by James, Henry
About the Book
May, 1982. Britain celebrates the sinking of the Belgrano, Jimmy Savile has the run of the airwaves and Denton Police Division welcomes its first black policeman, DS Waters – recently relocated from East London.
While the force is busy dealing with a spate of local burglaries, the body of fifteen-year-old Samantha Evans is discovered in woodland next to the nearby railway track. Then a fifteen-year-old boy is found dead on Denton’s golf course, his organs removed.
Detective Sergeant Jack Frost is sent to investigate – a welcome distraction from troubles at home. And when the murdered boy's sister goes missing, Frost and Waters must work together to find her ... before it’s too late.
Contents
Cover
About the book
Title Page
Prologue
Monday (1)
Monday (2)
Monday (3)
Monday (4)
Monday (5)
Tuesday (1)
Tuesday (2)
Tuesday (3)
Tuesday (4)
Tuesday (5)
Tuesday (6)
Wednesday (1)
Wednesday (2)
Wednesday (3)
Wednesday (4)
Wednesday (5)
Thursday (1)
Thursday (2)
Thursday (3)
Thursday (4)
Thursday (5)
Thursday (6)
Thursday (7)
Thursday (8)
Thursday (9)
Friday (1)
Friday (2)
Friday (3)
Friday (4)
Friday (5)
Friday (6)
Saturday (1)
Saturday (2)
Saturday (3)
Saturday (4)
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by James Henry
Copyright
Fatal Frost
A DS Jack Frost Investigation
JAMES HENRY
Prologue
He fought his way through the bracken. The fence was here somewhere – all the houses in the close backed on to these woods. He knew he was in the right vicinity, having taken bearings from the bedroom lights an hour or so ago, but as night crept on and the lights disappeared one by one it became more difficult to navigate through the darkness. He had already made a detour to avoid the mad vagrant who lived in the railway carriage. Last year that crazy tramp had given the police the nod about the bank robbers who’d been stashing their gear in the woods.
Abruptly, the canopy ended and a row of sleeping detached houses came into view, bathed in bluish moonlight. The sky was still clear, after a scorcher of a day.
He was sure the house would be empty. His work often brought him to this close, and this grandiose pile had long been on his radar. He’d noticed on Friday, after showing a property across the road to some clients, movement at number 7, suitcases being packed in the back of an old Audi. The early May bank holiday weekend, a gift! Nevertheless, he was cautious with the torch beam. Though past 2 a.m. it would only take one night-owl to raise the alarm. He opened the back door with the key he’d made an impression of two years ago. That was the genius strategy: leave it as long as possible, then the trail would be cold, and people never changed locks unless … unless something like this happened.
He’d memorized the house layout: kitchen leading out into the hall, lounge to the left and … He froze suddenly as something warm brushed against his leg. He instantly felt his eyes welling up, which must have been psychosomatic, as his skin had not directly come into contact with the animal’s fur itself. He reached into the pocket of the rucksack and pulled out the wire. After the battle with the dog the week before he’d made the noose in advance, which saved him having to fumble and remove his gloves, and avoided the risk of leaving prints.
He wondered about the feline instinct for danger as he easily slipped the wire over the head of the purring animal. An abrupt jolt and a brief but frantic struggle gave way to a sudden stillness as the animal succumbed to its fate. Although still watering, his eyes had now adjusted to the light, and the bright May moonlight allowed him to dispense with his torch. The white obelisk of the tall fridge-freezer stood humming softly in the corner of the kitchen – perfect. He felt a sneeze coming on as he slipped the limp furry body between a loaf of Slimcea and a bottle of Piat d’Or.
Right, first the VCR and maybe the hi-fi – after all it was a Bang & Olufsen. Though he’d have difficulty getting out through the woods, if he got too greedy. Then he’d move on to the major spoils, the real reasons for being here, upstairs in the bedroom.
Monday (1)
DETECTIVE SERGEANT JACK Frost had been at his desk in Denton’s Eagle Lane station since 7.30 a.m. Frost was not a natural early bird, but it being bank holiday Monday, he knew the office would be quiet and he was using the opportunity to tackle the bane of his life – paperwork.
The station ran a skeleton staff on bank holidays. This was one of station commander Superintendent Mullett’s many schemes to keep payroll costs down, along with the banning of overtime since January. Mullett’s reasoning for these economies was the repair work to the bomb damage sustained by the building last October, which, although barely started, was already predicted to come in at well in excess of the insurance pay-out. How Mullett could subordinate the cost of running the force to the need for fancy furnishings was beyond Frost. He was no less bemused by Mullett’s assumption that, like the super himself, most of Denton’s villains would be taking a bank holiday break.
So, the super was probably on the golf course, and DI Allen was also nowhere to be seen. So far, only Station Sergeant Bill Wells had appeared, remarking on the fine May weather as Frost passed by the front desk on his way to the Gents, before settling back down to continue mulling over the bank holiday racing fixtures. And Miss Smith, Mullett’s secretary, had put in an appearance – she was allowed overtime to meet her boss’s ever-growing demand for paperwork and bureaucracy. All was peace and quiet. Apart from a burglary reported an hour ago, which PCs Jordan and Baker could manage, there was nothing doing. Maybe Mullett was right.
All being well, if Frost could tweak his car expenses a fraction, and at least make a start on the crime clear-up stats, he could be out of here by midday and meet Arthur Hanlon in the Cricketers for lunch. Cheer the tubby sod up a bit, and enjoy a spot of sunshine with the rest of Denton.
He was concentrating intently, tongue running along his bottom lip. He carefully changed the ‘6’ into an ‘8’ on the March garage bill. ‘Well, if you won’t pay me overtime, you stingy moustachioed git, I’ll have to shaft you,’ Frost said to himself. He took a sip of his coffee and then reached for the stapler, lining up the pages before walloping it down with the palm of his hand. Job done, he thought, and lit a celebratory Rothmans. Now the clear-up stats, although there wasn’t quite the same incentive to get those filed.
At 8.15 a.m. Sergeant Wells – who had finished studying the fixtures and was now listening keenly on Johnny Johnson’s portable radio to how it was all kicking off in the Falklands – was interrupted by a call. A man out walking his dog had found a dead girl on the outskirts of Denton, near the train track.
Superintendent Stanley Mullett sat inside the Rover in the car park of the Eagle Lane station listening intently. The events in the South Atlantic had him glued to his seat. The Argentine cruiser the Belgrano had been torpedoed. It made him proud to be British.
As the news drew to a close and Jimmy Savile was once more given the run of the airwaves, Mullett switched off the radio and smoothed his moustache in the mirror before emerging into the bright May sunshine. Another p
romisingly warm day, he thought, and very nice it was too. As he locked the car he looked forlornly at the splintered windows of the canteen building. Six months since a terrorist bomb in the nearby Territorial Army base car park had taken half of Eagle Lane with it, the 200lb explosive catching the base’s fuel dump as well. Six months, and only now was the boarding coming down and repairs at last taking place.
Six lives had been lost on that day last October. Four civilians, one army regular and one police officer. Mullett hadn’t taken to DCI Patterson from the Anti-Terrorist Branch, that much was true, but he’d done a good job. Poor devil had been about to return to London and was caught in the blast as he got in his car.
Despite the bank holiday Mullett had felt obliged to come in. Assistant Chief Constable Winslow’s new chap was turning up today. And of course, Denton’s new golf club would not open until later in the week, which had an impact on his decision; though not long to go now, he thought as he smiled to himself – the members’ private viewing of the new clubhouse was this coming Wednesday. But without his golf, and with Mrs M being away in Dorset, he was admittedly at a bit of a loose end. That reminded him … He pulled from his breast pocket the list his wife had left on the kitchen table:
Pick up cleaning.
Key to estate agent.
Filter for aquarium.
Back Thursday! Love Gx
He stroked his moustache thoughtfully again. Clearly all would be in disarray at Eagle Lane, as it always was without him. It would keep them on their toes, him turning up unexpectedly like this. He spotted Wells in heated discussion with contractors outside the still closed rear entrance to the station and shook his head in despair.
The contractors’ red Transit was sloppily parked in the disabled bay, next to a Cortina, presumably Frost’s. The builders were already running drastically behind schedule and Mullett had stopped any further advances for materials until substantial progress had been made, which was probably why they’d had to show up on a bank holiday Monday. Heaven knows why Winslow had recommended he use this bunch of cowboys.
‘Wells!’ Mullett called out irritably. ‘I say, Wells!’ The desk sergeant looked towards him, made a placatory gesture to the tradesmen and hurried over.
‘What’s going on here?’
‘Builders, sir,’ the breathless sergeant answered, sweat already forming on his brow. Despite it being only 8.30 in the morning, the sun already had strength.
‘I can see that. But what are you doing out here? PC Pooley has been designated responsibility for coordinating building repairs. If you’re here, who’s on the front desk?’
As Sergeant Wells stuttered an answer Mullett noticed Winslow’s ‘protégé’ from the Met, DS Waters, emerging from a green Vauxhall. He didn’t like this one bit. Call him old-fashioned, but Stanley Mullett knew what was what, and this would be problematic, of that he was sure. Not that he was prejudiced, like the bald, bespectacled Assistant Chief Constable. He watched the tall, black officer, casually clad in denims, make his way round to the front of the building.
Wells noticed the super’s distraction and gave up on his excuses, clearing his throat before starting again. ‘There’s an issue over the new back door, sir.’
Mullett looked at him scornfully.
‘It has to meet certain criteria – regulations – which go beyond your budget …’
‘What regulations?’ Mullett snapped.
‘Health and Safety – it needs to be a fire door, which means the lintel or support has—’
‘Safety? Fire regulations? It’s a door, Sergeant. A door. The last one was blown to kingdom come. Do these halfwits understand nothing?’ He gestured in the direction of two string-vested individuals, idling and drinking tea. ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense; just deal with it! Oh, and Wells, the “travellers” have returned again. They appear to be setting up camp in the fields off the Bath Road. Get uniform down there to put the wind up them a bit.’
‘What, gyppos, sir?’
‘Caravans, horses, dogs and unwashed children,’ Mullett said with distaste. ‘Spotted them on my way in. Just let them know we’ll be watching their dirty hides.’
DC Sue Clarke took a seat in the briefing room next to DC Kim Myles, a feisty blonde who’d recently transferred from Rimmington. The windows were open, but the dust still hung in the air. They’d quickly become accustomed to the drilling, hammering and general building-site noise now the renovation work had started, but it was near impossible to ignore the clouds of asbestos, or whatever it was, that clawed at the back of the throat.
Mullett was already in full flow, but Clarke found it hard to drag her mind into focus. She was still dwelling on the weekend and the conversation-stroke-row she’d had with DS Frost.
Anyway, Mullett, who was addressing an audience less than thrilled at his impromptu briefing, was only droning on about staff changes, most of which she’d heard before. DS Frost was to assume a larger role – good for him, but the downside was that this would make it even harder for them to spend time together. She wasn’t sure if that would bother Frost. He seemed content with a bunk-up midweek, asking for nothing more. It wasn’t as if he was spending the rest of his time with that tart of a wife of his; he wasn’t – he was always working. If his modus operandi was more orderly, she fumed to herself, he might spend less time in the CID offices.
Superintendent Mullett continued to bleat on. Something about gypsies, then staffing issues again – DI Allen away on a computer course, DC Hanlon off on compassionate leave, a reminder of her ex-boyfriend Derek Simms’s recent promotion to CID. She still found the thought of that mortifying.
Suddenly all thoughts of Simms and even of Jack Frost were swept from her mind at the incongruous sight of a tall, black officer stepping up on to the dais alongside Mullett.
‘… and although Simms’s promotion last month has solved a certain amount of our short-staffing, we are still a senior officer down, so it’s extremely fortuitous that we now have DS Waters on loan from Bethnal Green. This is part of a new Home Office initiative called “Ethnic Diversification”. I’d like you all to give DS Waters a warm welcome to Denton Police Division.’
There were a couple of half-hearted claps, but Clarke also detected muffled sniggers and murmurs.
‘We’ll have none of that here!’ snapped Mullett. ‘Equal opportunities for all is the policy of Denton Division, and you’ll be impressed to hear that Detective Waters has received a commendation for his undercover work in the East End.’
‘Working at night, was he?’ someone quipped.
Clarke inspected DS Waters. He towered over Mullett, who was hardly a shorty, making him 6 foot 4 at least. He stood upright and stoic, but the faintest of smiles was playing along his lips, as if to say, Just you wait. She felt a dig in the ribs and turned to see Kim Myles grinning lasciviously. What on earth?
‘Order! I will have order!’ Mullett had turned puce. He twatted the little stick he insisted on using at briefings at the incident board like some uppity NCO. ‘The next man to even smirk will be on a charge for insubordination. And that goes for any further incidence of this disgraceful behaviour outside this room.’ The meeting fell silent. ‘Good, I’m glad we have an understanding.’ He paused. ‘DS Waters will be working with’ – Mullett rapidly scoured the room in search of a suitable partner – ‘DC Simms.’
Clarke glanced over at Simms, who she could tell was groaning inwardly. PC Baker, his old mate from uniform, patted him on the back, grinning like the moron he was. What an inspired choice, Clarke thought to herself – Simms had only been in CID a month. No chance Mullett would assign Waters to a woman – God forbid.
‘The pair of you can get straight over to Forest View. Another break-in – the third such instance in less than a month. Forensics and uniform are there now.’
‘Do we have anything to go on, sir?’ Simms asked. ‘A pattern, maybe?’
‘Perhaps,’ Mullett said.
As far as Clarke was awar
e, DI Allen had been handling the spate of house break-ins Denton had suffered of late, until he’d buggered off to play computer games, that is.
‘In the first case in Forest View, the family dog, a Pekinese, was garrotted with something akin to cheese wire. This time we have a dead cat.’
‘Strangled?’ Simms asked.
‘That’s for you to find out.’ Mullett paused, as if for effect. ‘I want you to give top priority to this case. The victims happen to be friends of mine, and I have given the Hartley-Joneses my personal assurance that we’ll find the culprit swiftly. I want this investigation to be the very definition of exemplary policing,’ he emphasized pointedly, glaring at Simms. ‘Besides, we can’t have this class of people … assaulted in this fashion, in such an exclusive area of Denton. This is not the Southern Housing Estate.’
What a snob, thought Clarke. So much for equality in the eyes of the law.
‘Now, moving on. DC Clarke, one for you to follow up. We’ve had a number of complaints from residents about the Pink Toothbrush, this new sauna and massage parlour on the corner of Foundling Street …’
‘But that’s not in a residential area, sir,’ Clarke said half-heartedly, trying to seem interested. Where the hell was Jack, she wondered.
‘What about the flats in Baron’s Court?’ Simms interjected. ‘They overlook the car park at the rear.’ He turned and gave her a sly smile. ‘Folks reckon it might be a knocking shop; soliciting in the car park.’
‘People know it goes on,’ Clarke said. ‘But if there’s not a disturbance, why the fuss?’
‘Worth checking out,’ Simms said with a smirk.
Arsehole, she thought.
Mullett, of course, nodded his approval, smoothing his moustache and adding, ‘Get your friend Frost to help. His old adversary Harry Baskin is bankrolling the place.’
Clarke flushed. She hated any reference at the station to her relationship with Frost, although, as it happened, the remark was probably innocent. Catty jokes were hardly the superintendent’s style.
