Fatal Frost (DI Jack Frost)

by James, Henry

  Wakely shook his head. ‘He’s not the ringleader … but I ain’t no grass, and he ain’t neither. I can take care of meself, but Gary’s only fourteen – he’d get lynched on that estate.’

  ‘You tell me now where the jewellery came from, and I promise you we’ll nobble Justin Pile and brush Gary under the carpet.’

  ‘What’ll happen to me?’

  ‘You can go. We’ll forget about your little tantrum. But keep your nose clean.’

  ‘None of this’ll get out, right?’

  Frost nodded.

  Wakely sighed. ‘All I know is they jumped some guy with a briefcase.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rose Avenue.’

  Well-heeled North Denton, thought Frost. ‘A briefcase. Suited?’

  ‘Yes, big tall bloke, put up a bit of a fight …’

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ Frost said. Wakely’s description pointed directly to the estate agent he had visited today. Frost banged on the door. ‘Officer!’ he called.

  ‘What you doing?’ Wakely said, worried.

  ‘Getting you released.’ He looked at his watch. It was nearly 2 a.m. ‘Now, off that bed, I’m getting in. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day.’

  Saturday (1)

  WATERS RUBBED HIS eyes and blinked rapidly. He was still not quite awake. Frost had called him at Kim Myles’s flat at 7 a.m.; no explanation, just a polite request that DS Waters join him at his earliest convenience at Eagle Lane.

  It was now just after seven thirty and he was in Frost’s office next to a hungover DC Simms. He looked over at Frost, who was, like himself, in the same clothes as yesterday, energetically shuffling paperwork and puffing on a Rothmans. Waters found Frost’s smoking this early in the morning nauseating in the extreme. Clearly it didn’t agree with Simms either; the lad looked decidedly green. If he hadn’t gone home, Waters wondered, where had the DS ended up last night? He hadn’t been with Clarke; she’d tagged along back to Myles’s flat and sat up complaining about Frost into the small hours, much to his annoyance.

  ‘Boys,’ Frost coughed, ‘I’m sure there are things you’d far rather be doing than spending your Saturday morning with me, in the nick.’

  Simms raised a sly eyebrow in Waters’ direction, prompting him to say, ‘Not at all, Jack, there’s nowhere I’d prefer to be than cosied up here with you and Derek.’

  ‘You’re a very sick individual if that’s the case.’ Frost snorted. ‘I’m afraid it’s likely to be a rather long day. I have here the Forensics report on Ken Smith, the murdered sweep from Baskin’s sauna car park.’ He opened the buff folder. ‘The VCRs in the back of the van had a bunch of prints, probably the original owner’s. The steering wheel had only three discernible prints – all the sweep’s – otherwise it was clean, suggesting to me a gloved driver drove the van and placed the VCRs in the back of it. The provenance of these VCRs can be traced to burglaries in the Denton and Rimmington area over the last eighteen months. The deceased had spent the best part of forty years in and around chimneys, and soot was embedded in his very skin. Harding reckoned it would have been virtually impossible for the poor sod to move a muscle without leaving a trace of it somewhere. The VCRs are totally clean.’ Frost paused. ‘No, the man who stole these video recorders is more than likely the same man who stole the necklaces Martin Wakely was trying to pawn, and for whatever reason this thief killed Ken Smith …’

  ‘Who, Wakely?’ Simms asked.

  ‘No. Chris Everett, the manager of Regal Estate Agents in Denton High Street, who was carrying a not-so-empty briefcase when mugged by a gang of kids on BMX bikes.’

  Frost’s theory was that Everett had been on his way to sell the gems and, unluckily for him, had encountered the BMX bandits en route. Frost knew Everett had lied about the contents of his briefcase, given what Wakely had told him last night.

  There was one thing nobody could understand; OK, so Everett was a housebreaker, but a murderer too? Why?

  ‘Maybe the sweep was a fence?’ suggested Waters. ‘You know, Everett offloads the VCRs and the sweep sells them on; they fall out, and Everett murders him.’

  ‘Estate agent murders chimney-sweep accomplice? Given what’s gone on this week, nothing would surprise me,’ Frost huffed. ‘But what was the trigger? Ken Smith was found in overalls and’ – Frost flicked through the file notes – ‘was “sooty in appearance”, which would lead one to believe he was disturbed mid sweep, as it were. Hence it’s crucial we find out where his last appointment was.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ Simms stirred beside him. ‘Johnson passed me a note on my way in. A member of the public rang early this morning, responding to the appeal in the Echo.’ Simms rooted around in his jeans pocket. ‘She’s a hairdresser, and one of her Tuesday-morning clients said she was having a sweep round in the afternoon to root out pigeons or something. Wait a sec. Oh Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘The client’s name is Fiona Everett. Lives on Somerton Street, apparently. Jesus.’

  Frost’s eyes sparkled. ‘OK,’ he said eventually, after lighting yet another cigarette. ‘Let’s be clever about this. Bring him in, but easy does it. Tell him we’ve got the lads who mugged him and we’ve recovered some jewellery belonging to him.’

  ‘And if he resists?’ Simms asked.

  ‘Any trouble, nick him,’ Frost said. ‘No dramatics, Derek. We don’t want his missus getting ruffled when she’s just had her hair done. In fact, John, you stay behind and have a natter with the wife – sound her out, she may not be in on it. Keep them apart so she doesn’t twig there’s something up. Softly-softly does it.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Waters said. ‘And what’ll you do?’

  ‘I’ll pick up Miss Parke off her train. I’m sure you two can cope alone. But tidy yourselves up a bit,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You look like something the cat’s dragged in.’

  Waters couldn’t help but wonder what the young Miss Parke would think when DS Frost rolled up at Denton train station; true, he and Simms could have done with a shave, but Frost looked like he’d slept on a park bench. For a week.

  * * *

  Frost pummelled the car horn one more time, although it turned out there was no need; Sue Clarke had emerged and was bouncing down the pavement towards the car. And she looked gorgeous. He cursed himself for not going back to her flat last night. His tired brain attempted to grasp his reasoning – had it been discretion in the presence of junior officers, or had concern for Mary truly brought a change in his feelings? All he knew was that, right now, to be snuggled up with her was the most appealing thing he could think of.

  ‘Did you really have to do that?’ she scolded, slamming the Cortina’s door. ‘It’s not even nine in the morning. You’ll have people complaining.’

  ‘Well, it’ll give Bill Wells something to do apart from check out the racing fixtures.’ He smiled.

  ‘God almighty!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look at the state of you! I thought you were going home last night?’

  ‘I got waylaid with Martin Wakely. Those cell beds aren’t as comfy as you’d think. We might have prison reformers on our case if we’re not careful.’ He scratched his neck irritably. ‘There are things living in those mattresses, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ she complained, ‘and you smell to high heaven. No, I’m not going anywhere with you like this. You’re a disgrace. What time does the girl’s train come in?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, opening the car door. ‘We’ve got half an hour to hose you down and make you less of a fright.’

  Everett heard the doorbell. He knew it was the police. He just knew it was them. It was too late to run. He should have done it last night. He had an overnight bag packed with a change of clothes, a passport and £1,000 in cash. He could hear Fiona at the door.

  ‘Darling!’ The call came up the stairs. He braced himself and made his way on to the landing. ‘The sergeant here says they have the boys who attacked you …’

  Everett acknowledge
d the two plainclothes policemen. Shit, he thought, what does that mean? But in place of panic the thought that occurred to him was: nothing; it meant nothing. Now, when he really had his back against the wall, he suddenly felt very calm. He’d say the kids were lying, he hadn’t been carrying jewellery, and who would the police believe, him or a bunch of little thugs? So long as they had no other way to pin the burglaries on him he’d be in the clear. And it may have been a blunder to put the VCRs in the dead sweep’s van, inextricably linking the two series of crimes, but the police would never believe he could be guilty of murder.

  ‘Yes, a result,’ said the white officer who’d picked him up in the street after the mugging. ‘We’d be very grateful if you’d accompany us to the station to identify them.’

  ‘Now? But I have to open the office.’

  ‘Sorry if it’s inconvenient, sir. I’m sure you understand how important it is.’

  Fiona smiled encouragingly. He did love her an awful lot. He assured her he’d be back soon enough and grudgingly slipped on a pair of loafers.

  Outside he paused. ‘Hey, wait a sec,’ he said, realizing the black officer had stayed behind. ‘Where’s the other chap?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Waters has a couple of routine questions for your wife.’ Simms smiled reassuringly, walking down the path to his unmarked car. Alongside it was a panda car, two uniformed officers standing on the pavement.

  ‘Questions about what?’ Everett demanded as an officer opened the Allegro’s rear door.

  ‘We understand that your wife recently procured the services of a chimney sweep,’ Simms said, ushering him into the panda car. ‘Nothing to worry about, only routine.’

  * * *

  ‘That’s our girl,’ Frost said, as the ten o’clock arrival’s passengers swarmed out into the station forecourt. He was feeling refreshed and reinvigorated following the forty-five minutes he’d spent at Sue Clarke’s flat.

  ‘Which one?’ Clarke said. There was quite a throng, it being the first fast train out of London on a Saturday.

  ‘The small blonde one. You can tell by her bearing. She’s got “head girl” written all over her.’

  Clarke spotted a striking platinum blonde, petite but striding purposefully towards the taxi rank.

  ‘In which lifetime would you have come across a head girl from a girls’ boarding school?’

  ‘It’s the detective in me, darlin’,’ he grinned.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure … but you can’t just pick her up; what about her mother, or stepfather?’

  ‘This one is sixteen,’ Frost said, opening the car door, ‘and is expecting us. Simms spoke to her on the phone, remember? She’s happy to talk to us alone. She didn’t want her family involved.’

  Clarke followed Frost out of the car. He was back in his grubby mac, the weather having turned again – though at least he’d had a bath and shaved, she’d made sure of that, knowing how fastidious teenage girls could be. She didn’t want him scaring her off.

  They approached the diminutive girl. ‘Miss Parke?’ said Frost.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied in a clipped, confident tone. Beneath the blonde hair was a delicate-featured, slightly pouting face of the sort that got middle-aged men into trouble.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Frost, and this is Detective Constable Clarke. Detective Simms spoke to you last night about helping us with our enquiries. Would you mind accompanying us to the station?’

  ‘The station? Do you mean a police station? Yes, I would mind. How ghastly.’ She looked horrified.

  ‘But Detective Simms …’

  ‘I know what I jolly well said to Detective Simms, Sergeant.’

  Nicola Parke, the youngest and shortest of the three, had a convincing air of superiority. Clarke knew this to be Frost’s weakness; in the face of a dominant woman he was prone to crumble. Maybe that’s where she was going wrong. It was pointless writing heartfelt letters.

  ‘I said I would gladly talk to you, but not at Forest View and certainly not at “the station”,’ Parke said, annoyed.

  ‘Oh,’ Frost said, almost meekly. Hell, Jack, pull it together, thought Clarke. ‘Well, perhaps if you’d like to sit in the back of the car here, we can make a start.’ Frost chivalrously opened the door.

  ‘There is no way on earth I’m getting in there! It’s revolting!’ Nicola wrinkled her small, sharp nose in disgust. ‘There are things growing on the seats. Yuk!’

  ‘I agree with you there,’ Clarke said. ‘Look, there’s a café over the road.’ She pointed to the transport café opposite the station. ‘Let’s grab a coffee.’

  Nicola’s story was that, having been closeted away all week at her father’s house in Reading revising for O levels, she’d not been in contact with any of her friends and hadn’t known a thing about Tom Hardy’s death until Simms’s phone call yesterday. The story had been on national news but Nicola maintained that if she wasn’t revising she was horse-riding or in the stables.

  Frost found it hard to believe. Her mother had called her only the once, on Tuesday, to notify her of her cousin Samantha’s death. The girl had pushed to return home, but her mother had refused; she’d insisted there was no benefit to be had from her presence in Denton, and she should remain with her father revising. Parke corroborated the other girls’ stories about the party on Friday night.

  ‘Both girls lied about travelling with, or indeed knowing, Samantha Ellis,’ Frost stated. ‘Why do you think they’d do that?’

  The girl thought for a second, stirring her milkshake with a straw. ‘Because they think Sam committed suicide that night? Because they were frightened? That’s what I would say. Wouldn’t you?’ As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  ‘They knew we knew they were on the same train coming back,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Well, what did they have to say?’

  ‘They claimed they were drunk,’ Frost replied, remembering that both girls made a point of making the police aware of this fact.

  Parke snorted with derision. ‘So that they conveniently couldn’t remember anything about the journey home?’

  Frost lit another cigarette. The girl’s confidence was starting to grate. He suspected the bravado was cover; she would have an Achilles heel and he’d find it.

  ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘do you really think Samantha committed suicide? I mean, you knew her …’ The café door went, and two lorry drivers came in laughing loudly. Frost missed Parke’s response.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I don’t know, Detective. I really don’t. We weren’t that close.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd, though, that both Samantha and her boyfriend are dead within the space of a week?’

  ‘Odd? Is it odd. It’s unfortunate, but the circumstances of the deaths, as far as I’m aware, appear unrelated.’ She feigned a smile, displaying bright, pristine teeth.

  Frost didn’t smile back. Instead he said, ‘So none of your friends tried to call you with the news of these two tragic deaths?’

  ‘They couldn’t – they don’t have that number.’

  ‘We can check with British Telecom, you know,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Check away,’ Parke said dismissively, slurping on her milkshake in a manner at odds with her precocious demeanour.

  ‘You don’t seem that shocked or surprised, or even upset,’ Clarke added. ‘One of your closest friends, your cousin no less, and her boyfriend are dead.’

  Parke let the straw fall from her mouth. ‘Do not presume to tell me how I feel, Miss Clarke.’

  ‘It’s Detective Clarke, if you please, Miss Parke.’

  ‘I haven’t slept a wink since that fellow Simms rang,’ said Nicola, although Frost detected not a smudge of tiredness under the clear blue eyes. ‘You can ask my father if you don’t believe me,’ she added, as if reading his mind.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Parke, how did the School of the Five Bells come about?’ Frost asked, abruptly.

&n
bsp; ‘I founded it,’ she said proudly.

  ‘That’s not strictly true, though, seeing as it already existed twenty years ago. If anything, you rekindled it.’

  ‘My, you are the detective!’ Parke said, impressed. ‘Yes, it did exist. So you’ll probably know that my mother was involved.’

  ‘How so?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘If you know that much, then you’ll know my mother was a founder member of the original Five Bells.’

  ‘Then you’ll know why the, for want of a better word, “secret society” was formed?’ Frost said sharply.

  The girl put her forefinger to her lips, and her eyes flitted from left to right anxiously.

  ‘Let me answer that for you,’ Frost said, finishing his coffee and lighting another cigarette. ‘Revenge. Revenge on boys.’

  ‘You have me, Sergeant,’ the girl said suddenly, waving off the cigarette smoke. ‘It’s our mission to castrate every boy who’s goosed a girl at the bus stop …’

  ‘Please don’t play games with us,’ Clarke snapped. ‘Two people are dead, and you – as the head of a secret society hellbent on revenge – are seriously implicated.’

  ‘I am perfectly serious.’ Nicola Parke flashed Clarke a look, but then switched to Frost. ‘We live in a sexist, misogynistic age. Or perhaps not in the police force, Detective Clarke?’

  Frost could see that Clarke was unsure how to answer.

  ‘Or perhaps I’m wrong, eh? Present company excepted?’ Nicola Parke glanced at Frost caustically. ‘We don’t all have to be unwashed lesbians chaining ourselves to the fences of US military bases to register our disapproval of the deep-seated inequalities in society. I hope you, Miss Clarke, would agree that there’s a place for solidarity between women.’

  Frost was at a loss as to how a girl of sixteen with no experience of the real world could form such forthright views; besides, where was the harm in having your bottom pinched at a bus stop? He couldn’t see it himself, but what got the youth of today worked up was anyone’s guess.

  ‘I don’t know, Miss Parke, my mind is on my job,’ Clarke said sharply.