by James, Henry
‘Frost,’ he barked, his temper racing from 0 to 60 in a flash, ‘what is the meaning of this!’ Grace returned sheepishly to the kitchen to check on the spuds. Mullett knew that he was playing into Frost’s hands by flaring up like this. There should be no reason for a superintendent to be angry at being called at home by a colleague. No, this was all because of that incident concerning Grace, that paperboy getting run over …
‘Wait, say that again?’ demanded Mullett, sensing he’d not taken in a word the man was saying. ‘A girl dead? Where? In St Mary’s?’
Frost was calling from the rectory. Mullett frowned as he listened to the recently promoted inspector explain the discovery of a dead body in the grounds there – a woman who, it turned out, Frost had arrested the previous year for armed robbery. She had recently been let out on licence. Mullett felt his temples begin to pulse and fumbled for his newly prescribed pills.
‘I see. Do you suspect foul play?’
‘Well, yes, Superintendent. I think it’s fair to say that someone has taken a dislike to our Rachel.’
They should never have let the woman out in the first place, and to compound things she’d gone and got herself killed, creating yet more work for him. ‘Get Drysdale’s assessment and I’ll see you at the station, six o’clock sharp.’
Frost sat quietly in the car as Waters waited at the main-road junction to pull out. An endless stream of motorcycles poured past. He retrieved his Polaroids from the sun visor.
‘I can see you on one of those,’ Waters said.
‘You may joke, but I’ve often thought about getting a bike.’
‘Really?’
‘Sidecar too, for you.’
‘Would be an improvement on what you’re driving now.’
‘Hmm.’ Frost didn’t comment further. He had his late wife’s Mini Metro. (He was sure his mother-in-law had only permitted that because to sell it in its current state was too much trouble.)
‘What news on a new motor?’ Waters slipped on to the main road.
‘I’ve grown used to the rust-bucket, and I can claim an allowance.’
‘But it spends more time in the garage than on the road.’
‘Not at the moment; it’s at Sue’s flat, loaded with all my earthly possessions. I’m between moves, aren’t I.’ Frost settled his elbow on the windowsill, as warm air filled the car. ‘Wouldn’t do to turn up to a crime scene like some travelling tinker, would it?’
They’d left the church having interviewed the vicar and verger. Both clergymen were in a state of shock, especially the poor verger, who’d discovered the body. Indeed Weaver’s complexion had been as pale as the dead girl’s. Drysdale had been alerted, as had the County lab, and that was where the detectives were now headed. And so another weekend was to be eaten away with unpleasantness. Being as they were a man down – or woman, to be precise – in the form of DC Sue Clarke, Hornrim Harry had had no alternative but to approve overtime. Frost had nothing better to do anyway, adrift as he currently was – he was still waiting for a share of the proceeds from the sale of his old marital home, but wasn’t expecting much – the house had been originally purchased with money from his wife’s wealthy parents, neither of whom were fans of his. His belongings were currently collecting dust in storage, or crammed into the Mini Metro. With Suzy Fong gone, he had nothing but jazz records and history books for company. Unlike Waters here … Suddenly, Frost slapped himself on the forehead. The wedding!
‘Sorry we missed our extra rehearsal, John,’ Frost said, emphasizing the ‘our’.
‘No big deal, Jack. The good father said we could catch him later in the week.’
‘No, it’s out of order. I didn’t even think …’
‘It’s cool, man. I had a chat with Father Hill while you were on the phone to Mullett. We’ll do it one evening next week.’
‘Good, good. Let me know, eh?’ Frost lit a cigarette. After a suitable pause he said, ‘Seeing that woman there, horrible. Tragic.’
‘What was her name again – her real name, not her stage name?’
‘Rachel Curtis. And “stage name” sounds a bit posh for a stripper at the Coconut Grove.’
‘Rachel Curtis, that’s right. And Rayner was what she called herself at work, right?’
‘’Fraid so, yes.’ Frost exhaled and remembered the grisly events of last November. Rachel Curtis, Rayner as she was then, had robbed a payroll – ambushed two men from the Gregory Leather handbag factory at gunpoint on their way back from the bank with the weekly wages. Both men were shot; one had died later in hospital. His name was Albert Benson; he was just a bit of muscle from the factory warehouse who usually accompanied the wages clerk. She’d been convicted by the jury but the judge had been very lenient. His decision had shocked the whole of Denton. The relatives of the deceased made a television appearance. The press was up in arms. The judge was lambasted for being a do-gooder lefty.
Mitigating circumstances had accounted for the leniency in the judge’s sentencing.
Rachel Curtis had been the girlfriend of a local gangster named Robert Nicholson, who was now serving a life sentence for murder. He was a vicious psychopath with ruthless ambition and the court had heard how he’d tormented Curtis into carrying out the payroll attack. She had wanted to escape his control, but was terrified. Curtis’s lawyers had pleaded mental torture and coercion, told the court the robbery was an act of sheer desperation. In an unprecedented move she was given a suspended sentence and released on licence. Now she’d wound up dead on top of a tomb.
The obvious place to start was the relatives of the deceased warehouse employee. They certainly had a motive, but it would seem unlikely. On the face of it, the death looked to Frost to be some hanky-panky that had gone gravely wrong. He winced inwardly at the pun.
‘When did she get out?’ Waters said.
‘Actually on the street? Two weeks ago. She—’
Waters hit the brakes suddenly and took a sharp right turn. Frost, who still abstained from wearing a seatbelt, was flung forward. The County laboratory could be easily missed from the road. It had a discreet entrance in a wall of conifers and from the outside, with its manicured lawn and well-tended evergreen borders, it had all the trappings of a retirement home. It radiated calm. A deathly calm.
‘Bloody hell! Wedding nerves getting to you?’ Frost barked, straightening himself out. ‘As I was saying before you gave me whiplash, she’s only been out two weeks, so in theory her movements shouldn’t be difficult to trace.’
Waters pulled up sloppily next to a 1960s Rolls-Royce Corniche. Drysdale was in, then, and on a Sunday too. The fact that the county’s chief pathologist cruised about in a Roller was a fact that neither Frost or Waters could fathom.
‘’Ere, you thought of asking Dr Death to drive you to the church instead of paying Charlie £25 for that rusty old Jag?’ Frost asked, peeling himself away from the Vauxhall’s plastic upholstery and climbing out of the car. The back of his shirt was wet through. ‘What a belter, let’s try and squeeze a pint in after this, eh?’
‘I don’t know about that, Jack, I got things to do and Kim says …’
‘“And Kim says”? Gor blimey! Am I going to hear that for the rest of our days?’ He clapped the taller man on the back as they entered the building.
‘Leave it out, Jack, let’s see later how we are for time.’ He pushed open the stiff double doors muttering, ‘And that ain’t any old Jag – it’s an SS 100.’
The lab was as cold as its walls were grey. Summer never entered the place. The chill made them pick up the pace as they headed directly for the heart of the building, where in a large room a tall gaunt fellow in white stood, head bowed, over a steel table. The sour green lighting added to the macabre feel and general unpleasantness of the place. Frost gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Ah, gentlemen.’ Drysdale looked up from Rachel Curtis’s body and scowled at them.
‘Afternoon, Doc, what you got for us?’
‘Very little
, visibly, that is. A bang to the back of the head,’ he said. ‘The neck is—’
‘A bang on the back of the head?’ Frost spluttered. ‘Is her neck broken?’
Drysdale winced. ‘If you would let me finish? The neck is not broken, but the right ankle is. Apart from the knock to the head there are no obvious external wounds. The ankle fracture is consistent with a fall; the head injury is not. There was no blood.’
‘So what you saying?’ Waters asked.
‘Could it be she was killed there, on the gravestone, after you know, a bit of …’ Frost urged.
‘I’m not saying anything as yet. There are grass stains to the skirt and jacket. She has had intercourse recently, but until we have the test results and I’ve performed the autopsy, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Oh,’ Frost said, disappointed. Though he wasn’t a fan of the posh pathologist personally, he held Drysdale in high regard and relied on him for a lead in cases like this. He couldn’t reasonably expect him to have the test results already; he did need to give the man some time.
‘There is this, though; might give you a start at least.’ With a long finger he pointed down to the corpse.
‘What?’
‘There’s a small crab—’
‘Crab? Be surprised to find any form of crustacean in Denton, let alone in the graveyard,’ said Frost.
‘… on the left buttock,’ Drysdale continued with a sigh. ‘See here?’ He poked the white flesh. ‘It’s a tattoo, Inspector, done in the last couple of days or so, judging from the blistering.’
‘So it is.’ Frost leaned in for a closer look. It was quite tasteful, if that was the right word. Or perhaps intricate was more apt. ‘Can even see its little claws.’ The surrounding skin had reacted, suggesting as the doctor had said that it was recent. ‘’Ere, John, take a butcher’s at this.’
Drysdale handed Waters a magnifying glass.
‘You’re right, Doc,’ Frost said, moving back to allow his colleague a look, ‘it is what we in the trade call a “lead”.’
Drysdale smiled thinly, and held up a large scalpel which glinted dully in the weak green light. ‘Indeed. Now, perhaps, if you might allow it to lead you both out, I might make a start on the autopsy. See what we might find, eh?’
‘Absolutely, Doc,’ Frost said perkily. ‘One final thing, though – check out her tootsies, will you; she was missing her shoes.’
‘Nice day for it?’ Frost beamed.
‘So much for moving house then,’ Waters said.
‘That’ll take me five minutes. Why waste a lovely afternoon and good company. It is the weekend, after all.’
The pair sat in the very pleasant beer garden of the Bull pub, a sharp contrast to the gloom of Drysdale’s lab. It hadn’t taken much for Jack Frost to twist DS John Waters’ arm – something his fiancée, Kim, was constantly pointing out; but, hell, it was a scorching day, his pint tasted good, and combined with the colour and fragrance of the huge hanging baskets on display it really was the perfect antidote to the lab. (And anyway, it was another hour before DC Kim Myles finished her shift; so long as Waters remembered to drop that old guy the deposit for the motor – a vintage Jaguar – then she could not accuse him of being a total failure.)
‘So what do you reckon then?’ Waters asked.
‘She went for a bit of rumpo in the churchyard, and something went a bit wrong?’
‘A fatal head injury and a broken leg? More than a bit wrong, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Broken ankle,’ Frost corrected. ‘Maybe she was adventurous, hell, I don’t know? The grass stain on the skirt would match the churchyard.’ Frost took a large gulp. ‘Let’s find out who she’s seen since she got out. Her social circle can’t have been that wide and a lot of them would be giving her a wide berth knowing her to be on licence.’ Frost toyed with the pack of Rothmans lying on the wooden table. ‘Wouldn’t want to be seen fraternizing. Her probation officer would be the place to start – she’d have had to check in with one.’
‘Which one?’ Waters knew there were two in Denton, a young woman and a curmudgeonly Scot.
‘Fergusson.’
‘We’ll pay him a call after this. Then tomorrow we’ll visit the tattoo parlours off Foundling Lane. Hanlon and Simms junior will be back by then.’
‘I still think it’s a bit harsh to send young Simms over to her next of kin, don’t you?’
‘Nonsense. Besides, we don’t have time to trek over to Sheffield, or wherever it is her old dear lives.’
Waters looked around him, at the lazy, enjoyable pub garden. ‘No, quite.’
‘Oh come on. It’s a mere formality, and will toughen him up a bit. Besides, he’s not alone. Arthur is driving. He can’t spend all day dicking about with computers, can he, if he wants to be a detective like his late lamented big brother?’
The men reflected on Derek Simms in silence for a moment. The deceased detective often gave pause for thought among those at Eagle Lane, though he was seldom discussed openly. The episode cast a long shadow over the station for many months, and most would rather not comment, preferring to keep their grief private. The manner of his death – stabbed outside Frost’s home – left most feeling uneasy, and then there was the respect due to his kid brother, David. Who knew how this brave individual might really feel …
‘I don’t know that he does, though, do you?’ Frost said eventually. ‘I mean—’ello, what’s happening ’ere?’
Lying next to his cigarettes, the small black device, not much bigger than a matchbox, had started flashing red angrily.
‘Flamin’ bleeper.’ Frost sighed. ‘Another one?’ He rose from the bench. ‘I mean, we’ve not had a break all day. I’m bleedin’ parched. Won’t be long.’
‘What about that?’
‘I left it in the car, didn’t I?’ He winked playfully.
Your car’s at Sue’s flat, Waters thought as he watched Frost amble off towards the pub’s rear entrance. Maybe he was right. One more wouldn’t hurt, and he needed to drink something in this heat, after all.
Sunday (4)
‘Afternoon, sonny,’ Frost said softly to the young lad dwarfed by the large interview room. ‘Let’s start from the beginning.’
After two further swift pints, Frost’s conscience had got the better of him and he had returned to Eagle Lane at just after one thirty. He hated that bleeper, didn’t like the idea that he could be got at, ‘paged’ or whatever, just like that. He wasn’t a flamin’ doctor. Nevertheless it was a Sunday, and Bill Wells would not have bleeped him unless it was urgent.
‘Me name is Richard, Richard Hammond. I live at flat 14, Clay House.’ The boy spoke clearly, with a touch of West Country. Clay House was a block of flats on the Southern Housing Estate, the grimmest part of Denton.
‘Here you go, young man.’ Desk Sergeant Bill Wells elbowed his way into the room clutching two dripping ice-cream cones. ‘I got you a double flake.’
The boy’s eyes lit up as Wells passed one over.
‘Oi, where’s mine?’ Frost snapped at the desk sergeant who’d already begun to devour the remaining cone with gusto.
‘I’ve only two ’ands,’ Wells complained, winking at the lad.
‘Tch, tch, honestly.’ Frost played it up to amuse the kid, who smiled at Wells.
The inspector stood and circled the boy, who must have been about ten, and took in the lad’s appearance. Richard Hammond was wearing a Denton Juniors school jersey. From behind, Frost could discern a dirty neckline on the white shirt collar. Neglect. It was tangible.
Frost knew the Clay House flats well; just off the Brick Road, many of them housed prostitutes.
‘When was the last time you saw your mum?’
‘Saturday teatime.’
‘What time is that?’ Keeping no regular mealtimes himself, Frost had no idea what the norm was.
‘Four thirty,’ the boy replied, ice cream dribbling down his chin.
‘And you’ve been alone all that time?’<
br />
He nodded.
‘Does she often do that, leave you on your own?’ Wells asked, concerned.
‘Sometimes.’ The boy shrugged.
‘Any idea where she’d gone?’ Frost continued.
‘To see a man in Rimmington.’
‘Did she say what time she’d be back?’
‘About seven.’
‘So she’d gone for dinner,’ Frost said disingenuously.
‘Maybe, but usually she’d just ’ave it off with him, then come home and have cheese on toast,’ he said confidently.
In the corner Wells spluttered into his 99 Flake.
Frost smiled at the young lad and said, ‘A close friend of your mum’s, is he, this fella in Rimmington?’
The boy bit the end off the cone, and sucked noisily before answering, ‘Nah, don’t think so, just a regular.’
Frost sat down and, crossing his arms on the table, leaned forward. ‘Is your mum what they call a “working girl”?’
‘She’s a prozzie, oldest profession in the world, she says, up there with soldiers and religion.’
Donal Fergusson lived in a flat in Baron’s Court, behind Market Square. DS Waters had come into contact with the man only once before and, in spite of his reputation, had found him to be helpful.
Waters climbed the stairs to the second floor. After rapping at the door he looked down over the balcony. He knew the man was at home as he’d called ahead to arrange it – it was a Sunday after all. Fergusson had enquired as to the nature of his business. He’d told him it was concerning Rachel Curtis, said it was important they discuss it face to face, and the probation officer had appeared satisfied and told him to come round.
Two boys on bicycles were taunting an elderly woman struggling with a walking stick. The three-storey block was popular with the retired population due to its location: quiet and secluded yet close to Market Square. One of the boys wheeled in close to the old lady and she cowered. From up on the second floor, Waters whistled mightily through his fingers. The two kids jumped out of their skin, the OAP barely moved. Deaf, probably.
