A Lethal Frost

by Danny Miller

  Frost said, ‘How did you find this?’

  ‘All part of the haul we found in Sinbad’s lock-up,’ said Waters.

  Clarke said, ‘PC Simms was dutifully going about his work, going through the videos, and the title piqued his interest. He put it on and discovered Melody Price.’

  Frost shook his head. ‘Mucky little sod, but we’ll let him off this time.’

  ‘This is just the proof we needed to connect Eamon Hogan to Melody and George Price,’ said Eve Hayward. ‘I’ve made some calls back to Scotland Yard, they’re going to run a full intel check on her.’

  ‘I wonder where Sinbad got the video. Shall we ask him?’

  Eve Hayward shook her head. ‘To be honest, it looks like it’s an old film that’s been put on to video. It’s been in circulation quite a while, no big deal, anybody could have picked it up. Lots of dodgy bookshops sell them and they pass from hand to hand in pubs for a couple of quid.’ She tapped her nails on the desk. ‘But all roads seem to be leading to Video Stars. Melody Price owns it, Michael Price works in it, and Bomber Harris and Tommy Wilkins have been spotted going in and out of there pretty regularly, right?’

  ‘It was one of the places we’d clocked them going into, all part of their daily routine,’ said John Waters, warming to the idea. ‘And they always seemed to come out with a video under their arm, and for two unemployed layabouts, they never seemed to spend too long in there. In and out pretty sharpish. I don’t know about you, but I can stand in there for hours trying to pick a film.’

  Eve Hayward agreed. ‘Makes you wonder what was really in the box, right?’

  ‘The French Connection,’ said Clarke absent-mindedly. They all looked quizzically at her until she was forced to give an explanation. ‘They had a copy in Video Stars … it’s about smuggling heroin.’

  Frost thrummed his fingers on the table, the noise growing louder as the grin on his face grew bigger. He stopped thrumming, and grinning. ‘You know, I don’t believe in big sudden eureka moments in our line of work. There are usually lots of little revelations, and they’re usually hiding right under your nose in the first place. But this, this is good. You said you could prove a link, Inspector Hayward, and you have.’

  Hayward gave an appreciative smile. ‘Good work, everyone, I’d say.’

  An unsmiling John Waters cut the love-in short. ‘Then if that’s where Harris and Wilkins are picking up the heroin, we have to nick them now and close it down.’

  ‘We do that and we tip off Hogan that we’re on to him,’ said the London DI. ‘Just give me twenty-four hours to get the intel about Melody Price through. Harris and Wilkins are only dealing it, they won’t know about Eamon, they’re just minnows. Melody Price is our route to Eamon Hogan.’

  Waters couldn’t disagree more. ‘Doesn’t sit right with me, leaving Harris and Wilkins out there when we could nick them. And we could always pull them in for something else, selling counterfeit goods, anything – just to get them off the streets.’ He turned towards Eve Hayward. ‘You’ve already set up a deal with them, right?’

  Hayward ignored Waters and appealed straight to Frost. ‘Just twenty-four hours, Jack, that’s all we need?’

  Frost lit up a cigarette and took some long, slow, thoughtful drags. It was one of those tough decisions the taxpayers paid good money for, and the DI didn’t take it lightly. It made sense, but the idea of sitting on the information and not putting the scumbags behind bars – frankly, that grated. Frost was reminded of the old fable about the two bulls standing on the hill watching the heifers grazing below. The younger bull says, let’s run down the hill and make hay with one of them. The older bull says, no, let’s walk down there and make hay with all of them. Frost considered Eve Hayward and Sue Clarke: they were unified, determined, and looked like they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Frost smirked – now he knew how the pool boy felt.

  ‘So what’s this I hear about you and DI Eve Hayward?’

  Frost’s head popped up from behind his desk. He was on his hands and knees in his office going through his ‘filing system’, which consisted of piles of papers stacked under his desk. There was no usable space on the desk itself; it was its own San Andreas fault of shifting tectonic plates about to quake at any moment and send the whole heaped mass sliding off. Frost had been working at slowly getting it sorted, ever since Mullett had entered his office two weeks ago and turned apoplectic red at seeing the mounds of paperwork and empty takeaway cartons, with fag butts hidden amongst all the layers. Mullett called it a fire hazard and an assault on all that was decent and true. A bit over the top, but Frost kind of got what he meant when he discovered the ants.

  Mullett had just sent through an urgent memo: he wanted a list of all the arrests Frost had made on the Southern Housing Estate over the last six months, to provide some facts and figures he could have to hand for this evening’s town hall meeting.

  ‘You what?’ asked Frost.

  John Waters laughed. He lifted what looked like some tramp’s clothing off a chair and sat down. He had brought them both a cup of coffee, and set Frost’s down on the only available space on the desk.

  ‘Rumour is, you were at her hotel last night. And she was giving you a right sweet smile just now.’

  Frost hauled himself to his feet. He scratched his head in a gesture of deep confusion, both at his ‘filing system’ and at his loss of memory concerning the preceding night with Eve Hayward. He slumped down in his chair and took the mug of instant coffee precariously perched on the corner of his desk. His hangover was fading, but so was his energy, so the caffeine was much appreciated.

  ‘You know, John, I don’t comb my hair any more, I use the comb to strategically shift bits of hair around my head to cover the receding hairline, and the growing bald spot at the back.’

  ‘Is that you avoiding the question?’

  ‘No. It’s me saying, if that’s the rumour flying around about me and the gorgeous Ms Hayward, I’ll take it, I’ll go with it one hundred per cent, whilst it’s still in the realms of possibility.’

  ‘I hope she’s not turning your head. Affecting your decision-making.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I say we take Harris and Wilkins off the streets now.’

  ‘I say we wait.’

  Waters shook his head. His anger mounted with every word he uttered. ‘Since when have we listened to her, and what does she know about Denton? Two lads are dead because of those scumbags, and she wants to play the long game with people’s lives—’

  ‘Calm down, John—’

  ‘I’ve sat with those mothers, I knew those lads and—’

  Frost shot to his feet and leaned across the desk, his balled fists pressing down on the piles of paper. ‘We’ve all done what you’ve done, it’s part of the job, the worst part! But she’s right, it’s always the big boys that get away with it and mugs like Harris and Wilkins who end up getting nicked, and the problem doesn’t go away, it stays the same. Hogan will just set up shop somewhere else and more kids will get hooked and die, and more mugs like Harris and Wilkins will go to prison, and so it goes on. This is our chance to really do something, to really get the bastards. You know that, John.’

  Waters stood up and perched himself on the radiator. Frost sat back down. Both men stayed silent, letting the dust settle.

  Frost spoke first: ‘So, go on.’

  ‘Go on what?’

  ‘You’re an experienced copper. You know the score. I’m sensing something else is bothering you, you wouldn’t be here otherwise. You hate coming into my office, scared you’ll get rickets, typhoid, bubonic plague …’

  Waters laughed. ‘Between you and me, probably a bit early to say anything, but … Kim’s expecting.’

  ‘Bun in the oven?’

  ‘To give it its full medical term, yes.’

  ‘Congratulations! So why the long face? Should be over the moon!’

  ‘That’s the thing, Jack, Kim’s the one having the baby, but I fe
el like I’m the one going all hormonal.’

  Frost grinned and raised his coffee mug, then pulled a face and put it back on the desk. ‘Sod this, we need something proper.’ He reached down to a drawer and pulled out a quarter-bottle of Teacher’s. ‘Funny how I can lay my hands on some booze in an instant, but not Mullett’s crime figures.’

  Frost turned both their instant coffees into Irish coffees.

  ‘You’re a lucky man. Never happened with me and the wife. No one’s fault, just wasn’t to be.’

  ‘It’s got me thinking, though. What with this meeting at the town hall, what sort of world is he or she coming into?’

  ‘Ah. So this is what it’s all about. You want to lock up all the villains before your kiddie comes kicking and screaming into the world, is that it?’

  John Waters laughed again. That was clearly it.

  ‘Let me tell you, we get this Hogan, and I guarantee that will be the best day’s work you’ll ever do. And your kid will thank you for it, and be bloody proud of you for doing it. Of course, they’ll give you a ton of earache, cost you a fortune, drive you crazy, and then they’ll leave home just as they’re turning into reasonable, normal human beings. But I don’t think he or she will have to worry, just as long as you’re around.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  ‘And let’s just hope it ends up with Kim’s looks and not yours.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Waters took a swig of his coffee, which now kicked the back of his throat like a mule, and was about to say something when the bearded figure of Desk Sergeant Bill Wells darkened the doorway.

  ‘Don’t you ever knock, Bill?’

  ‘Sorry, guv, didn’t realize you were so busy,’ he said, eyeing the bottle of Teacher’s on the desk. ‘Got some good news for you.’

  ‘Hornrim Harry’s won the Pools and is emigrating to Canada?’

  ‘No. We’ve just had a call, and your parrot has been spotted. Guess where?’

  Frost arched an eyebrow at John Waters, and both men looked at Wells and asked in unison, ‘Where?’

  Thursday (4)

  ‘To be honest, I can’t remember …’

  ‘Surely you’d remember Jack Frost? How could you possibly forget?’

  ‘We’d had quite a bit to drink.’

  Clarke, dogged as she was, decided to drop the subject. She was up against a professional. ‘Loose lips sink ships’ was Eve Hayward’s credo, and that obviously applied to her personal life too. They were on surveillance in the red MG, parked a short distance from Video Stars. At this point in time, this seemed to be the location that joined all the dots in the case.

  There was a tap on the driver’s-side window and a man with thick shoulder-length hair and designer stubble took up the view with his handsome face. Eve Hayward rolled down the window.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said the man, with one of the most winning smiles Sue Clarke had seen in a while.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous yourself,’ Clarke muttered, just a little louder than she meant to.

  Hayward made the introductions, and DI Tony Norton leaned over her to shake Clarke’s hand. He then passed Eve an A4 manila envelope containing the intel on Melody Price.

  ‘Blimey. That was quick,’ complimented Hayward. ‘Didn’t expect anything till tomorrow morning.’

  Tony Norton winked. ‘You know me. Would have been even quicker, but Melody Price is big on aliases. She’s been a Samantha, Roxy, Annabelle, Trudy and Trixie. And she’s been married twice before, and those two husbands died of heart attacks.’

  ‘To lose one over a heart attack is unfortunate, but to lose two sounds careless,’ said Clarke, rather mangling her O-level Oscar Wilde.

  Tony Norton flashed his smile at her again, and she in turn couldn’t help but blush. Which didn’t go unnoticed by Eve Hayward.

  ‘They were old, though,’ said Norton, ‘and they were rich. But she’s had an interesting career. She’s not only been a black widow and a minor porn star and glamour model – she was also an air hostess for three years, flying all over Europe and South America. That’s how she met a certain Angie Bexley, who was also an air hostess with that airline at roughly the same time.’

  ‘Angie Bexley, who later marries Eamon Hogan. We’ve been watching a highly educational film starring our two leading ladies. And it wasn’t on what to do if your plane’s about to crash,’ Hayward told Norton.

  Clarke was putting the pieces together. ‘So, for a girl on the make like Melody, more interested in money than most, and not afraid to take risks, this makes her a perfect target for a drug smuggler like Eamon Hogan, also not averse to taking risks. Was she ever caught smuggling drugs for Hogan in her younger days?’

  Norton shook his head. ‘She’s clean as far as drugs go. But she did quit the airline after three years, somehow with enough money to buy a big house. Started up a modelling agency in Manchester, and, even though her name wasn’t ever on the credits, became a player in the porn film business. Not performing this time, but behind the camera, also producing and distributing. Then something happened, she sold the big house, fell off the radar and moved to Spain.’

  Sue Clarke chimed in, ‘Where she had the good fortune to meet George Price.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling if you asked George Price that when he wakes up, he might not see it that way,’ said Eve Hayward.

  Tony Norton suddenly warned, ‘Speak of the Devil, your mark has just turned up. I’ll be in touch.’ He pulled up the collar of his jacket, then made off down the street and was soon lost in the crowd.

  Clarke and Hayward turned their attention back to the video store, and saw a Mercedes 380SL pulling up outside. Melody Price was at the wheel, her long blonde tresses gathered up under a peaked cap, and her face almost completely concealed by a pair of huge diamanté-studded sunglasses. She stepped out of the car; today she was wearing beige jodhpurs, black leather riding boots and a fitted tweed jacket over a red cashmere polo-neck jumper.

  ‘I’ll give her one thing, she knows how to dress,’ said Sue Clarke on the back of an envious sigh.

  ‘Yeah, it’s how she pays for it that’s the problem. At least our frocks have a clean conscience.’ The DI held up her zoom-lensed Minolta camera and took pictures, like a photographer snapping a model on a fashion shoot, as Melody entered Video Stars.

  Five minutes later, the door opened again and Melody emerged from the shop with Michael Price in tow. The hulking son of George Price flipped the red sign to ‘CLOSED’, locked up and followed Melody into the car.

  ‘He looks rough,’ said Clarke. Even at a distance, she could see that his face was glistening with a sheen of sweat. ‘Looks like he’s got the flu.’

  ‘Or worse,’ said Hayward, turning the key in the ignition.

  Clarke chided herself for her momentary naivety – of course it wasn’t the flu that was ailing Michael Price.

  As Frost climbed out of the yellow Metro, his eyes scoured the skies, skies that were clear and blue with just a couple of low-hanging clouds in his field of vision, looking like balls of pulled cotton wool. But no Norwegian Blue. Not that Monty was a Norwegian Blue, if such a thing even existed, but he was blue, and he suspected that all parrots that were even a bit blue were now referred to as Norwegian. Just as they were probably all called Monty, along with every pet python in the country.

  Bill Wells had been told over the phone that the parrot was flying around inside a ground-floor flat of Paradise Lodge, where a window had been left open. Frost quizzed Bill, and Wells admitted he’d been suspicious of the caller. As a desk sarge, answering the phone was his stock-in-trade. And as he was often the first point of contact, he prided himself on being able to give a detailed character study of the caller after the most meagre of exchanges. This time Wells thought it was a male in his twenties, and he sounded spooked, like he was in some way transgressing, instead of doing a good turn by reporting a lost pet; he was calling from a phone box, refused to give a name or address and appeared to be i
n a hurry. Curious, thought Frost.

  It didn’t take long for Frost to locate Monty. The bird’s squawks led him to the very window he had climbed through last time. And again the window was open. Frost peered in and saw the parrot, which appeared to be having a fine old time, hopping around the plush furniture of the flat, seemingly free as a …

  It looked like the show flat been transformed into one big birdcage – with Trill, fruit, bread and droppings all over the carpet. Along with more wine and beer bottles and cartons of takeaway food. The luxury apartment had been turned into a dump. The jewel in the crown of Paradise Lodge was well and truly Paradise Lost.

  And the window wasn’t just ajar – it was now wide open! Where the hell was Jason Kingly? Surely this is a sacking offence for the young estate agent? thought the DI as he climbed in. On seeing Frost, Monty flew off the top shelf it was perched on and plunged down towards the detective with a screeching cry that made him cover his head with his hands and duck.

  ‘Bloody hell, Monty! You mad bird-brained little git!’ Frost rose up from his crouch and sprang up to grab it, and missed. ‘I’m buying this flat, you feathered vandal! Look what you’ve done to it! I’ll have to Shake n’ Vac my bloody balls off to get this mess cleared up!’

  Monty ignored his pleading, and had perched yet again on the top shelf, king of all it surveyed. Frost, whose favourite reading material was military strategy and history, knew that Monty held all the advantages. It had the higher ground and ruled the skies. And now it was coming in for another sortie. It arched its wings and took off; round and round the ragged detective it went, while Frost again crouched down and drew up his hands over his head. But he moved too late, and he felt the full force of Monty’s aerial bombardment on the back of his head. Monty Number Two had lived up to his sobriquet and delivered a number two of H-bomb proportions. Frost could feel it run down the back of his neck, past the collar of his polo shirt. He took more hits to his back, his leather bomber jacket getting splattered. When the aerial assault had finished, all he could hear was laughter.