a bullet in the brain, who knows the damage it will have done? He may never be able to function properly again.’
Mullett and Kelsey waved at two men heading in the opposite direction in a golf buggy – Sir Robert Elmore, Denton and Rimmington MP, and local Tory councillor Edward Havilland.
The Denton super said, ‘They say a game of golf is a good walk spoilt, and I can’t say I approve of buggies. Don’t get that on the links, I bet.’
Kelsey smiled. ‘It’s not as if Councillor Havilland couldn’t do with a good walk, either.’
‘Too true, Peter. I’m surprised he can fit into a buggy.’
Kelsey laughed and complimented Mullett on his wicked sense of humour before asking, ‘Have you narrowed down the field?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Suspects for the Price shooting?’
‘Pretty much case closed. Looked like a robbery gone wrong at first, but now it looks like a fellow bookmaker did it. Long-standing feud, apparently. He was also, allegedly, having an affair with Price’s wife.’
‘Surely it should have been the other way around then, and Price should have shot Langdon?’
‘Langdon?’
‘You said the other bookmaker?’
‘So I did. Yes, Langdon. Well, we all know how ridiculously stupid and irrational things can get when love enters the frame. Logic goes straight out of the window.’
‘Sounds pretty cut and dried to me. And you have witnesses, I believe?’
‘That’s right. Gave a good description of Langdon, and his car, leaving the scene at speed. A minute earlier, and they’d probably have been in danger of getting shot themselves.’
‘You consider him that dangerous?’
‘Like I said, crimes of passion, unpredictable; when a man kills for money there’s less emotion involved. We’re warning the public not to approach him. But it’s the type of clear-up I like, solve the crime within forty-eight hours. Even if we don’t yet have him in custody, it’s still job done.’
‘It does sound like it. Sounds indeed like job done, and makes you wonder why your man Frost thinks otherwise.’
‘Frost?’
‘You’ve not heard? About Jack Frost spending most of the day at the Radleigh races yesterday?’
No, no one had told him. But that didn’t come as too much of a surprise; he’d long suspected that others in CID, and lower in the ranks, habitually covered for Frost. Frost could be as bad-tempered and cutting as the worst of them. He could work his team into the ground to get results, and hardly set a good example as far as discipline and propriety were concerned – and yet he had their respect, and they had his back. It was unfathomable and it rankled.
And it rankled even more when hearing it from a fellow superintendent from another area; it made him look inefficient and not in full mastery of his brief. He knew Kelsey was trying to help, but still Mullett’s mood blackened. He was pretty sure he’d raise Kelsey’s dress sense at the very next hole.
Sunday (2)
‘This is a hell of a place they’ve got here. George Price has done very well for himself,’ whispered DS Waters.
‘Men like him and Harry Baskin know where the money is: sex and gambling. Talking of which, she’s not bad either,’ muttered Frost, in the same hushed tones as Waters, as he gestured towards the cluster of framed ‘glamour’ pictures of Melody Price. They were perched on the top shelf of the smoked-glass and steel entertainment centre that also housed the top-of-the-range Bang & Olufsen stereo equipment.
The two detectives sat on the cream sofa, waiting for Melody to arrive with a pot of fresh coffee. Both men were grateful for it; it had been a long night for Waters, and Frost was still groggy.
The first thing the DI had done once he’d discharged himself was to call Sue Clarke. Her mother, with the customary cold edge that ran through her voice whenever she spoke to him, said that Sue wasn’t at home as she had stayed the night at the Prince Albert Hotel. She then hung up briskly before he could ask any more. Frost, rather intrigued, called the Prince Albert, and eventually got hold of Clarke, who briefed him on the details of her visit the previous day to Michael Price.
Frost then asked her
what on earth she was doing at the posh hotel. The DC sighed, then made some noises that sounded like giggling, but equally they could have just been her clearing her throat. She said it had been a long night and then rang off almost as fast as her mother. She sounded hung-over. Frost recognized a hung-over female voice when he heard one: invariably husky and sexy. But what the blazes was she doing there? And who was she with, more to the point?
With Frost unable to drive due to doctor’s orders, and Clarke seemingly unavailable to ‘chauffeur’ him about, Frost had seconded DS Waters for the duty.
‘Wow, Jack, you certainly do look like you’ve been in the wars, you poor thing,’ said Melody Price, in a voice that billed and cooed like she was addressing a three-year-old. She was carrying a tray with three bone-china cups and saucers, a silver milk jug and sugar bowl, and a big cafetière full of pitch-black coffee.
Waters sprang to his feet and in three energetic bounds was at her side, relieving her of the tray and putting it on the coffee table.
‘Oh, thank you, John – you don’t mind me calling you John?’
‘Not at all, Melody, not at all,’ said Waters with an eager-to-please smile plastered across his face.
Frost sat there, looking just as Melody had described, with his black eye and a big bandage wrapped around his head. No longer the recipient of Melody’s attention, Frost watched on as she worked her magic on Waters. He couldn’t help but smile. Sue Clarke, with her female intuition and competitiveness, had sussed her out right from the start. There was no sisterhood with Melody Price. She knew where her power lay; like with Maggie Thatcher and her all-male Cabinet, wrapped around her perfectly manicured little finger.
Once all the coffees were poured, Melody asked, ‘So, Jack, tell me, how was George this morning? I’m seeing him after the races tonight.’ Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Waters. ‘Being in a coma, John, I know he doesn’t see me, but I sense he senses my presence, my physical presence. My aura, if you will. He breathes easier when I’m there.’ She then turned her gaze back to Frost, and winced at the sight of him. ‘You’re always better just handing over your money, instead of putting up a fight … and losing.’
