by Danny Miller
Waters got up again and reached behind his faithful old Grundig to fiddle with the vertical hold until Sue Lawley stopped looking like she was going around on a Ferris wheel.
The soundtrack from the bedroom changed – it was now ‘The Reflex’ by Duran Duran. Waters winced and closed his eyes, the only reflex it hit him with was his gag one. Kim’s lapses in musical taste were forgivable because as far as he was concerned she got everything else right. When he opened his eyes again, he was on the telly, looking like he was singing the song in a very downmarket MTV video. He was, in fact, standing in front of the microphone for the press conference on the steps of Eagle Lane station.
Duran Duran went silent. ‘Turn it up, babe!’
John Waters turned round to see Kim in the living-room doorway. She looked gorgeous in a little black ra-ra skirt and boob tube, and a pair of red patent-leather pumps with a high heel that worked her perfectly sculpted calves.
‘Oh no, you’ve gone, just that moody so-and-so now!’ she said, attaching a pair of drop earrings.
John Waters looked back to the Grundig and saw the four area superintendents in the background, looking sombre in an obviously posed shot, as the reporter spoke about how the police were preparing to deal with the growing threat of drugs reaching the suburbs and market towns, and who knew where next, the villages?
‘Mullett? I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘Not your super. Mine. Peter Kelsey.’
‘I thought you got on all right with him?’
‘Not lately, I haven’t. He’s been a real pain, driving everyone at work mad, happy one minute, buying everyone drinks, then shouting his head off at us the next. A real moody piece of work, he is.’
‘That’s bosses the world over, love, one rule for them …’
‘He keeps flying off the handle at anything, and it’s not our fault. The other day we were—’
‘Let’s not talk shop, babe, not tonight. In fact, let’s not go out into the big bad world at all,’ he said, giving her his lustful attention. ‘We can stay in.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I’d rather just the two of us snuggle on here.’ He patted the seat of the sofa.
Kim angled her head to deliver an eviscerating look. ‘If you think I’ve gone to all this effort to snuggle up on the sofa and watch TV, you’re crazy. I’ve booked the table. It’s done. And anyway, I have a surprise for you that warrants a bottle of Moët.’
Waters smiled obligingly and calculated the expense. They were going to that new bistro that had opened up recently. Kim disappeared back into the bedroom to put on the finishing touches.
He wondered what the surprise was, but not too much; his mind was still on the Southern Housing Estate, thinking about the plight of the two boys. Heroin use was on the rise. It was ‘flooding the streets’ – the go-to term used in the press and media when they wanted to lazily sum up what was happening. But floods were indiscriminate, thought Waters – natural disasters that could strike anywhere at any time. Heroin wasn’t. Heroin wasn’t flooding the streets of Kensington, Knightsbridge or Tunbridge Wells; it was flooding the sink estates. It thrived in poverty, hopelessness, boredom and unemployment.
The room became fragrant with Rive Gauche and Waters snapped out of his indignant reverie, as once again Kim was framed in the doorway. As frames went it was perfectly inadequate – it should have been elaborately carved and covered in gold leaf to hold the work of art that was Mrs Kim Waters. She looked as good as she smelled. Again he felt the pang not to go out, but for different reasons this time.
‘I’m not happy about this.’
‘So you’ve said,’ murmured Detective Constable Sue Clarke distractedly as she opened the top drawer of a bow-fronted antique chest.
Melody Price and her lawyer had followed the officers from room to room as they searched the house. In George Price’s study they had hit what Frost considered to be the real potential treasure trove of evidence, a wall safe hidden behind a painting of Wellington victorious at Waterloo. It was stuffed full of ledgers. There was also a leather-topped banker’s desk packed to the gunwales with betting slips and IOUs.
And whilst Frost and the team bagged those items up, Melody had now accompanied Sue Clarke into the inner sanctum of the master bedroom. The bed was a French mahogany four-poster and the walls were adorned with framed nudes, all well-executed copies of masterpieces through the ages, from Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus to Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
Clarke methodically went through all four drawers.
‘Told you, nothing,’ hissed Melody Price.
The detective then padded over to the first bedside table and went to open the drawer, but discovered it was locked. Clarke turned round to Melody Price, who was stood in the doorway, arms folded, defiant.
‘Could you unlock this, please?’
‘Key’s in my bag.’
Clarke followed the barely discernible gesture Melody made towards the armchair in the corner of the room. It was where clothes got temporarily dumped, rather than somewhere to sit. There was a woman’s beige coat draped across the arm and a navy-blue handbag with two big gold interlocking-G clasps on it that told the world it was Gucci, and probably cost more than everything that the DC was wearing. Clarke gave an internal sigh of yearning, and couldn’t wait to get her hands on it. She was sure that if Melody Price wasn’t watching over her, she’d have catwalked it around the room, checking herself out in the full-length mirror.
As Clarke’s hand touched the bag, Melody Price took a sudden and involuntary sharp intake of breath. Sue turned to face her, but Melody was already at her side, and grabbing at the bag. By instinct, Clarke pulled the bag away from her.
‘What are you playing at?’ asked Clarke.
‘It’s my bag! I’ll give you the bloody key.’
Mrs Price lunged and went to grab it again, and again. As she did so, Clarke, now getting angry, pulled it away from her. This time she leaned too far and as the bag hit the wall, its contents fell out on to the floor.
‘You’re trying to obstruct me doing my—’ Sue Clarke stopped talking as they both looked down at the spillage. Along with a set of keys, a handbag-sized can of extra-hold Elnett hairspray and other sundries, there was a manila envelope whose sides had split due to the weight of the object it was no longer concealing: a diamond and emerald necklace.
Wednesday (5)
Frost arrived at the Shepherd’s Crook public house in North Denton at 8.30 p.m. He’d just come from George Price’s bookmaking shop near Market Square. Again, there they’d boxed up all the documents and ledgers that might be of interest and had taken them over to Eagle Lane to be pored over. This was nitty-gritty forensic work just as much as dusting for fingerprints or ogling fibres down a microscope. And it demanded concentration, as you soon got snow-blind to the figures and letters in front of you, until you could no longer discern any meaning from them. Frost assured Clarke and the rest of the team that he’d be back later to help them out, but first he had a pressing engagement to attend to.
He made his way through to the private bar. He’d been in this pub before, with its black-waxed beams and low-slung ceiling making you feel like a Tudor squire when you walked in, but it was far from being a local boozer. It had an out-of-town upmarket feel about it. They served food, never showed the football, and it was a safe distance from Eagle Lane, thus making it the perfect place to meet Eve Hayward.
He was early, but she was even earlier. She was sitting at a corner table, a half-quaffed gin and tonic in front of her. Frost got her another G&T and a pint of Hofmeister for himself.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ he said, setting the drinks down on the table and taking a seat opposite her. He offered her a Rothmans, which she refused, and he sparked up.
‘We had arranged it before.’
‘So we had. Although, to be honest, what with everything that’s been going on, the heroin overdose and the—’
‘The mu
rder of the bookie’s clerk, Jimmy Drake?’
‘That’s right. Interesting you made the distinction of him being a clerk. You know much about racing?’
‘I know a bit about gambling – when to take one and when not to.’
‘And I bet you always come out on top. Cheers.’
They raised their glasses to each other and took a swig of their drinks. As they did, Frost took the opportunity to assess her at close quarters, and it looked like she was doing the same with him, but he doubted she was enjoying the view half as much. It was hard to tell her age; there were some faint laughter lines around the eyes, but that was about it. She had a flawless quality about her, her skin pegged out tight across high cheekbones and a strong jaw. If he was to assign a number to her, it would be thirty-three, but that arbitrary figure was reached because of the way she held herself – she had the carriage and the confidence of a mature woman.
‘So, Inspector Frost—’
‘I thought we’d settled on Jack?’
‘Jack.’
‘Eve. So how was your day, or days, since we last spoke? Been busy?’
‘Not as busy as you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I must say, you do look different tonight.’
‘Maybe I’ve made an effort for you.’
Frost let out a crack of laughter. ‘You don’t know how much I’d like to believe that. But unfortunately, I caught sight of myself in the bar mirror when I was getting the drinks.’
‘Don’t do yourself down. You should have seen my ex, that little sod would do wonders for your confidence. I can tell, you’re what they call an alpha male.’
‘Alf who?’
‘I saw you giving the briefing, I’ve seen how the rest of CID treat you. You’ve got their ear, they respect you, trust you. You may not have all the stripes, but you’re the one they take note of for the real cut and thrust of police work.’
‘You pick up on these things, do you?’
‘I’ve got a good instinct.’
‘Is that why they gave you the job?’
‘I could ask the same of you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We’re the same rank, about the same age—’
‘Whoa, easy, love, now I know you’re after something. I think I’ve got a good few years on you, unless you’ve led a very sheltered life.’
She winked. ‘I’m as pure as driven snow, me. But you know what I’m saying, Jack, we didn’t make DI by accident.’
‘Remind me, how did we edge our way up the greasy pole? Good instinct, ear to the ground, good at picking things up?’
Eve Hayward gave a measured nod of recognition to this. Frost knew he was hitting a nerve as the cocksure smile she was wearing slowly fell away from her red-glossed lips.
‘So why are we here, what is it you want to discuss?’
‘Sue spoke very highly of you, I thought it would be good to—’
‘You’re not my type,’ he said, cutting her off dead.
‘To do what?’ she said, laughing in disbelief.
‘I said, you’re not my type—’
‘I heard what you bloody said, and I can’t believe that you’ve got the nerve to repeat it! A bit presumptuous, aren’t we?’
Frost gave a nonchalant shrug and then pulled a grin. ‘I prefer blondes.’
‘Didn’t think you could afford to be so picky, mate. Sorry I can’t accommodate you.’
Eve Hayward gathered her jacket around her and got ready to leave.
‘You’re far too modest.’ Frost reached into his pocket and pulled out the photos John Waters had taken.
Eve Hayward peered down at them.
‘Let’s face it, Debbie Harry’s got nothing on you. I have to say, I do normally prefer blondes, but in this case, I’m an auburn man all the way.’
‘I’ll drink to that. Cheers.’
DI Frost put the photo of Eve Hayward back on the little pile, picked up his Hofmeister and joined her in the toast. Hayward had forgone the G&Ts and had joined Frost on pints of strong Bavarian lager.
‘You’ve heard the rumours about you, I suppose?’
‘I haven’t, but nothing would surprise me. I get to visit lots of areas in my line of work and I usually find the smaller the district, the bigger the rumours. So I’m expecting mid-ranking ones from Denton.’
‘That you’re running an internal operation, sent here to check on Denton CID’s performance. And maybe root out some rotten apples if you find any.’
DI Hayward shrugged. ‘You said rumours. What’s the other one, then?’
Frost mulled it over as he took another sip of his pint, and decided to save the really juicy gossip about her and Sue Clarke for another time. ‘Nothing worth repeating, just inconsequential tittle-tattle, and certainly nothing compared to being on the hunt for bad coppers. Which you’ve not denied. So who are you after?’
‘I told you I believe there’s a connection between the rash of counterfeit goods that have been hitting Denton—’
‘A rash that no one in the county had particularly noticed until you brought it to our attention.’
‘That’s because no one complains about cheap goods even if they suspect they’re fakes, because they’re cheap and they know they wouldn’t be able to afford the real ones.’
‘I get the logic. But see it from my point of view: it just makes a good cover story for you to come into Eagle Lane to nose about. Asking questions, about me in particular.’
‘Do you want me to tell you what I know, or do you just want to go off on a paranoid rant?’
Frost raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, with just a hint of I’m all yours thrown in for good measure. He then lit up another king-sized smoke to calm his nerves – she was good, this one, bloody good.
‘I’m not after you, Jack. I’m with a special unit that’s looking into overseas organized crime that operates in the UK. And if what I think is happening in Denton is happening, then you’ve really got a big problem on your hands.’
‘What do you think is happening?’
‘One of the biggest and most dangerous figures in organized crime I know of has just landed on your patch.’
They’d decided to skip the starters. Just go for the main course and dessert, that was the way to enjoy a good meal, insisted John Waters. And no bread either. If you were still hungry after the dessert, well, you could always order another one, or a second helping, as he liked to say. But when the sprightly young waiter turned up and placed the main dishes in front of them, with all the flourish and performance of a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat, and then bowed away from their table uttering, ‘Bon appétit’, they both wished they’d ordered starters and a basket of bread each. At La Maison des Délices, they served nouvelle cuisine. Which, as far as Waters could tell, meant the plate looked good, like some minimalist abstract art, with brightly coloured lines and squiggles and dashes and dots that may or may not have been food. It was a feast for the eye, but not necessarily for the belly. There was far too much plate showing for Waters’ tastes. And though Kim was beaming with joy at the work of art before her, he was pretty sure she felt the same.
‘Wow, I’ll never manage all this,’ he said, dry as the Sauvignon Blanc the waiter had recommended. ‘I hope they have doggy bags.’
Kim burst out laughing and her husband joined her, which turned heads in the polite society they were amongst. North Denton’s finest. John Waters gave them the thumbs-up and grabbed the white linen serviette that had been origamied into the design of a swan, gave it a good shake and tucked it into his collar, then went about depleting the dish before him.
‘So, tell me, what’s the big secret?’
‘How’s the food, babe?’
‘The food is as good as it looks. Come on, Kim, I think I’ve done very well not asking until now. My patience is second to none. I’m assuming it’s good news.’
‘If it’s good news, surely you can guess what it is.’
‘OK, you’ve got a promotion?’
She rested her knife and fork on the plate, and didn’t look too happy with his answer.
‘How many guesses do I get?’
‘You’ve got two left.’
‘OK, you’ve wangled some holiday time?’
She shook her head in an unsmiling robotic fashion that made John Waters realize the seriousness of the situation. He should have given it a lot more thought, maybe applied some solid detective work to the problem; but expediency got the better of him, and he just wanted answers, so he blurted out, ‘Pay rise?’
She glared at him. He could tell it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, and you really didn’t have to be a detective to work that one out.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Waters’ knife and fork fell from his hands, hands that had immediately become weak and clammy on hearing the news, and landed on the china plate with an exclamatory clatter. Again, this drew attention from the other patrons. What followed was a pregnant pause that grew and grew and eventually gave birth to a deep and impenetrable silence. Then, to break the silence, John Waters could feel himself muttering some words, but he almost felt like he had no control over them and certainly hadn’t given them much real thought: they were vague platitudes and insincere congratulations that didn’t match his alarmed expression. And he could only imagine what his wife saw on his face, because it was enough to make her grab her own serviette and cover her eyes as the tears came.
Frost placed two more pints of Hofmeister on the table. It was their fourth round now. He was impressed with Eve Hayward’s staying power, as she matched him pint for pint with the strong gassy Bavarian brew, and showed no signs of flagging. Her voice wasn’t remotely booze-slurred and remained crisp, clear and in control. Her glossy red lips never once looked like letting an indiscretion or a tasty nugget of confidential information slip past them. Not that it was ever his intention to let the lubricant of strong lager loosen her tongue, or get her good and drunk so he could dig for dirt and find out exactly who she was, and what she was after. But it would certainly be a fortuitous outcome if all those things happened.
