by Danny Miller
‘Poor Simon. Must have been something he ate, all that fibre. Been letting rip all over the place, he has.’
Frost unfolded himself, wiped his hands on his trousers and faced his mocker. He looked quite different from the depiction of the handsome playboy with the twinkly eyes on his wanted poster. Gone was the Magnum PI moustache; gone was the big blow-dried dark-brown hair that he had apparently taken great pride in. It had been shaved off to a number-one crop. And the fact that he was stark-bollock-naked didn’t help matters. But what really marked Terry Langdon out as a complete and utter nut-job was the fact that he had smeared himself in what looked like blue make-up from head to toe. It was patchy at best, but he had still managed a pretty good coverage. Terry Langdon had either genuinely gone mad or he was shrewdly building a defence of diminished responsibility and looking for a reduced sentence.
‘Are you the assassin, or a messenger boy sent by a grocery clerk to collect a bill?’
It was a spot-on impression and Frost got it immediately. ‘Why are you talking like Marlon Brando … Terry?’
Langdon stopped channelling that great actor and now channelled Dennis Hopper doing one of his madder turns, with his wild rolling eyes. It was then that Frost spotted the gun in Terry’s hand. The Webley revolver, as seen advertised in the gun magazines at his bungalow. He then caught sight of a video box on the coffee table: it was Apocalypse Now, and the tape was probably in the video player. Yep, thought Frost, Terry Langdon has gone all the way upriver without a paddle and it doesn’t look like he was coming back.
‘Why don’t you put the gun down, Terry, and we can have a chat.’
‘You can’t take Simon.’
‘Who’s Simon?’
‘Simon is all. Simon is everything! Hail, Simon!’
It became apparent to Frost who Simon was when it flew down off the bookcase and landed on Langdon’s shoulder.
Frost wasn’t about to debate nomenclature with the gun-wielding naked nut-job now: if he wanted to call the parrot Simon, then Simon it was. The detective looked at them both, and wondered whether Terry had painted himself to look like Simon. It seemed that way. And then Frost wondered how exactly this absurd comic sketch was going to play out. Would it be a dead parrot, or a dead detective?
As they made their way across the field they realized they weren’t dressed for it. It hadn’t rained for a couple of days, not bad for early April, but still the fields were damp and muddy, and each footfall sucked at their heels, and splattered sludge up their trouser legs. Sue Clarke and Eve Hayward were aiming for a small stone farmhouse with what could have been a large hay barn next to it.
They had little choice but to go this way; they’d followed Melody and Michael Price at a safe distance, until the urban townscape of Denton and the orbiting villages petered out and turned into dense countryside with tight country lanes. The Mercedes then veered left up what looked like a private road, where they really couldn’t afford to be spotted in the rear-view mirror. If you had no business going along that road, then you wouldn’t be going along it.
So they parked up, armed themselves with a radio, camera and binoculars and trudged their way across the field towards the farmhouse. Crouched behind a hedgerow, they were able to see two vehicles: the little silver Mercedes and a big black BMW 7 series. Hayward snapped away, hoping to get shots of the BMW’s number plate. The farmhouse looked suitably old, but the ‘hay barn’ looked incongruously new, much more like an aeroplane hangar.
Eve Hayward kept looking through the zoom lens as she spoke. ‘We need to get in there.’
‘Not without back-up.’
‘That’s not what I was thinking of. We need someone to break in and take a good look around.’
‘Isn’t that illegal and won’t it compromise the case?’
Hayward kept looking through the lens and didn’t answer.
Clarke didn’t push it, and asked instead, ‘Is that the sort of stuff Tony Norton does?’
‘He has his uses.’
‘I bet he does.’
‘Fancy him, do you?’
‘Not bad.’
‘He’s single, you know.’
‘Really? You not interested yourself?’
‘I was. And I had my interest satisfied.’
They both expelled filthy laughs which they quickly suppressed, and returned their attention to the farmhouse.
‘Is that where they’re producing the heroin?’ asked Clarke.
‘No, that’s all done abroad, the processing and cutting is done in Holland. The heroin may pass through here, but finding it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack – no pun intended. But pirating videos on a huge scale, and warehousing counterfeit goods, that’s a bigger operation altogether, it takes up more space. Don’t get me wrong, the heroin is probably in there, but it comes in smaller packages.’
Sue was about to ask something else, when Eve began to click away again on her camera. The fast shutter noise spooked an inquisitive magpie that had settled on the hedgerow they were crouched behind.
Clarke aimed her binoculars and saw Melody Price and two men stepping out of the barn with boxes in their arms. They loaded them on to the back seat of the Mercedes. Michael Price wasn’t with them. Clarke focused in on Melody; she seemed to be remonstrating with the two men. Pointing at them, and then pointing towards the open door of the barn. The two men stood impassive, arms folded. Finally the taller one nodded and then raised his hands, palms up, as if to placate her. The other man then went back into the barn, and re-emerged moments later holding Michael by the arm, like an arresting officer. Michael kept his head down, not wanting to look at anyone. The taller man then grabbed him and pinioned his arms behind his back, whilst his shorter and stockier accomplice delivered some powerful blows to Michael’s stomach and face, fast punches that travelled up and down his body until he fell to the ground. All the while, Melody Price leaned against the car, her arms folded, almost unmoved by what was happening. Then the two men went back into the barn. Melody helped Michael Price get to his feet and into the car, and she drove off.
Eve Hayward lowered her camera and turned to face Sue Clarke.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Clarke.
‘Those two are Colm Bryant and Shane Riley. They’re Eamon Hogan’s lieutenants, as ruthless as their boss. My guess is Michael Price has been getting high off the supply, skimming off the top, and he’s just been taught a lesson. And from what I could make out, if it wasn’t for Melody Price, he might never have made it out of that barn alive.’
Clarke agreed that was how it looked to her, too. Satisfied that was all they were going to see today, they squelched their way back across the field to the car. They walked back in silence, the only sounds being of nature, which was loud enough, with crows cawing in the trees, and some cows mooing in a distant meadow. For Clarke, having seen the violence Eamon Hogan’s men were capable of, the walk back seemed a lot longer than the walk there.
When they reached the car, there was an ominous sign. The MG’s windscreen wipers had been lifted up. Sue Clarke suggested hopefully, ‘Maybe it was kids?’
Both of them knew it wasn’t kids. They got in the car and drove off.
Thursday (5)
‘You’ve come to take Simon, right, bang him up, stick him in a cage for the rest of his life, right?’
Frost lowered his hands from the surrender position. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Terry?’
Langdon, who was standing by the living-room doorway, a good fifteen feet away from Frost, said it was OK. Frost took out his cigarettes and offered one to Langdon. He eyed Frost with suspicion and refused it. Frost sighed inwardly – giving him a ciggy would have been an opportunity to get close enough to maybe grab the gun out of his hand. The DI lit his cigarette and took a long slow drag. All the time he did so, he weighed up the scenario. The gun was no longer pointed at him, it now hung limply from Langdon’s hand. Monty, or Simon, the parrot was taking up Langdon’s att
ention. Terry was looking lovingly at the bird perched on his shoulder, and the bird was looking suspiciously at Frost.
‘I’m not after the parrot, Terry. I’ve been searching for you. I’ve come to tell you the good news.’
‘What good news?’ asked Langdon distractedly, his head still turned towards the parrot on his left shoulder.
Frost began to pad across the carpet towards Terry; now with the distraction of the parrot, maybe he could get close enough to get the gun out of his hand. He got within a few feet, and then the parrot grassed him up with a low warning squawk, and Terry Langdon raised the gun from his side and aimed it squarely and purposefully at Frost.
The little swine, thought Frost, glaring at Monty, who looked like it had a genuine smile carved into its beak.
‘Bloody Frost, bloody Frost … Pen and ink! Pen and ink!’
Terry Langdon looked dumbfounded, and did a double-take between Frost and the parrot. ‘Simon’s never spoken before!’
Frost shrugged, knowing Monty must have learned this off the Fongs. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he can say a lot worse about me in Cantonese,’ he said, recalling the contempt Old Mrs Fong held him in, especially since the flight of Monty …
The detective was then hit with an idea. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down, do you, Terry? I’ve been on my feet all day. I’m cream-crackered, as Chas and Dave might say.’
Langdon gave Frost a couldn’t-care-less nod, and then carried on whispering in the parrot’s ear, trying to teach him his name. ‘I’m Terry, Ter-ry, say Ter-ry …’
A lesser copper would have tried to charge Langdon now, distracted as he was by his Doctor Dolittle routine. But Frost knew that Bloody Monty would alert Langdon with another ‘Bloody Frost!’ He took a seat on the black leather sofa, the sofa that might well become his if he was to buy the flat.
‘I’m just going to make myself comfortable, if that’s all right with you.’
Langdon didn’t answer, and Frost doubted his words had even registered with him. But the parrot, on the other hand, did appear to be paying close attention to Frost. As the detective slowly crossed his right foot over his left knee, the feathers on the back of the parrot’s neck rose up. Monty made a low gurgling sound that was familiar to Frost – he used to hear it when he got home from work, but had never been able to work out what the parrot’s odd behaviour was provoked by, until Kenny Fong had explained it the other morning. As insulted as he was at the time, right now the information was as good as a loaded weapon, if not in his hand, then certainly on his feet.
As the parrot’s head bobbed up and down faster and faster, obviously in distress, Terry Langdon looked concerned and said, ‘Is he upsetting you, Simon … this Frost … this bloody Frost?’
Frost slipped off one shoe to reveal a sock that may have been white at one time, but was now a mucky grey colour.
‘Ah, that’s better, me plates are killing me …’
The parrot let out a deathly screech that made Terry’s head reel back as it screamed in his ear, ‘BloodyFrost.BloodyFrost.Penandink!Penandink!’
Frost grinned and went for the other foot, yanking the shoe off to reveal another greying sock, but this one came equipped with a handy hole in it so his big toe could poke out.
At this, the parrot screeched like a bat out of hell, flapped its wings and took off. It flew straight out of the window, cursing in Cantonese and cockney, probably. Frost’s feet had worked a treat.
Terry dropped the gun and went after the bird, screaming out, ‘Don’t leave me, Simon!’ as he rushed past Frost.
Frost tackled the naked nut-job when he was halfway through the window. As he cuffed and secured Langdon and dragged him back into the flat, he couldn’t resist saying, ‘It’s the flying squad, son, and you’re bloody nicked!’
‘Someone’s been in the wars.’
Michael Price glanced up from the copy of Smash Hits he had open on the counter to see Eve Hayward and Sue Clarke entering the shop. It was empty of any customers, so Clarke took the opportunity to turn over the ‘CLOSED’ sign. Michael Price didn’t question this move, which didn’t go unnoticed by the two detectives.
Considering the beating he’d taken, the visible damage was fairly light, and seemingly not sufficient for him to take the rest of the day off. But Hayward doubted that Michael Price’s life was his own now anyway. There was a cut lip, some swelling around his cheekbone, and Hayward suspected bruising around his ribs, as that’s where Colm had concentrated his attention.
He closed the magazine, and said apologetically, ‘Someone left it in here.’
Eve Hayward saw that his eyes were red-rimmed – it looked like he’d been crying. She smiled, and put on an expression full of sympathy and compassion. The type of face you’d want to sit opposite, talk to, unburden yourself to. ‘I read it every chance I get, Michael. Always good to know the lyrics so you can sing along in the car. What happened to you?’
He ran his thumbnail carefully down his cheek and across his fattening top lip, as if assessing what he could get away with. He came up with: ‘I fell over. Bit pissed. You know how it is.’
‘We know. We know all about it. You didn’t tell us that Melody was your boss, did you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She owns the video store. You work here. She’s your boss, right?’
‘No. I’ve got shares in it.’
‘Is that true? Because we’ve gone through the deeds we found in your dad’s safe, and it’s all in her name.’
‘No, no, you’ve got it wrong, she looks after me.’
‘It doesn’t look like she’s looking after you, Michael.’
Eve Hayward reached over and grabbed his left arm, and went to lift the sleeve of his light-blue sweatshirt that had UCLA emblazoned across it. He pulled his arm away and stood back from the counter, startled. He was a big guy, but he looked small and wounded, his right hand now rubbing his left upper forearm.
‘How long have you been injecting?’
He bowed his head, his lips twitched and moved, but no sound came out.
‘Is that why they hit you? Because you’ve been stealing from them?’ joined in Clarke.
He stood up straight now, trying to look defiant, maybe imposing. But it didn’t work, the damage had been done. He just looked pitiful and pliable. And Hayward recognized that look, and knew now was the time to strike.
‘You know what happens if you do it again, don’t you? It won’t just be a beating. These people kill. They kill people who are a threat to them, they kill people they suspect might be a threat to them, and they even kill their family. Let me tell you about Colm Bryant. He killed his brother. Colm’s brother robbed banks. He was good at it, very successful. But Colm killed him because he became a heroin addict.
‘Colm thought, what if he gets arrested for a robbery and gets banged up in a cell, craving heroin? Would he grass on Colm, who was the one the cops were really after, because Colm was part of a gang that was flooding the streets with heroin? That scenario hadn’t happened yet. But Colm Bryant wasn’t about to take that chance, and neither was his boss. The brother had become a liability. So Colm killed him, and left his body on the streets as a warning: if they could kill their own flesh and blood, they could kill you. Believe me, Melody Price isn’t your friend, your family … your mother. She isn’t helping you, Michael, she’s using you.’
Hayward took out a card and placed it on top of the copy of Smash Hits, covering Nik Kershaw’s pouty little pop-star face. ‘Call this number. It’s a private number, the person you’ll talk to will tell me immediately you’ve rung, and I promise you, Michael, no one else will know. And we’ll make sure that nothing will happen to you, and you’ll be safe. I can promise you that.’
Michael Price digested this information with some steady nods of the head. He then reached out and picked up the card to once again reveal the tiny pop star, and put it safely in his pocket.
And for the two detectives, that was good enou
gh, and pretty much as they had planned. They had no intention of dragging him down to Eagle Lane and thus alerting Melody Price and the Hogan gang. A blue-chip lawyer would probably get him out within the hour, and then Michael Price would probably just end up like Colm Bryant’s brother. Eve Hayward felt sure that Michael wouldn’t say anything to Melody about their visit. She didn’t rate his intelligence that highly, but suspected he wasn’t that stupid, either.
The two women left the shop and made their way across to the MG, and as they did so, Hayward gave a nod to a man in a battered-looking blue van with ‘Top Class Plumbers’ stencilled across the side. Sat at the wheel reading a paper was a bloke in a grubby brown boiler suit and an equally grubby-looking blue bobble hat, sporting a full beard, and with a pair of NHS glasses stretched across his face.
‘Even in that get-up he looks better than half the blokes in Denton,’ muttered Clarke as they got into the MG.
‘Yep, he’d have made a great actor.’
As they were sure that Michael Price would be an invaluable witness when the time came, and they suspected that his life might be in danger, a heavily disguised Detective Inspector Tony Norton would watch over him now.
Frost managed to get Terry Langdon dressed and then drove him to Denton General. The inspector figured that Langdon needed medical help more than he needed to be questioned about an attempted murder, an attempted murder that it had become clear over the course of the investigation he hadn’t attempted. From being quite literally the case’s poster boy (his handsome face plastered all over town), he had drifted into insignificance. Frost was sure that Langdon had not shot George Price, and certainly had not killed Jimmy Drake, or Stevie Wooder. No longer the prime suspect, he was something of an anomaly in the case.
As they drove through town, away from the isolation of Paradise Lodge, Terry’s sanity seemed to return, enough for him to stop worrying about the parrot and to address the real pressing issue in his life right now.
‘I didn’t shoot him. I’m sure I didn’t,’ he said, sounding rather unsure about the protestation he was making.
