Fatal Frost (DI Jack Frost)

by James, Henry

  ‘Nope, he was too suspicious. Called us instead.’

  ‘Shame, Sid developing a conscience all of a sudden at his time of life. If we actually had an item we could nail the little bleeder and pinpoint where it had been nabbed. What exactly did Sid say? Nothing to get him spooked, I hope; that’s all we need, him heading for the hills and the kids all going to ground.’

  ‘He asked Wakely how he’d come by such quality necklaces. He said he’d inherited them from his nan or something. Sid told him they were too valuable for him personally, and suggested he try Sparklers in Merchant Street …’

  ‘Where they probably came from in the first place. What did Wakely say to that?’

  ‘Just shrugged and left.’

  ‘You’d best go wheel him in, then. Don’t go alone; our Martin’s a little bit tasty with his fists and has a short fuse. Take John. You two make such a lovely couple.’ Whilst they’d been talking, Waters had entered the building. He stood placidly behind Simms, although his black eye still looked nasty.

  ‘Oh and Simms, you haven’t got a couple of quid, have you?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Brassic, sorry.’ Simms patted himself up and down.

  ‘Here.’ Clarke pulled her purse out of her shoulder bag. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘A pair of ones.’

  Clarke handed him two pound notes.

  ‘Now,’ Frost said, bending down to the two kids, who had sat quietly on the bench in the lobby throughout the exchange with Simms. ‘What have you two found out?’

  ‘We did what you asked, Mr Frost.’ It was the boy who spoke first. ‘We went to the town centre and looked around for bigger kids on them smart new bikes – BMXs – and followed them.’

  ‘Yes, it was easy,’ the girl added, ‘’cos most kids were in school apart from them and us!’ She giggled.

  ‘They stuck mainly to Market Square, bumping up and down the kerb, then headed off down Foundling Street when it got dark. We didn’t cross the canal.’ He looked anxiously at Frost.

  ‘No, the houses are scary over there.’ The girl pulled a face. ‘Bad people.’

  ‘The Southern Housing Estate?’ Frost offered.

  ‘Yeah,’ the boy said sullenly, but quickly brightened up again. ‘Then this morning, we found them again at Market Square.’

  ‘They spoke to us,’ the girl chipped in.

  ‘Really? What did they say?’

  ‘They wanted to know why we weren’t in school,’ the girl said.

  ‘Yeah, they thought we were pretty cool.’

  ‘I’m also wondering why you’re not in school,’ Clarke added drily. Frost had forgotten she was there.

  ‘How old do you reckon they were?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to say.’ The boy frowned. ‘Bit older than me … Fifteen?’

  ‘They sped off really fast when the policeman came up to them this morning while they were waiting for the man in the house shop,’ the girl said excitedly.

  ‘House shop? Estate agent, you mean?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Yes. We were hanging about on the other side of the High Street while they waited for the man to come out.’

  Frost stood up straight, his back creaking from an uncomfortable night slumped on his desk, and addressed Clarke, ‘Hmm … Bit young to be thinking about getting on the property ladder.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Clarke said. ‘Maybe they’ve enough for a deposit already with their ill-gotten gains?’ He could tell from her face that she disapproved of his unconventional use of informants.

  ‘Estate agent. Estate agent,’ Frost repeated. ‘Wasn’t there one in here the other day? Where’s Simms? Blast, he’s just left. Right …’

  ‘Hey, what about us?’ The girl tugged on his trousers. ‘We were here at twelve o’clock, like you asked.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well done.’ He handed them each a pound note.

  ‘Now, I don’t think Mr Frost needs your help any more,’ Clarke cut in. ‘Stay out of town for a while. These boys might seem fun but they’re very, very dangerous.’

  Frost noticed both children’s faces light up at the thought they’d been courting danger. He realized with hindsight that Clarke was right: it had been irresponsible of him, especially if those BMX kids had anything to do with the Wakelys.

  ‘Now off you both scoot,’ Clarke said, ‘and whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’ve been here. Got it?’

  They both nodded and ran excitedly towards the door clutching the pound notes. Frost made off down the corridor to look for Simms, already forgetting that he’d only just recalled sending him to look for the Wakelys.

  ‘Jack, that was dumb.’ Clarke was at his side. ‘What if those animals knew you were using the kids and found out they’d been grassing?’

  ‘Yes, yes, but it’s fine, no harm done. And even if they found out, the gypsies will be off in a week or so.’ Frost paused to hold the door open. ‘Besides, what have they told us other than the kids on bikes were doing a little house-hunting?’

  Clarke entered the CID office. ‘That’s not the point; it’s irresponsible,’ she said brusquely.

  ‘No.’ He looked at her sternly. ‘The point is, why would a bunch of BMX bandits be interested in an estate agent – possibly one they’ve already mugged, one who could ID them?’

  Superintendent Mullett placed the phone back in its cradle. It was the second time today he had spoken to the estate agent. The regional manager no less, a chap named Everett. A decent sort, well educated. Everett had valued the Mulletts’ detached four-bedroom house in Wessex Crescent at £27,000, a respectable amount; though, with the recession dragging on, how long it would take to shift the place was anyone’s guess. Mrs M would have to bide her time if she wanted a Victorian townhouse in Rimmington.

  He sighed and spread the Telegraph out on his desk. Economic woes were prominent across the spread of the broadsheet. If only those damn Argentines would behave, the Iron Lady would have more time to focus on Blighty. Peruvian peace-plan? Whatever next, he tutted. What had Peru ever done for Britain apart from sending a talking bear in wellington boots?

  Thankfully, Mullett still had his sanctuary that was unaffected by the nation’s dreadful state, and it was tee-off at three. The new club would open as planned this afternoon in spite of Wednesday’s awful business.

  ‘Stanley.’

  ‘Assistant Chief Constable.’ Mullett stood up abruptly. How the devil had he crept in here? He’d be having words with Miss Smith. ‘Just having a five-minute catch-up on the action in the South Atlantic. The Argies have only gone and sunk one of ours.’

  ‘Really?’ Winslow sniffed. ‘Your secretary said you were on the phone to your estate agent.’ The ACC flopped into the guest chair, rubbing his jaw.

  ‘Teeth still playing up, sir?’ Mullett asked, hoping they were, and would thus put him off his game. They were both on the green this afternoon.

  He nodded. ‘Dashed fellow didn’t tell me it would be this sore. Not much point having them out if one still gets this much gip.’

  ‘I suspect the gums are bruised.’

  ‘Perhaps so. On the subject of bruising, I saw the coloured chap in the corridor. Looks as though he’s been in the wars.’

  Mullett got up and fidgeted nervously about the office, twiddling with the blinds and adjusting the desk fan. ‘I can’t say that I’ve noticed,’ he lied.

  ‘Not noticed? Are you blind, man? He’s sporting a shiner that Muhammad Ali would be proud of.’

  ‘I think you exaggerate, Nigel.’

  ‘So you have seen it?’

  ‘Yes, now I think of it, yes.’ He squirmed. ‘As I said, I have placed Waters in Frost’s care. I think there’s a lot going on. They’ve barely been in the office.’

  ‘Frost? Waters was on his way out with the young, moon-faced chappie?’

  ‘Derek Simms.’ Mullett sighed.

  ‘Yes. Promoted recently to CID, wasn’t he? Bit green, I would say. Frost is far more suitable. Big chap, that Waters. I
don’t remember him being that big when we met at the Ethnic Liaison Meeting in March. One would think he’d be able to look after himself. Find out what’s going on; I don’t want an incident to develop. This isn’t Brixton. If this happened at our own hands, I want it nipped in the bud. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’ Mullett knew he should have acted sooner, but finding the body on the course had distracted him.

  ‘Right.’ The bald, bespectacled ACC propelled himself out of the chair. ‘I’m off to meet a chum for a spot of lunch in that pub down the road, the Eagle. Any good?’

  A poisonous rathole, Mullett thought, but said, ‘Nice food. Try the pickled eggs. I hear they’re rather good.’

  ‘Splendid. See you later?’ Mullett showed him to the door. ‘Someone made rather a mess of the car-park wall, what?’

  ‘Yes, when the skip was collected.’

  ‘Builders not finished the repairs yet?’

  ‘I fear the new clubhouse may have taken priority.’ Mullett smiled, his feelings on the matter mixed.

  ‘Ah yes, same chaps. Reputable, by all accounts.’ And with that he was gone.

  Mullett closed the door behind him, but remained clutching the door handle, head bowed. He sighed and rubbed his temples wearily before opening the door again. ‘Get me Frost. Now!’ he hissed at Miss Smith.

  All he’d wanted was for Frost to look after Waters for a week or so, show him the ropes, exchange ideas – was that really too much to ask? Heavens, he thought, Frost makes do with that useless great oaf Arthur Hanlon ninety per cent of the time, whereas this chap might actually have something to bring to the party. But no, good ol’ maverick Jack Frost fobs our guest off back on to Simms and the fellow is left meandering around Eagle Lane half beaten to death.

  Waters waited for Simms in his car, once again fully operational, in Denton Comprehensive School’s staff car park. The new tyres had certainly set him back a few quid. He was more annoyed about that than anything else.

  Simms burst through the swing doors, almost sending a first-year flying. He’d been visiting a dinner lady with access to the register for Denton’s Girl Guide population; though why they needed it now was a mystery – there had been no Guide camps last weekend in Denton Woods – but Frost had insisted Simms get it.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ he said, stuffing folded sheets of A5 paper into the top of his leather jacket.

  Waters would have liked to see the list, but felt obliged to roll with his young hot-headed colleague who clearly had his mind set on the Southern Housing Estate.

  ‘Take a left here,’ Simms said, ‘then hoof it down to the next set of lights.’

  Waters floored the accelerator. The sooner they nailed this second-rate thug that everyone appeared to be frightened of, the sooner they could tackle the Hardy case which seemed to be falling into place.

  His focus on the task in hand soon wavered, however. He couldn’t help but notice the number of pretty girls brought out of hibernation by the fine weather. He caught sight of two in short skirts and his thoughts drifted to Kim Myles.

  ‘So you and the pocket Venus? What’s the story?’ Simms said, as if reading his mind.

  ‘No story, man, just a cute girl. Just friends.’ He smiled innocently, last night’s bedroom acrobatics flashing through his memory.

  ‘She is cute. That much is true … that much is true,’ Simms mused. ‘Anyway, open up your ears, son, and get a load of this.’ He rammed in a TDK excitedly.

  ‘What’s this?’ Waters asked warily, though anything was better than that McCartney/Wonder duet which was monopolizing the airwaves – Jesus that was nauseating.

  ‘Hot Space. I told you, the new Queen record. Not out till later this month, but a mate got me a bootleg. Terrific.’

  ‘You really love these guys, don’t you?’

  ‘This is the real deal. Feel that pumping through.’ Simms drummed his thighs enthusiastically.

  ‘You can keep your pumping to yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean? This is music for real men!’

  ‘Call me old-fashioned, but a bloke in a leotard fronting a band called Queen doesn’t exactly shout “real men” to me.’ Waters couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s naivety.

  ‘Hey, look, over there!’ Simms pointed out of the window. ‘Pull over. See that bovver boy in the knee-high red Doc Martens? See him? On the left by the bus stop.’

  Waters clocked a fair-haired skinhead in his early twenties, red braces overlaying his check shirt, lolling against a bus shelter. Two old dears with pull-along trolleys stood at a respectful distance. Waters drew up around thirty yards from the bus stop and Simms leaped out of the car before he’d yanked up the handbrake.

  ‘Oi, Wakely, you flat-nosed toe-rag! A word in your shell-like!’

  The skinhead – who did indeed sport a bashed-in nose – jerked up as if woken from deep contemplation. In a flash he was pegging it across the road and into oncoming traffic. Cars from both directions screeched to a halt, horns blaring angrily. The gangly Simms tore off after him. Chasing people in the street was beginning to seem to Waters very much the Denton way, but, not to be outdone, he got out of the Vauxhall and hotfooted it after them.

  Simms quickly caught up with the stocky thug, who proved not to be much of a sprinter. Wakely, realizing he was about to be collared, stopped abruptly and spun round. The burly youth ducked Simms’s lunge and cracked the young DC a sharp one to the ribs, the force of which sent him sprawling to the concrete.

  Wakely looked up and was surprised to see Waters bearing down on him. He hesitated, clearly reckoning the six-foot-plus DS to be more of a match than his prone colleague.

  ‘What tree did you just swing from, Sambo?’ he sneered. Waters edged nearer. Squaring up, Wakely threw caution to the wind and took a swing. He missed, and in annoyance lashed out with an angry left, causing him to lose balance. Waters moved behind him and got him in an armlock. The skinhead thrashed around manically. Suddenly he tensed up; Simms had staggered to his feet and was wading in.

  ‘Assault a police officer, would you?’

  ‘You collided into—’ Wakely began unwisely and was instantly winded by Simms. ‘Didn’t recognize … you … not in uniform …’ he managed to squeeze out.

  ‘Sorry? Didn’t hear that, mate.’ Simms continued to pummel away.

  Waters spoke up. ‘Ease off. He’s done. Aren’t you?’ The cropped head nodded dejectedly. Waters loosened his grip.

  Simms stepped back, looking ruffled. ‘Right – down to the station, sunshine,’ he gasped.

  The three of them stood there, panting. Waters assumed Wakely was reaching for cigarettes inside his jacket and froze in disbelief when instead he pulled out a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson pistol.

  ‘What the—’ Simms exclaimed.

  ‘No station for me, boys,’ Wakely said with measured poise. The civilian audience that had gathered round now shuffled nervously back. ‘Just ain’t going back inside, sorry,’ he said, raising his free hand in a warning.

  ‘Unless you put that down sharpish, that’s the one thing guaranteed from this situation,’ Waters said calmly.

  ‘What do you want?’ snapped Wakely nervously. Waters perceived in the angry eyes a man weighing up the odds. His fate hung in the balance; the next few seconds were crucial.

  * * *

  Frost sighed. Martin Wakely. He needed this like a hole in the head. His mind was whirring: Ellis–Hardy–Hardy–Ellis. He didn’t need distractions, not now. He slammed the desk in despair. Hopefully they would unearth the other members of the Five Bells sooner rather than later. He knew that not all five girls were from St Mary’s – there must be another connection, he thought. But it would have to wait; in the meantime, he had this flamin’ robbery case to sort out, and Martin Wakely making a tit of himself waving a hand gun around in the middle of Denton.

  Frost knew he’d taken his eye off the ball with the robberies. As the week went on, they’d slipped down his list of priori
ties and he’d left them for others to deal with. He should have known better. With Hornrim Harry putting pressure on for an arrest it was inevitable that things would go pear-shaped, and now the whole of Eagle Lane was confusing the spate of daylight raids by kids on bikes with a raft of cat-burglaries, the only similarity being that jewels were involved. He shook his head in despair.

  Simms stood waiting expectantly in the doorway of the office. Frost took a slurp of cold coffee and stubbed out his cigarette. It occurred to him that he’d still not eaten all day. Every so often hunger would overcome him in an urgent craving, but generally he was oblivious. He did miss Hanlon; the tubby detective always kept himself in close proximity to food, and Frost would certainly have had more than two cups of coffee and half a pack of Rothmans to survive on.

  ‘I’ll take over from here, Simms.’ Frost could tell the lad was crestfallen, but it was too risky having Simms flare up in the interview room. Whatever he could get out of Wakely he’d achieve it far better without the feisty DC. ‘You’ve done well, son, but we don’t want Wakely antagonized unnecessarily. It was quite a pasting you gave him back there.’ Simms started to protest, but quickly realized Frost wasn’t budging and slunk off down the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Frost hollered after him. Simms spun round in hope. ‘You get that list I asked for? The Girl Guides?’

  Simms waved a scrap of paper at Frost as if the taxman had just asked for his last fiver.

  ‘Good lad! Don’t disappear!’

  DS Waters appeared at Frost’s side with two coffees. ‘Perfect,’ he said as he took one, ‘and well done for talking down this guy with the gun. Had it been left in the hands of young Derek there … well, let’s just say things might not have turned out so well.’ He paused. ‘Right, let’s go and talk to Mr Wakely about his recent trip to the pawn shop. We can safely assume he was trying to offload the stuff the BMX bandits nabbed from Sparklers …’

  ‘Not necessarily. These items weren’t new.’

  ‘Oh?’ Frost was puzzled. ‘Why’d he leg it, then? It’s not a crime to try and pawn jewels. If they really were his nan’s then this all seems a bit of an overreaction. No, he’s clearly got a guilty conscience, of which we should take full advantage.’ Frost took a sip of coffee. He narrowed his eyes and stared off into the middle distance; an idea was forming in his mind. ‘Have we got any photos of stuff stolen by the cat burglar?’