by James, Henry
‘Can’t. I’ve to officially identify Jane Hammond’s body with the sister at the morgue.’
Waters considered offering to come but thought better of it – he’d no doubt spook the bereaved once more. ‘OK, how about I pick you up at the General in an hour?’
‘That’d be good. Then I can send Clare Hammond home with the WPC.’
Waters saw the van first, emblazoned with Todd Builders. The children’s play area by Denton Primary School was being resurfaced. A heavy-set man, troll-like, was humping blocks of concrete from beneath the swings. A young skinny lad was levering up the slabs, freeing them for the other to move.
‘Mr Todd.’
‘That’s what it says on the van,’ the man said, his back to them.
‘Might we have a word?’ Todd looked from Waters to Hanlon. Hanlon knew all the local builders and had found out swiftly where the man was working.
‘If you’re quick.’
‘Dominic Holland.’
Todd rolled his eyes. ‘What about him?’ he said and carried on lugging the slab.
‘His swimming pool. Said he left you some cash in a cement mixer?’
‘There weren’t no money there.’
‘Is it usual to leave cash in machinery?’
The man shrugged uninterestedly. ‘Yeah, if the fella ain’t around.’
‘So you’ve done that before?’ Hanlon said.
Todd nodded. ‘Many a time.’
‘Ever had money disappear?’
‘Wouldn’t do it if I had, would I?’ He took off his flat cap, wiped his brow and pulled out a pouch of Old Holborn.
‘Where are you picking up the dosh on this job?’ Waters said, surveying the play area. ‘Someone left you a roll of fifties in the middle of the see-saw?’
‘The council are prompt payers.’ Todd licked the cigarette paper. ‘By cheque.’ He’d said the last with the weight of finality, but then added, ‘Look, people nick things from places they expect to find them. Burglars rob houses for jewellery and tellies. They rob banks for cash. In places they expect to find stuff, see. People do not go looking inside cement mixers unless they know something’s there besides mortar.’
Waters thought the man practical and straightforward, and knew that he’d not survive in business for long if he nabbed down-payments from his customers. ‘And you didn’t tell a soul, right?’
‘Why would I?’
‘Do you think Mr Holland told anyone?’
‘You’d better ask him that.’
‘Did you see anyone coming and going from the house, in the time you were working there?’
‘Not really. Apart from a delivery van on the Friday afternoon.’
‘Delivering what?’
‘Loads of booze for a party on Saturday, I think. I wasn’t invited.’
Waters remembered there being a disturbance out at Two Bridges on Saturday, and Holland had mentioned it himself … It was marked up on the incident board on Monday.
‘Right mess they made. Bottles everywhere. Tyre tracks all across the front lawn. Shocking.’
‘Car tyres?’
‘Motorbikes.’
‘On Saturday night?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure, but they weren’t there when I clocked off Friday, and there plain as day Monday morning.’
Inside the car the two policemen sat for a while. Waters drank a Pepsi. ‘That’s odd.’
‘How so?’
‘Holland said only his London cronies came to the party.’
‘And?’
‘You have to meet him to appreciate this, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort of bloke that’s gonna have pals on motorbikes carving up his front lawn.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I know this party happened before Holland’s money was stolen, but prior to that Saturday night nobody in Denton had met Holland – he said himself he didn’t know anyone local – but suppose the party drew attention to this flash new boy in town with lots of money to chuck about on home improvements? Some of the village kids get wind of the party; they show up uninvited and start larking about on the property; cause a bit of a disturbance, but at the same time are scoping the place out?’
‘I’m with you; they’d have picked up that he works away from Denton, so come Monday, they watch the house and wait for him to leave?’
‘Exactly. Imagine it; they return on Monday thinking they’ll find him already gone, but instead can’t believe their luck when they see our dandy friend place a huge bag of cash in a cement mixer! They’d not even bother breaking into the house with a result like that – all suspicion would be on the builder. Let’s take a butcher’s up there.’
‘I can’t. Jack has told me I’ve got to go all the way back up to flamin’ Sheffield to bring Curtis’s mother down for questioning.’
‘That’s a drag, all the way back up there.’ Waters remembered he’d offered to pick Clarke up at eleven. The country charm of Two Bridges would at least be a change of scene from the hospital morgue.
Frost had spoken little since leaving the care home. Simms was preoccupied too, and was not of a mind to spark up conversation. The experience at High Fields had not been great in any respect; the lad had said his mother was disturbed at seeing him in uniform, out of context; the unexpected break from routine had agitated her.
‘A woman,’ Frost muttered.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It might have been a woman Rachel Curtis was arguing with on Saturday.’ Frost had not yet mentioned to Simms what his date had told him last night.
‘Oh, so not Martin Wakely?’
‘Wakely is no doubt guilty of something, but it seems unlikely he has anything to do with the Curtis case if the biker seen rowing with her in Market Square is the same person that leapt out of her window yesterday afternoon.’
‘How old is this woman supposed to be?’
‘Late forties.’
‘Isn’t Rachel Curtis’s mum that age? Or thereabouts.’
‘Yeah, I forgot you went up there with Hanlon. How was she? Not griefstricken, I gather.’
‘No. No love lost between mother and daughter.’
‘Don’t suppose she rides a motorbike?’
‘We didn’t ask. But would she have come down here? It was part of Rachel’s parole conditions to go up there …’
‘Which she failed to do. We ought to see old Fergusson again.’
‘Who?’
‘Her probation officer; a grumpy Scotsman. Wait, stop here.’ They were at the Market Square, right outside Boots. ‘Worth a try.’ Frost reasoned that if a shopper nipping into the chemist was on a bike, they’d of necessity be after something small that could be slipped into a jacket pocket.
He flashed his ID at a stern-looking man in glasses behind the pharmacy counter and asked to be told about all the prescription customers on Saturday afternoon.
‘Dropping off or picking up?’
‘Either.’
‘We’re quite busy on a Saturday.’ The pharmacist sighed and disappeared below the counter.
Frost’s attention was suddenly caught by two teenage girls giggling at the next desk. He grinned at them, and they laughed all the more. One held something in her hand. Photographs. Frost moved over to the next counter, and asked, ‘Lady, late forties, on a motorbike, drop off a roll of film Saturday?’
‘Yes, I remember, a very angry lady. One second’ – the shop assistant looked warily at Frost – ‘here you go.’
The assistant passed him a Boots Photography wallet. Inside were an array of snaps of Gary Benson, Harry Baskin’s flabby doorman, larking around in the sun.
‘That’ll be two pounds, sir.’
‘You what?’
‘Your wife didn’t pay for the photos.’
Wednesday (3)
Waters pulled into an ambulance bay outside Denton General Hospital and switched off the engine. Frost had insisted the body be brought to the General for identification – the lab had no immediat
e need as the cause of death was straightforward – believing the experience under the care of the hospital staff would be a fraction easier on her kin than a visit to Drysdale’s morgue. Leaving the radio on, Waters tapped a JPS out of the packet. Twenty yards away in the shade of the ugly building a pair of ambulance drivers nodded, in silent recognition, as they too sparked up. On the radio the DJ gabbled on heatedly as Waters jettisoned smoke through the sunroof, his right arm dangling out of the open car window. The patter subsided and a familiar beat tinkled out of the stereo. He turned the volume up, and let ‘Master Blaster’ drift across the tarmac, where it received the thumbs-up from the other drivers.
What a week, he thought. It was hard to imagine he was getting married in two days – less than two days, to be precise, the church service was at midday on Friday. This time Friday he’d be ‘ringed-up’, as Frost had put it, and toasting his bride with champagne in the grounds of Chadwick Hall. Then a week in Barcelona on honeymoon. Waters thought himself diligent and hardworking, but he had no qualms about stepping away for a week. There’d be plenty here waiting for him when he returned, of that he was sure. Besides, Clarke was back; she and Frost might be rubbing each other up the wrong way now, but that was down to a readjustment in their relationship. They’d work it out eventually. Trying to bring the child up on her own and return to work must be stressful. Waters knew Clarke’s mother was on hand and would be more help than Frost ever would, but still; it couldn’t be easy with a job like this one, not exactly a straightforward nine-to-five, and no sign of a dad on the horizon.
The absent father was never mentioned. Paradoxically the rumour that the boy might be Jack Frost’s son had ceased when he announced he was sleeping on her settee. Waters had aired the question of paternity only once, when both were roaring drunk, whereupon Frost had said slurringly it was indisputably Derek Simms’s child. And that was that. It was good enough for Waters; and the belief was corroborated by Frost’s air of general nonchalance towards the kid (an air that had, at times, even come across as mild distaste). Frost was not well disposed to dealing with the infant’s howls at the best of times, let alone during the slim window of the night when Frost did finally sleep. Still, it was tough on Sue Clarke … As Waters drummed his fingers along the warm outside of the car door to the music he saw two women exit the hospital. One was Clarke, wearing a worried face, and the other was Jane Hammond’s sister, who appeared very shaky.
‘They sure ain’t feeling pretty, Stevie.’ Waters flicked the cigarette, started the engine and turned the stereo down.
Clarke handed Clare Hammond over to a WPC, who helped her to a waiting car. Then she hurried over towards the Vauxhall, one hand shielding her eyes from the sunlight.
‘I don’t have to ask how that was,’ he said as she shut her door. There was nothing in this world sadder than witnessing kin die before their time. Clare Hammond had looked haggard, and he might not even have recognized her as the woman he’d visited in the leafy Rimmington street on Monday.
And then it struck him. ‘What about the boy?’
‘With a neighbour.’
‘Christ.’
‘We have got to catch that bastard.’
‘We will, we will.’ He indicated to turn on to the main road. ‘Jack won’t let him get away.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked quietly.
‘A distraction,’ he said grimly, ‘see how the other half live.’
Holland first knew of the police presence when he saw them inspecting his lawn. He hurried outside. ‘Oh, am I glad to see you!’
The muscular ebony chap he’d met the previous day had a woman with him now. She held out her hand and introduced herself as Detective Clarke.
‘I left a message this morning …’ said Dominic.
‘Yeah? We were out. Having a chat with your builder.’
‘Humpf. Him. What did he have to say for himself?’
‘He said your lawn was in a bit of a state.’
‘As you can see.’
‘Your London friends, Hell’s Angels, are they?’ asked Clarke.
‘Most certainly not.’
‘But when I asked who came to your party you said it was just your city pals?’
‘I—’ He was tongue-tied for a moment. ‘What can I say? You throw a big party and you get gatecrashers, even out here.’ He held up his hands helplessly.
‘You might have mentioned your front lawn being ploughed up,’ Waters said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. ‘Hired a combine harvester for landscaping?’
‘I forgot.’
‘How can you forget that?’
‘Quite easily, when one has other, more significant, problems to deal with … come this way.’
He led them both round to the swimming pool site.
‘Wow!’ Detective Clarke exclaimed, perking up. ‘Why throw a party then?’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be an open-air bash; having lived in town all one’s life one doesn’t think of parties as taking place outside. It wasn’t a … what’s it called?’ He wafted a hand about. ‘Popular with Antipodeans?’
‘Barbecue.’
‘Yes, not one of those; frightfully common. Just a few tasty canapés, pineapple and cheese on sticks, you know. Bit more refined. But what with the weather, the windows open and that, people spilled outside …’
‘What, here?’ Clarke asked sceptically.
‘Heavens no, common sense prevailed – you’re likely to get impaled wandering around here in the dark.’ Holland indicated the metal rods poking up from the earth. ‘No, the front garden.’
‘The police were called,’ the sergeant said to his colleague, ‘too much noise. So, what happened out in your front garden? Todd thought there were motorbikes?’
‘Well, if you simply must know’ – Holland crossed his arms defensively – ‘I peaked too soon on the mojitos.’
‘Beg your pardon?’ Clarke asked.
‘Cocktails,’ Waters said. ‘How badly?’
‘I believe I passed out about nine-ish.’
‘A nuisance, at your own party and all,’ Waters commiserated.
Holland thought he might start to like this fellow, friendly and with a sense of humour. If only he weren’t so spiky. ‘I’ll say – the place was drunk dry by the time I surfaced the next day. So, I’m afraid I’m pretty useless on what went on after dark. But nothing was stolen that night, I’m pretty sure. Why the interest in motorcycles?’
‘We’re thinking that local lads who’d been refused entry to your party may have decided to pay your place a visit again at a later date.
‘Possibly after you left on Monday, and they came across your money by chance or, more likely, saw you drop it in the mixer.’
‘Very good!’ Holland was impressed. If only he could remember more about the party.
‘There’s been a spate of’ – the woman looked to her colleague fleetingly – ‘incidents involving a motorcyclist. So it would be good to rule out first anyone you might know who owns a motorbike.’
‘Oh, I don’t know anybody like that, and I can’t even drive myself.’
‘Going back to possible intruders. Be useful to hear what your guests recollect. Maybe we could ask some of your friends, see if they remember anything?’ Waters asked.
‘Hmm.’ Holland tapped his forearm thoughtfully; which names could he give? All the lot from the office were out of the question; he could not have them knowing of this, Emma would laugh herself silly… Nigel? Or Matthew and Bruce? But were they reliable? He was pretty sure they had been out of it on fairy dust or whatever it was they were tooting. ‘Let me think, eh? I’m sorry to be so damn useless.’
‘So you called again? What did you want?’
‘To know whether you’d caught the thief and found my money, of course.’
‘Would you mind if we took a quick look around the house, sir?’ Waters asked.
The house was spacious and light, Clarke would love to have a place like this. Plenty of box
es remained unpacked but furniture was in place to give the house a habitable feel, the carpets were a soft ambient grey and the walls a soft honey sheen. She was unclear why Waters wanted to inspect the house other than to impress upon Holland that they were doing something. Clarke allowed her mind to wander. She pushed all thoughts of the Hammond sisters aside and tried to imagine little Philip having all this room to run around in, not to mention the garden. Fat chance on her measly pay packet – her outgoings on the flat alone were only just manageable, and now with all the extra she had to allow for nappies and baby food … They had to get out of that cramped flat. But how? She needed a man, preferably one with money. She stopped by the first-floor window and gazed out at the rolling countryside spreading away as far as the eye could see. What hope did she have of finding a bloke, as a single mum? Nil. One reason she’d been so eager to get back to work was to be part of the world again; but so far all the job had done was remind her of how unpleasant most of it was. And to highlight how far out of reach the nicer things truly were for most people, herself included.
Back down in the kitchen, Holland appeared with a plate.
‘Cocktail sausage, anyone? Cheese and pineapple?’
Clarke was famished but hesitant.
‘Don’t worry, they’ve been kept in the fridge. Go on. I can’t eat them all.’
Clarke took a wooden toothpick. Wait a second, she thought; the pathologist’s report Frost had given her to read mentioned a sliver of wood found in Rachel Curtis’s foot.
‘May I have another?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Guess it got pretty raucous? Did it take long to clean the place up in the morning?’
Holland raised his eyes to the heavens. He had long lashes and soft doe eyes.
‘A veritable bombsite.’
‘The floor?’
‘Eugh! Literally, littered with all manner of detritus.’
Clarke pricked the tip of the toothpick against the palm of her hand; one of these could easily pierce the skin, if caught at the right angle.
‘Well, thank you very much, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘He’s a funny one, all right,’ Clarke said as they left the property. Holland stood on the front doorstep waving, as though seeing off relatives. ‘How does he think crimes get solved? Clueless is spot on.’
