Frost at Midnight (DI Jack Frost Prequel)

by James, Henry

‘Flamin’ heck! I didn’t ask for you to come get me, or anyone else for that matter; I called in the registration number of the blasted motorbike then asked Bill to send a flamin’ tow-truck.’

  But she wasn’t listening. He’d been marooned on the busiest roundabout in Denton, and had to walk up the Bath Road to a public call box and, given the length of time it took for Clarke to fetch him, he might as well have carried on walking. If it weren’t for this infernal heat (and the fact that he did indeed need someone to ferry him around) she’d have made him do just that.

  ‘Waters might like the proximity of you in the passenger seat, but I don’t – the last few months—’

  ‘All right, all right, point taken. But blame Bill Wells. He sent you – for all I knew you were still at Clay House,’ Frost said, agitated.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that. I thought you had called for me to fetch you.’ Her tone was on the verge of apologetic. ‘But, after all, I could be forgiven for thinking that—’

  ‘Never mind that. ’Ere, have you got the time on you? My watch has stopped.’ He tapped the glass face of his wristwatch.

  ‘Ten to five.’

  ‘Flamin’ hell, is it that late – and still so flamin’ hot! Can you take me to St Mary’s? I have a run-through for John’s big day.’

  ‘Yes, OK.’ She swung the car into a U-turn in the middle of the Bath Road.

  ‘Why aren’t you at Clay House, anyway?’

  ‘A punter showed.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what did he have to say for himself?’

  Rick Celba’s doughy potato head emerged distastefully in her mind’s eye. ‘Middle manager, late forties, popped round there because Jane hadn’t turned up at their Monday-afternoon rendezvous. They were due to meet at three at the Poplars Motel out on the A36, where Jane would usually thrash him with a riding crop until he begged for mercy.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Frost rubbed his beard distractedly. ‘Seems to be popular, that sort of thing. I wonder whether it’s worth a go—’

  ‘Worth a go?’ she said, dismayed.

  ‘Eh? Just thinking aloud. Would explain the lack of addresses, if she met them at a motel. Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I was convinced she would be close to home, and now we’ve discovered another posh twit she met out of town, like the lawyer in Rimmington.’

  ‘And the Poplars Motel is not even just down the road like Rimmington; it’s a good forty-five minutes away. Why did you think she was close to home, though?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much really.’ He shrugged. ‘Only, it being the school holidays, I thought she’d not stray far with a young boy. But what do I know? Never met the woman.’

  Clarke softened; any anger at having had to pick him up evaporated. He surprised her even now, one second the crudest devil you’d want to meet, the next a sentimental soul searching for the good in everyone. ‘Don’t give up on that idea just yet, Jack. The reason Celba risked calling at her flat was because he was desperate; he’d not seen her since the last week in June. She’d been refusing to make the trip to the motel until September, but then he offered her double for this week.’

  ‘That timeframe would fit with the school break.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But she was still prepared to leave the kid alone on a Saturday night, and spend the night in Rimmington.’

  The spire of St Mary’s rose in the blue summer sky as Clarke turned off the main road.

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How so?’

  The car drew to a stop, behind Waters’ green Vauxhall.

  ‘Family – she was visiting her sister, and it wasn’t evey Saturday. If you’ve a hunch, stick to it; you’ve been right before.’

  Frost got out. ‘Thanks, Sue.’ He smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you.’

  Three area cars had been alerted to look out for a motorcyclist in the town centre. Frost’s description of the rider was that he was wearing a green bomber jacket and a red and white helmet. One car reported a striped helmet shooting by on the Rimmington Road but the constable didn’t catch the colour of the bike itself, though he identified an N or M plate ending with CAT – which tallied with Frost’s report.

  ‘They ain’t going to like this,’ Miller said. They’d been assigned to the Cricketers pub at the end of London Street. ‘Us snooping around checking out their bikes.’

  ‘I dare say Inspector Frost was right to send us here. Easy for a biker to blend in, and like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ Simms said.

  Frost’s motorcyclist would have hit the town’s busy Market Square, and what better way to lose yourself than to pop out the other side and park up at the biker-friendly Cricketers.

  ‘But why aren’t these people at work?’

  ‘It’s August, ain’t it. Not just the kids who have the summer off, is it?’ Miller parked the car. There were countless bikes.

  The sight of two policemen, in white shirt sleeves and black ties, immediately caused heads to turn. Silence descended on the dense throng of hairy denim-clad men outside the pub. Between the officers and the eighty or so strongmen was a row of bikes some three deep stretching the length of the wide-fronted pub.

  ‘Right,’ Miller announced, ‘you check round the back, there’s a car park behind the beer garden.’

  ‘Sure?’ Simms said uncertainly.

  ‘Yep, quicker if we divide it up.’

  Simms was impressed with Miller’s nerve; the experienced PC was not intimidated in the slightest. Simms himself, in contrast, was nervous as hell. Miller made off towards the pub sign, where the bike line started. Simms headed down the road which separated the pub from the surrounding housing. Almost immediately a motorbike came powering towards him. The rider wore aviator sunglasses but no helmet. Like on all modern bikes there was no front number plate. The rider came perilously close, swerving at the last second. Simms spun round to try to catch the registration; it was a blur already but he was pretty sure he saw an S. Not their bike. He continued walking to the rear of the pub, keeping close to the wall. In the car park stood a handful of motorbikes; it was otherwise empty apart from an old mustard Allegro, the only actual car.

  As he drew closer he scanned the motorbikes’ number plates; there, one read CAT. He felt the side of it – the engine was still warm. It had to be the right one! His heart thundered in his chest. Crikey! What should he do? First off, he pulled out his notebook to write down the full registration. Should he now fetch Miller? But then Miller wouldn’t be able to intercept anyone who tried to make a run for it out the front. Simms needed to check if any bikers were inside the pub. If he went in the back way, then at least he’d have the rear entrance covered.

  Simms entered the pub cautiously, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark interior. The place appeared to be empty. He approached the barman and asked if he’d seen any new bikers come in in the last quarter of an hour. The man indicated over Simms’s shoulder; behind him was a skinhead with a bent nose in a Clash T-shirt, at a small round table. The skinhead was with a girl, and the policeman’s arrival had clearly interrupted their conversation.

  ‘Ah’ – Simms approached the table – ‘excuse me, sir, would—’

  Suddenly the man shoved the table towards his companion, spraying her with Cinzano, and sprinted towards the front door of the pub.

  Simms hesitated; the guy was powerfully built. The PC was no coward – or didn’t think he was – but knew he’d not be able to apprehend him single-handed. He dithered for a second or two, under the cynical eye of the barman, before giving chase.

  Outside in the blazing sun, Miller had already cottoned on. Confronted with a barrier of motorcycles, the skinhead dodged this way then that, frantically seeking an exit route, not thinking to dart along the side of the pub itself. The other bikers on the forecourt, a mixture of leather-clad men and women, were enjoying the spectacle. Out of options, the skinhead turned to confront Simms in the
pub doorway. The young PC held his ground, barred his entry and braced himself as the man swore and raised an arm. Before the man could attack, Miller rushed up behind and caught him in a half nelson. Simms slammed into the door jamb but recovered quickly to tackle the suspect’s ankle, causing him to topple over, bringing Miller down on top of him. It wasn’t textbook, it certainly wasn’t elegant, and it no doubt gave the onlookers a good old laugh; but it didn’t matter. They had their man.

  ‘Thanks for squeezing us in, Father,’ Waters said appreciatively.

  ‘Not at all, gentlemen, I’m just sorry the delay was caused by something so utterly terrible.’ Though polite, the elderly clergyman was pushed for time and exasperated by John’s best man’s lack of preparation.

  ‘Now, William, do you have the ring this time?’ Father Hill asked.

  Waters turned and looked dubiously behind him. His best man was leaning back on the front pew while desperately rummaging in his trouser pockets.

  ‘Just a sec, just a sec.’ Frost’s nylon trousers were from another decade; pastel-blue, tight at the hips and bell-bottomed at the feet – trousers in which the pockets were practically inaccessible. Waters winced as he watched Frost’s protracted efforts to wedge his stubby hands into the far crevices of such unyielding material.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ Frost gasped again.

  ‘I do hope William doesn’t intend to wear those trousers on the day?’ The vicar sighed and stepped down from the altar.

  ‘Nope, he’ll be in a morning suit, like me.’

  ‘Ah, yes; well, maybe recommend he use the breast pocket of the jacket for the ring?’

  ‘Damn!’ Frost exclaimed, stricken. ‘I’m afraid I’ve not got it … Don’t worry, I’ll have it on the day. Third time lucky.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, William,’ Father Hill said sternly. ‘There’ll not be a fourth time. Now, if you step forward here, on cue.’

  In spite of Frost’s general shoddiness, Father Hill talked them through a ceremony he must have conducted countless times before with patience and warmth. Waters was touched as the priest gently indicated the positions to be taken by each of the participants on the day.

  ‘Ah, yes, the verger.’ Frost’s attention suddenly twitched when Father Hill’s assistant was mentioned. ‘Where is he today, by the way?’

  ‘Benjamin will be at work, I assume,’ Father Hill answered.

  ‘Isn’t his job here, with you?’

  ‘No …’ Hill hesitated. ‘Ben Weaver is a layman.’

  ‘A what?’ Waters asked.

  ‘A civilian – he’s not ordained. His time at the church is purely voluntary.’

  ‘What does he do then?’ Frost asked.

  ‘I believe he has a job as a care assistant at High Fields care home.’

  The clergyman looked away and Frost sensed his unease. This man had married him and buried his wife; they weren’t strangers to each other, and Frost knew something was wrong.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh … nothing. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the bridesmaids …’

  ‘Come on, Father, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Something’s up. Weaver. What’s the story?’

  ‘What’s done is done, and the past should be forgiven.’ Hill looked at his feet.

  ‘We are the forgiving type,’ Waters said, stepping back from the altar, now curious himself.

  ‘Very well.’

  The three of them sat down on the front pew.

  ‘Benjamin was never ordained because he was dismissed from theological college due to an unfortunate incident.’ His face was heavily creased from years of absorbing the woes of others. ‘He’s a good man, though. He is. Generous – he knitted all those, you know.’ Father Hill indicated the kneelers lined up underneath the wooden bench. Waters was sitting on one – white with a simple blue cross.

  ‘Knitted?’ Frost scratched the back of his head – strands of thought were coming together in his brain. Waters was clearly making the same connections. They looked at each other.

  ‘The tea cosy,’ Waters said. ‘Sue said that Jane Hammond’s sister had one. Knitted. Jane told the sister it was a gift from one of her regulars?’

  Frost nodded, regretting he’d been so dismissive at first of Clarke when she’d tried to tell him about this. ‘Father, if it’s not breaking too many commandments, may I ask why exactly Benjamin Weaver didn’t cut the mustard as a trainee priest?’

  The vicar let out a loud sigh and stretched his polished shoes out on the stone floor. ‘Benjamin cultivated a very close relationship with another young man—’

  ‘Describe “close” for me, vicar.’ Frost stood and started pacing. ‘I mean, were they reciting a few poems together’ – he waved a hand speculatively – ‘or should we be thinking more along the lines of exploring each other’s privates in the vestry?’

  Waters turned to see the vicar’s reaction.

  ‘I fear the latter,’ Hill said. ‘His friend, a nice boy, Jonathan Gunn, took his own life. All very regrettable.’

  ‘Indeed, thank you for your frankness, Father.’ Frost turned to Waters. ‘We need to have another word with Mr Weaver.’

  ‘What, you think …?’

  ‘Sex is sex. Grab Clarke and bring him in. I’ve got to face the cameras in half an hour … if the good Father has finished with us for now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Very good.’ Hill paused. ‘See you Friday?’ he said with an air of uncertainty.

  ‘Yeah, yeah …’ Waters smiled reassuringly, but kept his eye on Frost who was shooting off down the aisle. ‘Thank you. Thanks.’ He hurried after the inspector, who was already in the porch.

  ‘You better get a sprint on,’ Frost said, sparking up.

  ‘No need to waste time picking Sue up, then?’

  ‘Won’t need to, she’s just over there.’ He gestured towards the boundary wall with his cigarette. ‘Always better to travel in pairs on a case like this.’

  Waters wondered if this was a pointed remark, but dismissed it. ‘All right, that means you’ll be …’

  Frost held out his palm. ‘… borrowing your motor.’

  ‘Jack, you know I need the car in one piece – going to the airport Saturday; my honeymoon …’

  ‘Flamin’ heck, mate, I didn’t total the Metro, you know …’

  ‘I’m just saying.’ By now they were at the lychgate. Clarke was indeed behind the wheel of the Escort. Waters tossed Frost the Vauxhall’s keys. ‘Easy does it, eh?’

  PC David Simms waited impatiently in the station lobby for DI Frost to return. The man they held in custody was a known bad boy. Miller reckoned there’d be some excitement. The station was already buzzing with Frost’s impending television appeal. The small town of Denton was manic. He’d never anticipated seeing such activity first hand when he signed up for what he thought would be a largely administrative role.

  ‘Inspector Frost, sir!’ Simms blurted as the station doors opened and in strode Jack Frost. ‘We’ve caught your motorcyclist.’

  ‘Really?’ The inspector beamed, but he was perspiring dreadfully.

  ‘Yes, in the Cricketers, like you said.’

  Frost turned to Desk Sergeant Wells. ‘Still got it in me, eh, Bill?’

  ‘Mullett’s getting antsy about the television people,’ Wells said, not looking up from the computer monitor.

  ‘Good, good … keep him that way, for a bit longer. Now then, young Simms, who have you got?’

  ‘A chap by the name of Wakely, tried to make a bolt for it at—’

  Frost’s smile vanished. ‘Martin bleedin’ Wakely?’

  ‘Yes, a man known to you?’ Simms said hopefully.

  ‘Nose like this?’ Frost pushed his nose to one side. ‘Very much so.’

  ‘He’s got a record as long as your arm.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Frost was lost in thought.

  ‘You don’t seem convinced.’

  ‘I’ve an open mind.’ Frost mustered another smile. ‘Reluctant to help with
our enquiries, I bet?’

  Simms nodded.

  ‘Must be up to no good, then. Again. In the cells? Lead on, young man.’

  ‘The super, Jack. Itching—’

  ‘Scratch it for him, Bill; the starch Mrs M puts in his underpants plays havoc in this heat.’

  Tuesday (6)

  Frost felt a headache on the way; must be dehydrated, he thought.

  ‘Police Constable David Simms, allow me to introduce you to Martin Wakely, or Spud to his pals, on account of his attractive hooter.’

  ‘We’ve been introduced,’ Simms said.

  Wakely sat there scowling.

  ‘Do tell me how, exactly,’ Frost asked. Simms explained the incident in the Cricketers. Wakely had form – only last year he’d been in trouble for selling stolen goods; breaking and entering was well within his skill set. Furthermore, he had been caught in possession of a firearm. What would he be looking for in Rachel’s house?

  ‘Rachel Curtis, Martin. Know her?’

  ‘Everyone knows her.’

  ‘Knew her.’

  ‘Knew …? What you talking about?’ He frowned.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Hadn’t heard.’ Not so much as a flicker of emotion.

  ‘Know where she lived?’

  ‘One of the big posh places.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s been empty since her demise. Mind you, it’s been empty a lot longer than that; her case lasted months. Her fella having already been sent down. House has been a sitting target for a good while.’

  ‘Wait a minute, what’s this all about?’

  The door went.

  ‘Jack, he sent me to get you. They’re all here.’

  ‘Be along in a mo, Bill. Take young Simms with you. Hornrim Harry always likes a uniform presence.’

  When the two were alone, Wakely muttered, ‘Simms, I know that name …’

  ‘Yes, it was his brother who tackled you last year, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … well, I didn’t cause a fuss this time, did I?’

  ‘Well, let’s not make a fuss now, eh? Rachel Curtis’s place has been empty a while. News travels fast in your community …’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Wakely said, confused, ‘what’s all this about Rachel Curtis?’