Fatal Frost (DI Jack Frost)

by James, Henry

  A buxom waitress in a blouse that left little to the imagination took their order. Frost asked for a fried-egg sandwich and coffee, Waters settled for tea and toast.

  ‘The rack on that!’ Frost beamed as the waitress sashayed away. He’d cheered up, or so it seemed, and the sight of an impressive cleavage on a girl half his age brought the sparkle back into his eyes.

  ‘In with a chance there, pal,’ Waters teased. ‘See the smile she gave you?’

  ‘Leave it out, son, I’ve got Y-fronts older than that bit of crumpet.’

  Waters laughed.

  ‘Behold, the prince of darkness himself,’ Frost said, looking towards the door at a thin man wearing a fedora, pencil tie and raincoat, despite it being nearly eighty degrees. He’ll fit right in with the clientele in here, Waters thought. He and Frost looked like alternate seasons from a budget fashion catalogue.

  The man looked shifty and uncomfortable as he slid in next to Waters. ‘All right, Jack?’ he said.

  ‘Sandy,’ Frost acknowledged.

  ‘Who’s your boyfriend?’ Sandy Lane said, nodding abruptly at Waters.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Waters of the Metropolitan Police, may I introduce you to Sandy Lane, of the Denton Echo.’

  Lane’s eyebrows shot halfway upwards. ‘Very exotic,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars, old son.’ Then his eyes flashed with excitement. ‘Say, did that happen here? A race-related assault? Not been one of them since I don’t know when.’ He pulled out a tatty A5 notepad excitedly.

  ‘No, it did not, Sandy,’ Frost said, as the tea and coffee arrived. Lane waved off the waitress, wanting nothing for himself. ‘John likes to do a bit of boxing in his spare time. He came a bit of a cropper in the ring, is all.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lane looked genuinely put out. ‘What have you got for me, then?’

  ‘We need you to make an appeal.’

  ‘An appeal?’

  ‘Yeah, you know’ – Frost took a swig of coffee – ‘a plea for help from the public.’

  Waters thought Lane looked bemused. ‘Help from the public?’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Overstretched again, are we, Jack?’

  ‘It’s about a dead chimney sweep,’ Waters chimed in.

  ‘Outside Baskin’s boudoir,’ Lane affirmed, sounding slightly bored. ‘I was there this morning, but you’d already gone. It’s in the evening edition. Bet Harry Baskin’s none too pleased, a dead bloke in his car park. ’Ere, I’ve heard rumours that it’s more than a massage parlour – it’s a knocking shop.’ His journalistic interest was clearly rekindled at the thought.

  The waitress hovered uncertainly with their late lunch, then gave up waiting to be acknowledged and placed the plates at the edge of the table, not daring to touch the ashtray which was seeing some heavy use.

  ‘Disgraceful talk, Sandy,’ Frost snapped, ‘in front of a young lady, too. Of course not.’

  ‘So, what about the deceased, then?’ Lane enquired. ‘Not much to go on, from what I hear.’

  ‘People having chimneys swept in May are pretty thin on the ground, so finding witnesses and piecing together his movements could be tricky. You can help by putting in something every day. When did you last see this man? That sort of thing.’

  ‘I told you, we’re running the story this evening. I’m not sure how much more you want from me. I mean, who cares about some sad old geezer living on his own?’

  ‘Maybe, but even so, run it again tomorrow,’ Frost insisted.

  Waters could see the dismissive look in the cynical hack’s eyes. He attempted a further appeal. ‘Why not print that he wasn’t just some sad old man that nobody gave a toss about, he was a hardworking chimney sweep, a pillar of the community. Somebody’s mate. Somebody’s son. Strike a chord; run a photo of the van and equipment. Give him some humanity.’

  Waters observed the tired old hack as he took this in. He looked suddenly forlorn. Perhaps he was picturing himself in the role of the lonely, forgotten loser in just a few years from now. His sullen, creased eyes glazed over.

  ‘All right.’ Lane sighed. ‘But what have you got for me?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Frost asked, surprised.

  ‘Mullett’s press conference yesterday was bloody useless. I mean, he actually found the kid himself, so you might be forgiven for thinking he’d have something to say, but no, just the usual clueless waffle. No idea when the boy was done in, even – nothing. Tell me something useful.’

  ‘Sandy, you must understand Mr Mullett is not used to being at the coalface. He’s a bit of a delicate flower.’ The reporter shrugged, unimpressed. ‘OK, here’s a scoop. We suspect the Ellis girl – you know, the one found by the train track – was a suicide.’

  Waters shot Frost a glance. It struck him as incredibly irresponsible to break this to a reporter when the parents hadn’t even been informed. They should have been given at least a day’s notice prior to it being made public. Although Mullett had keenly advocated the suicide angle, Waters could see repercussions for Frost for handling it like this.

  ‘Really?’ Lane said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Frost said, reaching for Waters’ cigarettes after discovering his pack was empty. ‘Why do we suspect it was suicide?’

  ‘No, why did she kill herself? Depressed? Mad?’ Lane licked the tip of a stubby pencil, notepad at the ready.

  ‘We can’t comment as yet,’ Waters cut in, fearing the worst for Mrs Ellis and her partner.

  ‘That’s not much of a story, is it?’ Lane said indignantly. ‘I need something a bit more juicy.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ Frost said. ‘Clever chap like you.’

  * * *

  ‘Well played, son,’ commented Frost as they left the café, putting on his Polaroids. ‘About the sweep, I mean.’

  ‘I see it all too often round my way,’ Waters said. ‘Lonely old bloke croaks in a tower block, for weeks nobody notices until a neighbour complains about a nasty smell from next door. You get to a certain age and people stop giving a damn.’

  ‘Yep, we’ve had one or two of those down here,’ Frost said, ‘although you’d think a butcher’s hook through the neck would cause more of a stir in the public’s emotions.’

  ‘I reckon it will,’ Waters said. ‘Not everyone’s as jaded as your charming Mr Lane. Anyway, don’t you think we’d better get over to the Ellises’?’

  But Frost’s attention was elsewhere. At the bus stop across the road was a striking brunette in a floppy sunhat and sunglasses. ‘Look over there at that bird!’ he hissed to Waters, removing his shades and shielding his eyes.

  ‘Haven’t we got better things to do than check out the crumpet?’ Waters exclaimed.

  A green double-decker had pulled in at the stop. When it pulled away the woman was gone. ‘Did you see her?’ demanded Frost. He seemed oddly agitated.

  ‘The Brooke Shields lookalike, you mean?’

  ‘Who?’ Frost asked, perplexed.

  ‘You know, that skinny teenage girl from The Blue Lagoon. Did you not see that? The one that came out last year or the year before.’

  ‘She wasn’t a girl, she was older.’

  ‘More of a young Charlie’s Angel, then? The one in the blue dress at the beginning?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Frost said wearily. ‘My telly’s black and white. Just thought I recognized her from somewhere, though for the life of me can’t think where. Now, where were we?’

  An old woman in a headscarf had appeared to Frost’s left, as if out of nowhere. She proffered what looked like a twig wrapped in silver foil.

  ‘That for me, is it?’ Frost said patiently, taking the gypsy’s heather. ‘Be a good chap, Waters, and give the lady a few coppers. Now then, my love, you’ve just reminded me of something …’

  Frost pulled off the Bath Road towards the gypsy camp, and drove along what was little more than a mud track.

  ‘Tell me again why we’re here?’ Waters asked. ‘Surely we should head back to the st
ation. What time did you tell the Hardys you’d see them?’

  ‘All in good time, son. That old dear flogging heather outside the café reminded me to drop by.’ Frost paused. ‘Two reasons. One: Mullett wanted our visitors to be made to feel unwelcome. I bet he’d be only too pleased if we pinned those smash and grabs on a couple of gypsies; and I don’t want a young hothead like Simms down here creating a stir. Uniform have already been tramping around.’

  Frost concentrated on the uneven track. The cigarette clenched between his teeth dropped ash over his trousers as the Cortina clunked over potholes.

  ‘And the other reason is?’

  ‘Eh?’ Frost’s concentration was on the road, which was getting progressively worse. ‘How they got the caravans down here I’ll never know.’

  ‘You said two reasons.’

  ‘Flamin’ hell!’ said Frost, exasperated as he saw the camp pass by in the field to their left without their having found a way in. ‘We’ve come up the wrong way or something. Let’s get out and walk.’

  They stopped the car and strode across to a dilapidated section of fence. Beyond it was a huddle of gypsy trailers arranged in an abstract pattern. A couple of small children were running around, and there were dogs of assorted shapes and sizes snuffling amongst the litter. A fair-haired man with a beer gut and a ragged goatee emerged from one of the trailers.

  ‘Mr Frost!’ he said. The gypsies were regular visitors, returning to Denton year on year, despite the condemnation of the likes of Mullett. The bearded man recognized Frost because of an incident a few years back when a young girl from the camp had been hit by a car.

  ‘Hello there. Mind if we have a look about?’

  ‘The police have already been here, Mr Frost.’

  The presence of a pair of invaders had clearly been sensed throughout the camp. From every corner men and women of all ages began to appear, staring suspiciously at Frost and Waters. Although there was no outward hostility, Frost sensed that the gypsies were ready to stand their ground against further infringements of their privacy. Undeterred, he began to pick his way through the camp. There was little to see: a fire, children playing beneath a clothes line, scrap metal.

  The bearded man had followed him. ‘Anything in particular, Mr Frost?’ he said, falling into step.

  ‘Nope, just a general snoop around.’ Frost took special note of a few adolescents on bicycles, but these were old, tatty objects, not the new BMX types scooting around Denton. He stood in the middle of the encampment, shielding his eyes and looking from left to right. ‘Been into Denton much?’ he asked the gypsy.

  ‘We keep to ourselves mostly,’ he replied, rolling a cigarette.

  Waters caught them up. He had two children in tow, who regarded him curiously, no doubt mesmerized by his wraparound shades and Hawaiian shirt.

  ‘I saw one of your number selling heather in the street.’

  ‘Ain’t no law against that!’ The man looked affronted.

  ‘Not saying there is, chief,’ Frost replied with palms half raised in a placatory gesture. Someone was prodding lethargically the recently lit fire. ‘Smoke’ll get into the laundry,’ he observed. The man was unmoved. ‘Look, I just wondered if anyone here had seen or heard anything untoward. It’s like the Wild West, Denton, at the moment. More burglaries, robberies and muggings than you can shake a stick at … not to mention—’

  ‘Now, just wait a minute, Mr Frost, we just got ’ere …’

  Frost held up his hands again. ‘Whoa there, let’s keep calm. I’m not accusing anyone of anything, I just need a bit of help. Perhaps a couple of your kids might like to earn a few pennies?’

  The man squinted; whether in distrust or because the sun had got the better of him Frost didn’t know, but he took a step closer nonetheless. ‘How do you mean?’ he said, waving away a cloud of thunderflies that had gathered between them. He was probably of a similar age to Frost, but his rough, weathered skin made Frost’s pale complexion appear almost youthful.

  ‘The two kids on bikes over there, call them over.’

  ‘Sam! Megan!’ He beckoned to them.

  The children, instantly alert, came cycling towards them. Frost regarded the pair and their rusty bikes with interest. They had the same big brown eyes and were clearly brother and sister. The bloated beardie looked on warily – whether he’d spawned them or not was difficult to tell.

  ‘What sort of bike is that?’ Frost asked the boy, who was the elder of the two and looked around twelve. The bike had tall handlebars sprouting out of a much smaller front wheel.

  ‘A Chopper.’ The lad grinned, embarrassed. The girl giggled beside him.

  ‘Bet you can pull a few stunts on that, eh?’

  He nodded confidently.

  ‘And you,’ Frost said to the girl, who had light-brown ringlets of hair that were falling over her eyes. ‘Quick on that, are you? I bet you could overtake your brother.’

  She smiled, head tilted to one side.

  Frost bent down closer to their faces. ‘Kids, how’d you like to earn some pocket money? I want you to do me a favour.’

  * * *

  ‘Visiting gypsies, I might have known.’ The superintendent sighed. Wells noticed with unease how the heat disagreed with his commander. He was red in the face and his moustache looked decidedly damp. Perhaps if the uptight commander undid his tunic he might not get so wound up – it was bleedin’ hot in here, after all. It was nearly three in the afternoon and Wells had the fan on his reception desk going full pelt.

  ‘Hmm.’ Mullett pondered, eyeing Wells suspiciously. ‘Gypsies, travellers – can’t trust anyone without roots. I did tell Frost to check them out, but I was clear I wanted an update this afternoon. When is he expected back?’

  ‘Not spoken to him myself,’ Wells admitted. ‘Control has been trying to reach DS Frost for me all day, regarding the dead chimney sweep.’

  ‘Yes, the chimney sweep,’ Mullett repeated. ‘Another body. Troubled and turbulent times, Wells. If we were suitably resourced would things be any different?’

  Wells, unsure whether a response was required, said nothing. The super turned round and stood looking expectantly through the bright glass front doors opening out on to Eagle Lane. Hands on hips and pouting, as was his way. Wells had a sudden vision of him as some besieged Second World War commander in the midst of an enemy onslaught and deserted by his troops. The super didn’t weather stress well on his own.

  ‘Mr Mullett.’ Wells looked at his notepad. ‘Mr Hartley-Jones called again.’

  ‘Did he?’ Mullett replied without turning round, foot tapping on the polished floor. ‘Is Simms making progress with that line-up, I wonder? Not that some teenage oik will be the one responsible for stealing my friend’s wife’s eternity ring. I don’t suppose you know Simms’s movements either, eh, Wells?’

  ‘DC Simms is still in the field, sir, with DC Myles and DC Clarke,’ Wells said hopefully. ‘Though he was calling with regard to his niece, sir, not the burglary.’

  ‘Of course he is, of course he is,’ Mullett replied with a hint of exasperation.

  Just then the swing doors opened and two figures entered. Wells couldn’t make out their features – they were in silhouette, because of the sun – but their shuffling gait and the way they leaned against each other told him who they were: the bereaved parents of Tom Hardy.

  Waters finished talking to Control and replaced the radio handset. Frost should have asked what was happening at Eagle Lane but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. It was unlikely to be good news. Unwelcome thoughts still clouded his mind: Mary, her mother, the School of the Five Bells. Frost hadn’t mentioned this last development to Waters. Was it embarrassment at his own wife being embroiled in some bizarre schoolgirl cult? No, it was twenty years ago. He needed to check with Records before going public with such information, that was the reason. But in any case, what was he driving at with this theory of a witchcraft link to both St Mary’s and the murder? Would teenage girls really do
something that horrific? It wasn’t a thought he could countenance.

  ‘Jack?’ Waters was saying. ‘Hey, Jack?’

  ‘Sorry, pal,’ Frost apologized. ‘Lost in thought.’

  ‘Mullett’s on the warpath, Jack. The Hardys have turned up. They’re with him now.’

  ‘Shit,’ Frost said. ‘We’re late. Better bite the bullet, then, and head back to the station. He’s the last person you’d want to get any comfort from.’

  Thursday (6)

  SUPERINTENDENT STANLEY MULLETT paused while his secretary placed glasses of water on the coasters on his desk. He looked over at the Hardys. It was a good few years since he’d been in such direct contact with grief. Where the bloody hell was Frost? It was him they were here to see.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Smith,’ he said deliberately, eking out the moment as long as possible.

  Mrs Hardy finally moved the handkerchief which had obscured her features since she’d entered the station and began to speak. ‘We thought, Mr Mullett, as Mr Frost was delayed … and as you found …’ she shuddered, searching for the right word, ‘… T-Tom. We thought, as you found our son, it was best we come to see you directly. After the TV and everything.’

  ‘Of course, and so you should,’ Mullett said, trying to sound sincere. ‘I want you to know we have our very best men and women working on this terrible, terrible tragedy.’

  ‘But, sir, the bigger concern now is our daughter. She must be found alive. Yes, we want our son’s killer caught, but it won’t bring him back.’ The mother sobbed.

  ‘We need everything focused on finding Emily,’ reiterated Mr Hardy, who looked as though he’d not slept in days. He wore glasses not dissimilar to Mullett’s, behind which his eyes were livid red.

  Mullett swallowed hard. ‘Yes, we’re exploring every avenue,’ he insisted, conscious of having little idea which avenues these were and how they were proceeding. Hadn’t Frost been to the girl’s private school this morning? That was all he really knew.