by James, Henry
‘Turn it on?’
‘The computer. I can’t find the knob.’
‘It’s at the back – but …’ Simms couldn’t fathom this level of incompetence – the entire force had spent a week on the training course.
‘Really? Hadn’t thought of that. Thanks for the tip. The estate agent said there were no viewings, he hadn’t even typed up the details. So we don’t need to bother with that side of things. Now, what we’re after here is signs of a boyfriend.’
Simms couldn’t keep up, what with the inspector’s train of thought jumping from one thing to the next. ‘She was on her own, wasn’t her boyfriend convict—’
‘Yes, a very bad lot, that one; banged up, but Miss Curtis isn’t the type to hang around. Know what I mean?’ He winked and clapped him on the back. ‘Come on, let’s have a butcher’s at the bedroom.’
The house was spick and span, one could say almost like a showroom. Even the bedroom was spotless, each pillow perfectly in place. Frost was disappointed.
‘What were you expecting?’ Simms asked.
‘You never know until you see it, in this game.’ Frost spun on his heels on the plush carpet. Simms moved to the next room, clearly a guest room, which was equally pristine; the hoover tracks were still visible. He went back to the other room. The same marks were just discernible, the pile being thicker, but they were there all the same.
‘Inspector?’ Simms called.
Frost had moved out of the master bedroom. Simms ran a finger along the dressing table. Clean.
‘Inspector?’ He repeated from the landing, ‘Inspector Frost?’
‘In ’ere,’ Frost called from a room at the front of the house. ‘What does that tell you?’ he added as Simms walked in.
Three sparkly dresses were laid out across a single bed. Below them were half a dozen pairs of shoes, of varying styles. There was a full-length mirror on one of the open doors of a floor-to-ceiling fitted wardrobe.
‘She had a lot of clothes?’
‘Well done, young Sherlock … and maybe she was thinking of dressing up fancy?’
‘Yes … Sir, also, I wondered, do you think a cleaner might have been in?’
‘So what did the cleaner have to say?’
‘Give us half a chance,’ Frost said, ‘the lad only just got the old dear’s name off one of the neighbours. Bright boy, that Simms. Observant.’
Waters nudged the kerb. ‘Anything else?’
‘Zip. The place was immaculate – not even a pair of knickers in the laundry basket.’
‘Right, we’re here.’ He released the seatbelt. ‘This isn’t going to be pleasant.’
‘Of course it isn’t, that’s why I’ve got you to hold my hand.’ Frost beamed at DS Waters.
‘I didn’t mean that – even you can handle a fifty-year-old housewife …’
They crossed the road and approached an end-of-terrace house.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Frost, lightly rapping on the door. ‘Judging from the photos in the Gazette, she’s no Mrs Mop.’
The door opened.
‘Clear off,’ a sinewy woman with short brown hair in a denim jacket said sharply.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Benson,’ Waters said nervously.
‘She got what she deserved, and I’m glad – you can quote me on that, now bugger off.’ She made to shut the door; Frost wedged his foot in the opening, but it didn’t deter Albert Benson’s widow, who shoved her front door with considerable might without batting an eye.
‘Aaargh!’ Frost cried out. ‘Me toes – she’s got me flamin’ foot!’
Waters stepped in and pushed the door back forcefully, sending the occupant stumbling. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Benson, but you …’
‘Police brutality! You lot think you can do anything you bloody well like.’
‘Now, now, Mrs Benson,’ Frost said, rubbing his ankle, ‘we only want a couple of minutes of your time.’
‘Is that all? Aren’t you going to arrest me?’
‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘For murdering Rachel Curtis. I know what I said in the press …’
‘Just because you said it, doesn’t mean you’d do it—’
‘Don’t it just! I would if I’d had half a chance, but as it happens, I didn’t.’
‘You all right, Ma?’ A deep voice came from within the house.
‘Bleedin’ coppers, Gaz.’
A tanned man in his twenties, equal in height to Waters, arrived in the hallway.
‘All right, Gary.’ Frost nodded. Sandy Lane had told them of the connection the previous evening, but Frost was surprised all the same to see Harry Baskin’s doorman looming before him. Everyone had a mother somewhere, he supposed.
‘Mr Frost,’ the man acknowledged him. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Just asking your mother – I presume the lady is your mother? – a few quick questions.’
‘Yes, I am his mother – and Bert was his dad!’ the woman shouted bitterly.
‘Now, now, Ma,’ Gary Benson comforted. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘The woman who shot your dad was found dead in St Mary’s churchyard.’
Gary Benson was understanding of the situation, and remained remarkably composed as Frost outlined their position, which was quite simply to ascertain whether his mother had been in contact with or seen the deceased.
‘You’ve not seen her, have you, Ma?’
She shook her head.
‘Jolly good,’ Frost said. ‘Of course, as your mother has openly made threats to Miss Curtis’s life we may have to call again. And so I’d appreciate it if you remained in the Denton area while this investigation is under way.’
Benson nodded on behalf of his mother, who was now wedged under her son’s arm.
‘Very good,’ Frost said, ‘and Gary, you knew Rachel? She was running the bar at the Grove?’
‘I knew her but not well.’
‘I see … what about last week?’
‘I was in Marbella until the weekend.’
‘And straight back on the job, eh?’ Frost had seen him last night. More words had passed Gary Benson’s lips in the last two minutes than in the many times Frost had been at the Grove to see Harry. He seemed a reasonable sort, the direct opposite of his emotional mother. In fact ‘Big Gaz’, as he was known, displayed no feelings whatsoever.
‘What do you make of that then?’
Frost and Waters sat in the Vauxhall watching the Benson residence from a discreet distance. The council house was on the corner of a residential street and the Wells Road. Frost was waiting for any movement to or from the house subsequent to their visit; he wasn’t sure what to expect, but he felt he was missing something; something about the mother and son’s behaviour didn’t stack up.
‘You’d have to be pretty daft to go out and kill someone after blatantly announcing to the press you’d kill them given half a chance. Unless it’s all for show.’
‘Hmm.’ Waters flicked ash out of the window. ‘She even repeated it to us just now.’
‘Yes. Could it be a double bluff? An act; all this public ranting – might it be hiding in plain sight?’ Frost frowned. ‘All that guff in the press too. What was Sandy banging on about last night – “deep hatred”? I wonder about him sometimes.’
‘He thinks in headlines.’
‘Suppose so – wish he could say something useful for a change.’
‘The son was cool as a cucumber, given the circumstances, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm, he might be a bit slow up here.’ Frost tapped the side of his head. ‘But you’re right … too cool, compared with his mother. Might be worth checking out his movements with Harry just to be sure.’
‘He looked like he’d been away though, nice tan – ’ello, what’s that – looks like Mum’s on the move.’
Mrs Benson shut her front door and hurried along the garden path. The two detectives sank into the seat on reflex, even though they were three hundre
d yards away with the sun behind them.
‘Right, is it her we’re after?’ Waters had his fingers on the ignition key.
Frost urged caution. ‘Wait for her to go round the corner, first …’
‘She’s moving at a fair pace, we’re going to lose her.’
‘In a sec …’ Frost drew on the cigarette anxiously. ‘We don’t want her to see us.’
‘Shit – look who’s getting out of the Marina!’
‘Blast! Sandy – bleedin’ nuisance. He’ll see us.’
The reporter had, and gave them a cheeky wave as he approached the Benson house.
‘She’ll be way down the Wells Road, we’ll never find her.’
‘Flamin’ knickers!’ Frost got out of the car, desperate to catch a glimpse of her. The traffic was solid on the main road.
‘Jack, what you doing?’ Waters had started the car, but Frost was still leaning on the door. ‘OK, let’s go.’ Waters tugged at his buddy’s polo top.
Frost got in, agitated. ‘What’s that git doing?’
‘Annoying members of the public; it’s what he does best.’ Waters punched the Vauxhall down the road, but was blocked by a car coming the other way, which had pulled out to avoid a double-parked Audi. By the time they reached the Wells Road Mrs Benson had vanished.
Monday (5)
Superintendent Mullett was content with the press briefing. The sheer shock of a body in a churchyard had sent a jolt through Denton and a bonus was that the police were now suddenly a valued and needed part of the community. Serve them right for letting her out in the first place.
‘Respect,’ Mullett muttered to himself, ‘respect …’ as he battled with the lever to his office window, to let some air in. One individual troubled him – Sandy Lane from the Echo. A little too complacent, that one. The TV and radio people were suitably deferential and concerned about this slur against the Church (‘Sacrilege’ – Mullett had used this word more than once; it had a ring to it); yes, all understood the gravitas of the situation, apart from their own local man. Lane’s questions about reprisals indicated a familiarity with the crime that the superintendent did not appreciate. He would bend Frost’s ear later, once he’d finished dealing with the two halfwits in front of him. He returned to his desk to face the uninspiring presence of Sergeant Bill Wells and Sergeant Charlie Wallace, Denton’s senior traffic officer.
‘Gentlemen, I do hope you have something to report?’ He interlaced his fingers proprietarily across the polished desk. The two men hesitated, unsure who should go first. The traffic congestion in Denton had reached crisis point. The centre of town was gridlocked by 8 a.m., hence the superintendent’s own tardiness.
‘Nothing to report as yet,’ Wallace mumbled, ‘but the summer is almost at an end – I’m sure the roads will ease up come September …’
‘Piffle! The roads are set to get worse, the children will be back at school in a week or two – what on earth makes you think it’ll get any better?’
Wallace started to bluster on about holiday through-traffic. Mullett was losing patience – he’d been late in again this morning because of congestion around Market Square. The situation had been growing steadily worse throughout the summer.
Mullett cut Wallace off with a raised palm. ‘Wells, what news from the council? The road markings – the traffic problem is partly to do with the fact they’re so worn nobody can see them. People are parking wherever they damn well fancy, especially in the centre of town.’
‘They can’t sort it.’
‘Why the dickens not?’
‘Well, sir, some blighter has half-inched the paint.’
Mullett sat there, unable to speak.
‘Two hundred gallons of yellow paint, gone from the council depot end of last month.’
‘Who’d want bright yella paint in their front room?’ Wallace chuckled to himself.
‘Quiet!’ Mullett snapped. ‘Have we made any progress at all on catching the thieves?’
‘Not yet,’ Wells said, ‘the security guard was napping. I’m sure it’ll turn up.’
‘What do the council intend to do in the meantime?’
Wells shrugged.
‘I shall intervene myself. And you’ – Mullett jabbed a finger at Wallace – ‘you were late this morning.’
The policeman’s silly grin was gone in an instant. ‘Roadworks on the Bath Road … roadworks everywhere, which don’t help none.’
‘If it’s repairs, get on to the council. Traffic is your responsibility. As for the town centre, put emergency measures in place – I will not tolerate this situation a day longer; and if you are caught up in traffic and late for duty one more time, I suggest you do not bother coming in ever again!’
Line 1 flashed before him on the desk. He reached out for the receiver sharply and barked, ‘Miss Smith.’
‘Mr Hudson for you, sir.’
‘Put him through.’
What did the bank manager want, he wondered. Surely not an answer on that nightclub dancer already? Mullett dismissed the officers with a wave of his hand. Utterly useless, the pair of them. With all the nonsense over Clarke, Mullett had clean forgotten to enquire how Frost’s errand was progressing.
‘Afternoon, Michael, how can I help?’
‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Frost was at the Coconut Grove last night, checking out my Karen.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do I need to spell it out – Frost was in the front row with all those other pervs, watching her show when he should be arresting Baskin.’
‘Arresting Bas—Come now, Michael, you’re overreacting, I’m sure Frost was simply checking he had the right girl.’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense. Get Karen out of there, Mullett, or you can kiss your chances of club chairmanship goodbye.’ The line went dead. Mullett wasn’t sure what to make of it. Frost’s being at the Grove was not a surprise, but Hudson’s outburst was – if he really was in love with this woman, more fool him.
Clarke picked up the phone. She’d been shopping for baby essentials after the meeting with Mullett and had got stuck in traffic. She’d not been home long.
‘It’s all sorted.’
Frost.
‘Honestly, Jack, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, fatigued, watching her mother cajole her hot and sticky son. Why hadn’t she taken him out to the park, for heaven’s sake?
‘You’re to start back tomorrow.’
She started to object but he interrupted her. ‘Uh-huh. Am I not your superior officer, and therefore in a position to advise you of the change in circumstances?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said warily.
‘But in the meantime, I want you to check in on someone. A young boy. His mum’s missing and he’s staying with his aunt, in Rimmington.’
Clarke heard Frost out on the Jane Hammond affair. Jack feared the worst, but did not want to be alarmist. When she queried why, he said bluntly, ‘Prostitutes do not just go missing. When did you ever hear of one popping up a week later with a tan and a big smile to surprise her ten-year-old son, and say, “Sorry, honey, just fancied a breather”? Not recently, eh. Shallow graves on the moors or dumped in lorry lay-bys is more usual.’
‘That’s cheery,’ was all she could think to reply.
‘I’m a cheery sort of bloke. Now, I want you to go chat to the boy and his aunt and see if we’ve missed anything.’
‘Why doesn’t Waters “chat” to him?’
‘He took the boy over this morning, but now he’s tied up. Bit of the feminine charm never went amiss, did it? And you’ve bags of it. Sound the aunt out while you’re about it – Jane Hammond used to stop by sometimes after pulling a trick on a Saturday. It’s vital we get her last movements.’
The line went dead.
‘What was that all about?’ her mother asked.
‘Nothing, I’ve got to go out again.’ She smiled at her son distractedly; Detective
Sue Clarke was back in action.
Frost replaced the receiver, feeling pleased with himself. The CID general office, hot though it might be, at least had the benefit of a breeze flowing through the open windows. It was so unlike the stifling sweatbox he usually inhabited, rammed with paperwork and dormant computer equipment. For the last ten months he’d been taking advantage of Sue Clarke’s empty desk – just spreading out a bit, as it were – but if she returned to work tomorrow he’d have to vacate. And he’d have to tidy up too; a half-eaten Mars Bar had melted into the desk, coating an upended stapler. Ignoring the chocolate he picked up an open Coke can, shook it, and discovering the dregs of something still lingering at the bottom, took a swig. Uniform had picked up a sighting of Rachel Curtis outside the cinema on Saturday afternoon, corroborating Kate’s story; two boys had also seen her at the bus stop.
Clarke’s phone began to ring, and he picked it up absently.
‘You’re a devil to track down,’ Drysdale’s clipped tone greeted him.
‘Got to keep people on their toes.’ He took another sip of the warm, flat Coke.
‘Very apt, for it is feet that give me cause to telephone.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A splinter. The barefooted tomb lady.’
‘Go on.’
‘Not very big,’ the pathologist continued, ‘not discernible to the naked eye, because it’s so pale, yes, lucky to spot the damn thing, one really does need the time to perform these operations to the fullest.’
A figure in dark blue loomed into Frost’s peripheral vision, distracting him from the pathologist’s self-aggrandizing sermon, and advanced towards him with purpose. He’d recognize that stiff, purposeful stride anywhere. Mullett. Frost turned his back on him and parked his sweaty rump on the desk.
‘That’s … that’s wonderful, Doc,’ he said, though he failed to see what use a flamin’ splinter could possibly be in the circumstances.
Frost could feel Mullett at his shoulder, but he ignored him still. Drysdale hadn’t finished.
‘Yes, it’s wood, but it’s the shape that’s interesting. Like the tip of a toothpick.’
