by Henry James
‘What do you mean, like moral guardians?’
‘Eh? Do me a favour! Nah, I mean you get bright ones and not-so-bright ones.’ They watched as the man exited through the double doors into the sunlight.
‘Maybe he’s in shock. Don’t forget, he discovered Rachel splayed out on a tombstone. That would spook anyone out; let alone a god-fearing soul like him,’ Waters said from behind him. ‘Then the guy’s neighbour disappears? Enough to give anyone a bad feeling.’
‘Maybe … anyway, I’ve a bad feeling about his neighbour myself.’ Frost pulled out a new pack of Rothmans. ‘Pick the boy up from Clay House and take him to his aunt’s in Rimmington. Then we’d better start thinking about a search of the scrubland behind the flats. Would hate the little blighter to discover his mother in the brambles while he’s out playing with his pals.’
‘You’re not hopeful then?’
‘The longer it goes on, the more uneasy I am. If the search of the town centre yields bugger all, we might as well make a start tomorrow.’
Frost approached the make-up counter at Aster’s department store. The women that stood behind the glass cabinets were all dressed in white tunics, like dental assistants, Frost thought, but less sexy.
‘I wondered how long it would take you,’ one immaculately turned-out girl said sharply.
‘How long it’d take me to do what?’ Frost thought it 50/50 whether the news would have reached them by now. The press had been briefed less than an hour ago.
‘Come bovvering me.’ She had an accent. Thames Estuary.
‘If you knew I’d want to talk to you, why not come to the station?’
‘Sandra only just heard on the radio.’ She glanced sideways at an older and more buxom colleague, who reminded him very much of Diana Dors from some dodgy comedy. ‘What am I supposed to do, come rushing down to the nick and say how devastated I am?’ she said coldly. The Dors look-alike beamed over at him.
‘You were friends,’ Frost stated, ‘is there anywhere we can talk?’
‘Outside. Cover for me, Tracey?’ Diana Dors nodded. ‘Ta. OK you,’ she told Frost, ‘follow me.’ She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a packet of Silk Cut, and moved briskly to the store exit.
Outside, the glare of the midday sun forced Kate Greenlaw to frown, cracking layers of perfectly applied make-up.
‘I’m not sure what I can tell you.’
‘The last time you saw Rachel would be a good place to start.’
‘Saturday. Was she … was she killed on Saturday?’
‘We’re still not sure of her time of death, but yes, Saturday night is likely.’
‘Bloody hell.’ She blew smoke over the tip of her cigarette, the enormity of the situation finally taking root. ‘I’m sure you think I don’t care, but you’re wrong. I loved that girl. I can’t imagine why anyone would want her dead. That psycho of a boyfriend – I’d shoot someone to get away from him.’
‘She could have shot him instead of that poor sod Albert Benson from Gregory Leather.’ Frost pulled out his Polaroids.
‘Easy enough to say now, ain’t it? She was scared, didn’t know what she was doing. Besides, she didn’t mean to kill him, we all know that. She didn’t know ’e had a dodgy ticker, did she … It was the ’eart attack in hospital later killed ’im.’
‘Did you know she was going to pull that job?’
The blare of an ice-cream van pulling into Market Square distracted them.
‘Course I bloody didn’t, and if I did I would ’ave tried to talk her out of it, and got ’er away from that madman. Rach never told anyone anything – just cos she worked for ’arry at the Coconut Grove everyone thought she was a slapper. She wasn’t. She was a bright girl, that one.’
‘A shame,’ Frost said, distracted by a child throwing a tantrum across the road as his mother refused to get him a Rocket lolly. ‘Now talk me through Saturday.’
‘We’d decided to get tattoos.’ Kate sighed and lit another cigarette. ‘Seems so trivial now, but we thought at the time – sorry—’ She turned in a shrug, fighting back tears.
This caught Frost unawares. Why? Because she’d been sharp with him and – he was embarrassed to have to acknowledge it – her accent played a part. He should know well enough by now that people often need a protective layer.
He put his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Nothing trivial about it … I’ve often thought of having one myself, but never had the nerve to do one with a pal … must be a sign of true friendship.’
Kate Greenlaw looked him in the eye, trying to work out whether he was taking the piss. He met her stare with his best inscrutable no-nonsense face.
‘Yeah, that’s what we thought,’ she sniffed, ‘and it was my birthday an’ all …’
‘Nice.’ He smiled.
‘That’s what we thought. “Nice” didn’t mean we were dykes or nothing.’
‘A lion?’
‘Of course. You’d know. You’ll have seen Rachel’s, it’s a—’ The horror struck her again. ‘Mine’s on my shoulder. Rachel was terrified of her mum so …’
‘Ah, I’m glad you mentioned her mum. Lives up north somewhere, that right?’
She nodded. ‘Never met her.’
‘A condition of her release was she was to visit Sheffield on a weekly basis, where her mother was to keep an eye on her; she was to relocate there after three months. But she ain’t been up there in the two weeks she was out. Do you know why?’
‘She talked about going, even on Saturday afternoon, but she was putting it off, because she hated her mother …’
‘So after tattoos done, what next?’
‘We stopped in the Bricklayer’s for lunch then went to see the matinee of Risky Business as a birthday treat.’
‘Then?’
‘We went our separate ways; I went out with my boyfriend that night, for dinner.’
‘You’ve a boyfriend?’ Frost said, forgetting to temper his surprise.
‘You do think I’m a dyke, don’t you?’ Her nose creased in annoyance.
‘Of course not, I’m teasing.’ He gave a wry smile, and asked for particulars of the cinema and restaurant. Not once in his note-taking did she object to the questions he levied at her; it hadn’t occurred to Kate that he was constructing a framework of movements of both Rachel and Kate herself; being the last known person to see her alive she could be considered a suspect.
‘And your boyfriend’s name?’
‘Adam King, twenty-seven Bath Road.’ She dropped the cigarette and ground it out with her toe. ‘But now he’ll be at work at the garage on Eagle Lane, the one near the cop shop. Take it that’ll be all for now?’
‘Yes, you’ve been more than helpful … Just one last thing – did Rachel have a new boyfriend herself?’
‘Would ’ave been fighting ’em off. Bees round a honeypot. Don’t want to speak ill of the dead and all that, but one thing she was good at, and that was playing the victim.’
‘Wouldn’t have a name, would you?’
She stepped aside to let an old dear with a trolley pass by.
‘We didn’t really talk about fellas, to be honest. There sort of was one but she didn’t want to talk about him, can’t remember a name, sorry … and then on Saturday afternoon, after the flicks, I saw a biker drive up and start an argument with ’er as I left with Adam …’
‘What sort of bike?’
‘Do I look like the sort of girl who could tell one motorbike from another?’ She smiled at him for the first time.
‘Pardon me, mademoiselle.’ He gave a slight bow.
‘Look, I’ll be missed. If I think of anything, I’ll give you a bell, OK? Have a word with Adam; ’e’s known ’er for donkey’s years.’
She flicked her cigarette to the ground, crushed it underfoot, turned and left him on the pavement alone.
PC David Simms had spied Frost outside Aster’s department store talking to an attractive woman dressed in white. The inspector was wearing shades and smok
ing. The woman had been talking animatedly, then abruptly abandoned him and entered the store. Frost, hard though it was to imagine, was considered to be a ladies’ man by most of Eagle Lane. Certainly it wasn’t his appearance. It must be down to his success as a detective; unorthodox but effective, was the station line. Even so, surely being good at one’s job did not guarantee a pull with the opposite sex … And though he enjoyed Hanlon’s banter about the Eagle Lane staff, David Simms – who had yet to turn twenty-one – was smart enough to know there was much he could not understand about a man who had spent as many years in CID as Frost had.
‘Right, there you go.’ PC Miller passed him an ice-lolly.
‘Cheers. Are you sure we can have these on duty?’
‘Without a doubt, mate, and we can now confirm Mr Whippy has seen neither of the ladies we’re on the hunt for.’ Miller, an unhealthy individual in his late thirties, had a questionable work ethic at times.
‘We’ve done Woolies, Boots next …’ Miller said, tossing his wrapper on the pavement.
‘Odd, don’t you think, both women were last seen on Saturday night.’
‘Odd? Nah. Coincidence.’ Miller was dismissive. His demeanour was one of jaded resignation. Simms hoped he wouldn’t turn out that way. ‘Come on, let’s go. Not that we’ll get anywhere.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Shops. Shop people never remember anything, do they?’ Simms didn’t know why the man was so sure of himself. ‘So, we just whack one of these up on a lamp-post,’ Miller said, waving an A4 sheet of paper in his face, ‘and we’ll be on our way.’
The paper was a Xeroxed poster. It bore both women’s faces, with the word ‘MISSING’ under one, and ‘MURDERED’ under the other.
The two officers had posters for each corner of Market Square and were making last calls on the surrounding shops. Then they would head down Foundling Lane, where Rachel Curtis had visited a tattoo parlour. Another unit were out on the Southern Housing Estate making enquiries about Jane Hammond.
‘Err, excuse me, mister.’
A kid on a purple bike wearing an ET T-shirt pulled up to them.
‘What?’ Miller snapped.
‘The lady on the poster, I seen ’er.’
‘Which one?’
‘The dead ’un.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside the Codpiece on Saturday.’
‘The Codpiece, what’s that?’ Simms asked.
‘Fish ’n’ chip shop on the Southern Housing Estate. More Jane Hammond’s sort of place,’ Miller said and turned to address the boy. ‘Are you sure you’ve the right person? Jet-black hair? The missing lady from Clay House has auburn hair—’
‘Yeah, woz ’er, all right, I ain’t colour-blind, mate. Where’s my reward?’
‘Why, you cheeky little f—’ the constable said, and raised his hand to cuff the youngster, but was interrupted by a wolf whistle from across the road.
The boy sat quietly in the car as they motored leisurely towards Rimmington.
‘Are you into music?’ Waters asked, as the radio tinkled quietly in the background, albeit abruptly interfered with by the harsh crackle from Control and area cars. ‘Have a rummage in there.’ He indicated the glove box.
‘I’ve never been in a police car before,’ Richard Hammond suddenly piped up, leaning forward to riffle through the cassettes.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘We don’t have a car. Mum always uses the bus or a taxi if it’s late.’
‘Cars can be a whole lot of trouble. Anything there you like?’ The boy had a lap full of cassettes.
‘I don’t know any of these. I like Adam and the Ants.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure you’ll find those guys there.’
‘Status Quo? What does that mean?’
‘Ah, you might not like them – and it means, the existing state of affairs’ – Waters took one hand off the wheel and gestured – ‘as in, the way things are.’
Nevertheless, he slipped 12 Gold Bars into the player.
‘The existing state of affairs,’ the lad repeated.
‘Yeah, so people might say such and such affects the status quo.’
‘Like my mum missing affects the status quo?’
‘Sort of.’ Waters liked the little lad. He drummed his fingers to the rhythm of ‘Roll Over Lay Down’.
‘I like it,’ Richard said, ‘’eadbangers, aren’t they?’
‘Dudes with long hair and denim up top ’n’ down bottom do have an affection for this sort of music.’ He turned off into an elegant Edwardian residential road that ran parallel with Rimmington High Street. ‘Your aunt’s quite fancy?’
‘It’s Grandad’s house. He was a writer or something. It’s that one behind the big tree.’
Waters edged in behind a convertible VW Beetle. This was a totally different setting from Clay House and the Southern Housing Estate. He picked up Jane Hammond’s black address book, which Frost had found in the flat, from the dashboard and got out of the car.
He held the gate open to allow Richard up the steps first. He noticed how thin the boy was as he reached up to the huge cast-iron lion door knocker.
‘These places must be worth a few quid.’
‘I like where I live,’ Richard said. ‘This is too posh.’
‘I know what you mean.’ But Waters was wondering how Jane Hammond felt about it, out on the Southern Housing Estate.
‘Ah Richard! You poor little love – oh … and who might you be?’
A tired-looking woman in a kaftan greeted them, the initial warmth draining on taking in a big black bloke on her doorstep.
‘Detective Sergeant Waters, Denton CID; and might you be Clare Hammond? I believe you spoke with my colleague Inspector Frost.’
‘I might … you best come in,’ she said, clearly unhappy at having him lingering on the doorstep.
‘I won’t if you don’t mind,’ Waters said. ‘He’s a good kid.’ He made to go.
‘Is that it?’ She came out of the house. ‘What about Jane?’
‘We’re doing everything we can. A female colleague will call you later, to have a chat. I’m afraid I have to go.’
The woman stared after him in disbelief.
Closing the gate, Waters thumbed through Jane Hammond’s address book. There were very few full addresses, mainly phone numbers of punters and girlfriends, presumably other prostitutes. There was only one address in Rimmington, alongside the name ‘Tufty’ and in brackets ‘Saturday – no later than five’. And that address just happened to be in the next street.
Monday (4)
After his rounds with Miller, PC David Simms was to relieve the constable posted outside the large house on Sandpiper Close. Simms had collected the keys from the estate agent in Market Square, as instructed. He stood on the sweeping driveway, awaiting the arrival of Inspector Frost, and surveyed the property. If Rachel Curtis really was just a club hostess, as he’d been led to believe, she’d done all right. A six-bedroom detached place on Sandpiper Close off Bath Hill, North Denton. Fancy manicured flower beds lined the drive.
It was two o’clock, and the sun’s power was at its peak. Simms was roasting hot in his coarse uniform and beginning to get uncomfortable. Having already tramped around Denton town centre this morning, he could do with a breather. And if he was honest all he wanted was a bit of time at the station, fiddling with the computers or even some paperwork, all in the hope he might catch sight of Sue Clarke, who had been seen at Eagle Lane earlier in the day. He was dying to know if she was coming back but was too shy to ask. As he surveyed the area for a spot of shade he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Frost’s red Mini Metro pulled up alongside him.
‘Flamin’ heck, John said she wasn’t short of a few bob, but I wasn’t expecting anything this flash!’ Frost was in shades and a pink Fred Perry polo shirt, which was way too tight across the middle and probably better suited to someone nearer Simms’s age than the inspector’s.
‘What
you doing out in this bleedin’ sun?’ the inspector shouted, his creased forehead damp with perspiration. ‘You have the keys, I take it?’
‘I—I thought I should wait for you?’
‘Tch, don’t get into the habit,’ he tutted, ‘I’m very unreliable,’ and marched across the gravel to the front door.
Simms stood rooted a second, taken aback by the senior detective’s casual manner. ‘Yes, I’ve the keys, sorry.’ He fumbled for them inside his trouser pocket. This was the first time he’d come into direct contact with Jack Frost; most of Simms’s time in Denton had been spent on the beat or in area cars.
‘What was that scallywag Miller up to with those kids on the Market Square?’ asked Frost.
‘One of them thought he saw Rachel Curtis at a fish and chip place on the Southern Housing Estate.’
‘The Codpiece?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Well, if he did, it’s a long way from here to go for something to eat. And, you’d think, living in a gaff like this she might be after something more classy than a saveloy, tasty though they are.’
‘I’ve not been … PC Miller has gone over there on his own to check with the owner.’
‘Well, he’s wasting his time – Andreas doesn’t open until six on a Monday.’
‘Oh.’
‘I hear you’re into computers,’ Frost said, as Simms unlocked the door.
‘Err … I know a bit about them, yes.’
They crossed the threshold. ‘Well, when you have a minute, maybe you could give me a hand with mine. Wow, look at this!’ The hall was done out with what looked like a marble floor and staircase. Simms thought it vulgar and OTT for the size of house.
‘Sure, what sort of problems are you having?’ prompted Simms.
But Frost was already in the kitchen.
‘This stuff must have cost a fair few quid,’ he said, surveying the solid German-brand appliances. He looked over at Simms and removed his sunglasses. ‘Just how to turn it on for a start?’
‘Turn it on?’
‘The computer. I can’t find the knob.’
‘It’s at the back – but …’ Simms couldn’t fathom this level of incompetence – the entire force had spent a week on the training course.
