Frost at Midnight (DI Jack Frost Prequel)

by James, Henry

  Mullett balled his fists. Right. The absolute last straw. Frost clearly hadn’t told Waters that his leave was cancelled. Not that the super had anything against Waters, lack of wedding invite aside, he was a nice chap and good at his job, but a direct order was not to be disobeyed. He considered the note left by the detective sergeant. If Waters had only approached him directly, if he’d made the case for his honeymoon … he might have been persuaded. But Frost had never given Waters a chance, just as he’d never given Mullett the respect he deserved.

  Frost was for the high jump.

  A presence was hovering. He spun round to discover the young lad from the front desk.

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, there’s a lady in reception and—’

  But before the boy could get the words out an elegant tanned woman with a blonde perm barged past him.

  ‘Oh, oh, Superintendent, I simply must talk to you!’ Her vibrant pink lipstick was horrible and mesmerizing.

  Mullett set his anger at Frost aside. Here was a lady of some refinement, requiring his assistance. He adjusted his tie and said, ‘Please, this way, to my office. Mrs …?’

  ‘Beswetherick. And it’s Miss.’ She beamed.

  ‘And how may I help?’

  ‘Simply dreadful news. Dominic. Dominic Holland is dead!’ She grabbed Mullett’s arm, took hold firmly and began to sob. The superintendent was quite taken aback, and offered to make her some tea.

  It transpired the lady from South Kensington was Holland’s business partner. She and someone called Niles had played a practical joke on the late Mr Holland, which may or may not have precipitated the poor man’s demise.

  ‘So, when he arrived at the office late on Monday, bragging about his swimming pool again, I thought, Right, I’m going to teach you a lesson, young Dombo, your Tightspots were so last year and those bloody Dagenham Drainpipes simply have not worked. If you spent more time at work, focusing on the marketing, rather than out in the boondocks fannying around over the colour of your pool tiles, our figures might be a tad more rosy.’

  Mullett sat speechless. He was enchanted with the creature before him, but had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘And …?’ he offered tentatively.

  ‘I dispatched Niles in the Porker, didn’t I? On Monday night, while Dom was prancing about at that party with those celebs – I asked Niles to find that cash, and bring it straight back, see how funny that is!’ She then proceeded to forage in an enormous handbag. ‘And here it is.’ She flopped a Bejam bag on his desk, then burst into sobs once more. ‘Oh I can’t believe that he’s dead! I only meant to teach him not to be such a … such a bloody knob about things!’

  Mullett tried to calm Miss Beswetherick down, but to no avail. She was inconsolable and it was not surprising. He really couldn’t quite grasp the situation. He needed Frost, and rose to ask Miss Smith to page the absent detective. He paused with one hand on the door and glanced back at the Londoner’s shaking frame. With his other hand he reached into his trouser pocket, and with a sigh of defeat pulled out the Valium he’d collected from the chemist that morning.

  Waters sat down next to Frost and draped his arm across the other’s shoulder as they watched his wife Kim get on down to ‘Jungle Rock’ with Arthur Hanlon in the Tudor hall.

  ‘So you think Fergusson went on to kill Holland for fear he might be recognized?’

  ‘Reckon so,’ Frost said. ‘The investigation into Holland’s missing cash would be on the police bulletin, which all probation officers receive; he knew we’d be questioning Holland and he’d not want to risk it. It was all too close for comfort.’ He paused. ‘It’s like Baloo tossing Mowgli around,’ he added, nodding towards the dance floor.

  ‘But without the rhythm and style.’

  ‘I dunno, she’s a bit of a mover, your missus.’

  Waters smiled. ‘Tell me, the eyebrow. It wasn’t your idea, was it?’

  ‘Never.’ Frost shook his head vigorously. ‘A terrible thing to do to a fellow the night before his wedding. Just the one, I told ’em, she’ll never notice standing next to him.’ The pair fell about laughing. It had been a fabulous day, ring and eyebrows notwithstanding. Frost checked his watch, four o’clock. The party was in full swing; the reception-only guests had started to arrive, their sober demeanour and air of slight surprise making them stand out from the other rosy-cheeked well-wishers in the sumptuous banqueting hall.

  ‘Well, old buddy, I got to make a move.’ He nodded across to Bill Wells; they’d arranged a changeover so the rest of Eagle Lane might get a chance to celebrate.

  ‘Hornrim Harry?’

  ‘Yes, there’s him.’ Frost had completely forgotten about Mullett. He was thinking about meeting Karen Thomas in an hour. ‘Your Errol’s making quite an impression on our Sue.’ Sure enough, in a corner DC Clarke was talking animatedly to John’s brother. ‘He’s even taller than you. He’s not a copper too, is he?’

  ‘Nah, he’s an airline pilot, got back from Sydney yesterday. Lives the life, I can tell you.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Frost remarked, ‘and good luck to you too, Sue.’

  Frost rose and hugged his pal. The music changed tempo, couples drew closer together; a good time to be off. It had been a wonderful day and he was relieved they’d all made it through the week. He swelled with emotion seeing his friends and colleagues shine with alcohol-tinted happiness as he crossed the dance floor; they all deserved to let their hair down, and what better way to do it than celebrating a wedding. He passed behind Sue Clarke who was now swaying gently to ‘Ticket to the Moon’ with Errol. It pleased him to see her enjoying herself, given the way the week had started for her with Hornrim Harry. ELO reminded him of his Metro still in the garage. He thought he might leave the car there, but collect the cassette. This track was on Time; he’d keep it as a memento of the day.

  Frost had not really drunk that much alcohol at the reception, by his own standards, and so had asked Wells to drop him back at the church to collect his motorbike. It was five twenty as Jack Frost turned into Eagle Lane, goggles on, heading to his rendezvous with Karen Thomas. And though it was Karen he was meeting now, it had been Julie who had crossed his mind as he left Chadwick Hall – if he was to have a boogie, god forbid, he could imagine swinging her about but, strangely, not the pole-dancing beauty. He’d call Julie soon. There was no rush, he was a free man and this was the first time he’d felt it.

  As he passed the station, he was surprised to see Superintendent Mullett on the front steps – a remarkable sight this late on a Friday. Even more unusually, he was deep in conversation with a blonde lady standing next to a black Porsche convertible. He tooted on the bike horn and gave a friendly wave. Mullett looked over – and his jaw dropped in disbelief. Frost was tempted to stop, but … well, why spoil a very enjoyable day. Nothing was so urgent it couldn’t keep till tomorrow, eh?

  He cruised along the road and found himself wondering if he shouldn’t take the weekend off. It was a strange feeling. He couldn’t think of the last time … Perhaps the motorbike was more than a symbol; perhaps he would just bugger off somewhere, anywhere. Go visit his old aunt Crystal in Devon maybe …

  Karen Thomas was waiting for him outside the Jade Rabbit as arranged, wearing a floppy hat and big sunglasses.

  ‘Hello,’ he called.

  She was clearly surprised to see him astride a motorcycle, but didn’t mention it. ‘Unusual place to meet. It’s closed.’

  ‘I’ve heard quite a bit about you in the last twenty-four hours, eh?’ Frost said.

  ‘I thought you might, that’s why I wanted to see you.’ She smiled. There was a gap between her two front teeth, and they were a little too large for her mouth. He hadn’t noticed this before, perhaps because he hadn’t seen her smile, but he found it endearing.

  ‘To tell me what?’

  ‘I’m off to Amsterdam.’ It was then that he noticed the duffel bag sandwiched between her sandal
led feet.

  Frost paused and considered this information for a moment.

  ‘I see. Want a lift?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’ll give you a ride if you return what you stole from old Hudson.’

  ‘What, on that?’

  They both considered the Bullet.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ he said. ‘It’s a very healthy way to travel, plenty of fresh air.’

  ‘What, all the way to Holland?’ she asked, her expression a mix of surprise and concern.

  ‘I never said that; chuck Fatty’s jewels in his front garden and I’ll take you as far as Harwich first. And take things from there.’ He placed his hands on the gleaming fuel tank, still warm in the late afternoon sun. ‘It’s a lovely evening for a ride.’

  ‘All right!’ She picked up her bag, but Frost got off the bike, and approached the front door of the Jade Rabbit. ‘Where you going, then?’ Karen frowned.

  ‘Just got to feed the animals, so they don’t starve, and leave a note to say I’m off.’

  ‘You’re living here?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You are a strange man, Jack Frost.’

  He unlocked the door. ‘Not really, I’m very ordinary. Hop on and make yourself comfortable, won’t be a tick.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Sarah Castleton, Frankie Gray, Phil Patterson, Felicity Blunt, Elisabeth Merriman, Kate Samano, Bill Scott-Kerr, Tash Barsby, Dominic Wakeford, Emma Beswetherick, Andreas Campomar, Ravi Mirchandani, Bob Fritz, Martin Wakley, Sarah Neal, Katie Gurbutt, Martin Hughes-Games.

  About the Author

  James Henry is the pen name for James Gurbutt, who has long been a fan of the original R. D. Wingfield Frost books and the subsequent TV series. He works in publishing, and enjoys windsurfing and long lunches.

  After a successful career writing for radio, R. D. Wingfield turned his attention to fiction, creating the character of Jack Frost. The series has been adapted for television as the perennially popular A Touch of Frost, starring David Jason. R. D. Wingfield died in 2007.

  Also by James Henry

  First Frost (with Henry Sutton)

  Fatal Frost

  Morning Frost

  Blackwater

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  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Written for the Estate of R. D. Wingfield by James Gurbutt

  Copyright © The Estate of R. D. Wingfield 2017

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  Graveyard photograph © Getty

  Figure © Shutterstock James Gurbutt has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508453

  ISBNs 9780593073636 (hb)

  9780593073643 (tpb)

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