by Henry James
As the sun was going down, his mind turned to the conversation he’d had earlier with Mullett; the truth was that Frost was attracted to Karen Thomas, and until the super asked him to have the girl fired he had not realized to what extent. Suffice it to say, he jumped at the chance with such alacrity it surprised them both. The thought of any opportunity to be in contact with her was, well, rather exciting. He was in little doubt Karen Thomas was the girl to whom Sandy Lane had alluded in the pub, in connection with Hudson, but he was buggered if he’d let Mullett know that. No, he was content to allow the super to marvel at Frost’s magnanimous gesture to help out, no questions asked. He’d call Harry at the club once he was ‘home’.
The Jade Rabbit.
Frost had been determined to get there before Kenny and Mark Fong closed the restaurant, but as he hurried down Queen Street he could see Kenny Fong was already on the doorstep locking up.
‘Ah Jack, there you are – all yours,’ Kenny said. ‘Left you some Kung Po Extra, just need to heat it through.’
‘Cheers, Kenny,’ Frost said as Kenny unlocked the door and pushed it open. He was going to eat all right over the next few weeks; that much was for sure. Frost and Kenny shook hands, and Frost apologized for his late arrival the previous night; this was the first time he had seen his host since emptying the Metro. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called as he watched Kenny disappear into the night.
He switched on the lights and took in the garish oriental interior. The Jade Rabbit was for many years only a takeaway, but the owner had extended out the back of the building to develop a snug restaurant. Fong had figured out there was more money to be made by running licensed premises: Fong’s mark-up on alcohol was as impressive as the average English couple’s intake. It was growing ever more easy to buy French and German wines cheaply – and the Denton population, along with the rest of the UK, was acquiring a taste for the stuff. Who’d have thought Liebfraumilch and special crispy duck were a match made in heaven? What with the improved margin he could make on selling the same food only presented differently, Fong reckoned eventually he could ditch the takeaway (and the unpleasant late-night custom it attracted) altogether.
Frost would miss the convenience of the takeaway, though. He himself had been known to join the stragglers at the back of the queue for the Jade’s chow mein and pork balls when the pubs turned out.
‘I’ll just have to adapt, like you, eh, Monty?’ Frost said to the parrot cage on the mahogany serving hatch. The bird screeched and fluttered into life. For a spell Monty had whiled away his evenings at the takeaway counter, but drunken yobs had taunted the bird with football chants. ‘Who ate all the pies?’ in particular was felt inappropriate for a Chinese eatery, and the bird was soon relegated to the flat above the shop. Unfortunately there he proved unpopular with Mrs Fong – not on grounds of language (she spoke no English) but on health: feathers and dust. Poor Monty was soon reinstated below but this time in the restaurant.
Looking after Monty was straightforward; water, Trill and a sweep-out with a dust pan and brush every morning was all that was required. Frost quite liked the bird – they had chatted away quite animatedly when he’d arrived late last night.
‘All right there, Monty?
‘Evenin’ all!’
‘You learn fast, my feathery mate. Bill Wells better watch out, you’re halfway to qualifying.’ Frost poked a nicotined finger through the cage. ‘Now hold on a second, I got to call the Big Fat Man.’ Frost reached round through the hatch and pulled out the phone.
The bird sidestepped inside the cage, his beady eye on Frost the whole time. It didn’t take long to get through; the club boss was expecting something – the previous evening having been left open-ended.
‘Jack.’
‘Harry. I won’t beat around the bush, I need you to do us a favour.’
‘A favour?’ The surprise was detectable even down what was a very poor line.
‘Yes, and bear in mind it’s not easy for me to ask this.’
‘It’s easy for me to hear, though.’ His gravelly voice cracked into a chuckle. ‘Come on, Jack, what can I do for you?’
‘Karen Thomas. That stripper. I need you to fire her.’
‘Need me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any reason?’
Frost thought for a moment. It was best to say nothing. ‘Make something up?’
‘Me? Why me? You’re the one that wants her fired. That’s if I agree to do it. She’s very popular – slides up and down that pole like it’s one big shiny—’
‘All right, all right,’ Frost interrupted. ‘She’s your newest girl, right? Can’t you say business is tight at the moment and you need to cut costs?’
‘I don’t know about this, Jack. You’re right, business is tight, but she’s the one bringing the punters in night after night … she is a stunner; I mean, look at you the other night, dribbling like a baby. I’ll do it, but I need to be compensated.’
‘Compensated?’
‘Yeah. Two hundred nicker. For lost earnings.’
‘Flamin’ heck, Harry! That’s a bit steep.’ He couldn’t see Mullett wearing that. ‘A ton. And that’s it, with no questions asked.’
‘Deal.’ Harry laughed. ‘And if she asks – and she will, sparky one that she is – I’ll give her your name.’
The day had been a success. From his armchair, Weaver smiled at Moira Stewart flickering on the nine o’clock news as he greedily devoured spaghetti hoops and Smash. His confidence and presence of mind had been rewarded. The Denton Police were grateful that he’d put himself forward, and had thanked him for his help.
The only fly in the ointment was the revelation that Janey had often stayed Saturday night at her sister’s. He felt a tiny bit bad – he thought those Saturday nights spent away from the flat were with another man; she’d never allowed him a whole night. Anyway, it was her fault! All of it. If she hadn’t teased him about his knitting, she’d be alive. Maybe with a broken leg, but alive! He stamped his feet in annoyance, spilling his water into the mashed potato on his tray. ‘Drat!’ he cursed and stood up abruptly. A whump from the settee next to him caused him to turn. The body had slumped to one side, with an arm sliding from beneath the sheet and hitting the floor. The rigor mortis must have gone.
‘I’m telling you, it’s your fault. Knitting is not gay.’ It was that one remark that had caused him to snap. Jonathan had always liked him to knit. He placed the tray on the cabinet, and moved towards the shrouded corpse. ‘You’ll be better off behind the sofa.’ He pulled off the sheet. Weaver stepped back and scrutinized the young woman. The legs he’d so admired, now set at an awkward and ungainly angle, revealed too much thigh below the yellow mini-skirt. He moved the knitting to the floor and sat down next to her, tentatively patting her leg. ‘I’ve a plan for you, my love.’
The fact that he’d been unable to move her yet, and was unlikely to move her in the immediate future, had initially vexed him. Now, though, an idea had surfaced … He moved closer; the pat became a stroke. Instead of pulling the skirt down as he’d intended, he found his fingers creeping up her thigh under the hem. He edged closer to her and began to snuggle up, until something jabbed his cheek. In the half-light, he’d not seen the knitting needle protruding from her neck, where he’d stuck it after she teased him at the wrong moment about his hobby. He adjusted himself on the settee then reached round and held her head firmly before tugging the needle out with a grunt. Placing the needle on his lap he clasped the dead girl’s face. The mouth open; poised, frozen mid-gasp. Then, leaning forward, inches from her cold lips, he whispered, ‘Not laughing now, are you?’
Tuesday (1)
Mist still hung in the air, spider’s webs glistened in the early sun. It was 7.45 a.m. It was quiet, apart from the occasional bark from the dog unit.
Clarke felt ready and raring to go.
‘Good to have you back, Sue,’ Waters said.
‘Good to be back,’ she replied, and surveyed
the scene. There were half a dozen uniform and practically all of CID on this patch of wasteland behind the Southern Housing Estate, awaiting instructions. ‘Does it really require this many people to cover an area this size – it can’t be more than an acre or so?’
‘Be quicker this way, besides, we think she’s close by.’
‘Why?’
‘Nobody saw her leave town. She didn’t get her usual bus to Rimmington on Saturday; the stop is across the road, opposite the flats. A couple of the neighbours finish work and arrive home around the time she would normally be leaving so they’d usually see her either waiting for the bus or coming down the steps. The driver also confirmed that she didn’t board his bus that afternoon.’
A huddle of uniforms suddenly parted, revealing Frost, who proceeded to march across the dewy grass towards them.
‘Maybe she took an earlier bus?’ Clarke suggested finally.
Waters shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. Her son said she left at the usual time.’
‘Morning, troopers,’ Frost said jovially. ‘Nice day for it.’
‘If you say so. What’s the plan?’ she said. He had to be the worst-dressed man on the planet – the pink polo top was way too small and rucked up unflatteringly above the equally tight cheap nylon trousers.
‘We’ll be the rearguard. Sweeping behind uniform and the dogs.’
By nine thirty they had covered the area to the canal towpath twice, finding nothing more than discarded condoms and cider bottles. The sun now had some power in it, and Frost did not look as fresh as he had when they started out.
‘Right, that’s enough exercise for one day,’ he puffed. ‘I’m parched, and it’s hours before opening.’
‘Drag the canal?’ Waters suggested.
‘Nah.’ He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked past him towards the flats. ‘I think she’s closer to home.’
Clarke turned to face the ugliness that was Clay House. ‘Still inside there?’
‘Possibly. Her son said she’d never stray far in the school holidays,’ Frost said. ‘Anyway, you chaps head back. I’m going to mooch around here a bit longer.’
Frost’s expression was one of concern. Over the months, Clarke had grown used to seeing the sweaty inspector out of hours, but had not experienced this serious side to his nature for some time. She thought back to the discussion they’d had that spring as to what sort of house guest he’d make. Frost had claimed, on the rare occasions he finished work at a respectable time, he liked nothing better than to sit and read, preferably military history. She knew this to be true, the Napoleonic era was a favourite, but as it transpired the history books ended up in storage, and instead Jack would sit with his feet up, watching the television, guffawing at Benny Hill. The man needed to unwind somehow, she supposed; but it was nevertheless difficult to equate that hopeless figure with the one before her now, standing in the harsh sunlight, face creased in worry.
‘The address book.’ Frost squinted up at Waters. ‘Did she list any punters in the building?’
‘I told you, the book is just a bunch of nicknames – like Tufty the Lawyer.’
‘Tufty the Lawyer?’ Clarke asked.
‘Body hair,’ Waters said aside, as if that explained everything. ‘His was the only address – maybe because he lived outta town. The rest of ’em do not have an address listed.’
‘So she’s either doing the homeless a favour, or she knows only too well where each punter lives?’
‘Reckon so, but I don’t see that helps us. I doubt those nicknames are common knowledge. Like, I only got in to see ol’ Tufty by threatening to reveal it to his colleagues? I know that—’
‘Not everyone is going to be as uptight as your poncy Rimmington lawyer.’ Frost made to go.
Waters turned to follow. ‘Yeah, some might be a bit more intimate, you know, like if a bloke is called “pumpkin dick”, he’s hardly going to spread that around, is he?’
‘“Pumpkin dick”? What sort of nickname is that … is that in the book?’ Frost’s voice trailed off as the two made their way through the long grass back to the car.
Clarke was left alone next to a large buddleia. It was hard to equate this kind of conversation with the little boy she’d left drawing quietly at his aunt’s dining-room table in Rimmington. This was the real world, though, and she better get used to it again. And soon, if she was to be any use in CID.
Weaver had watched the police staring up at the building. It was strange; here he was, invisible, and them down there searching for Janey. He pressed the side of his head to the window to see where the two men went. They stopped at a green Vauxhall, whereupon the black one got in and promptly drove off. The other disappeared from view. A woman PC remained behind, standing by a flowering bush facing the canal. They’d not find her there, no … And when they drew a blank, what then? Where would they look next? His audacious move had paid off; the gossip at the laundrette was that the police had questioned the entire block – all apart from him. By thrusting himself forward, Weaver had risen above suspicion.
He stepped back from the window, and slipped on a pair of trainers. He had to go into work later, but he could get the stuff first and do it tonight … He had a couple of hours before he needed to leave for his shift, so he could make a start on the preparation. He went to the bathroom and picked the razor out of the sink.
Weaver had quickly discovered that although he’d initially resolved to keep Janey for ever, he didn’t actually miss Janey herself, but more the service she provided. Within a short space of time the powerful need grew again, ever stronger, within him. Pornography could not allay the necessity for touch. He was surprised at how quickly this had taken hold; Janey was barely cold before he felt stirrings towards the younger members of the church choir … he needed to act – it called for a trip to Foundling Street (where he knew Janey had placed her number in the phone box on the corner, advertising her services).
But Foundling Street could wait until later; he’d decided he still wanted to preserve Janey, and it made good sense on a practical level to keep her. Weaver wasn’t an expert on policing but he knew that without the body she would remain missing, and that the police would soon tire of looking. If he kept her then she’d never be found; any number of fools had been caught through careless disposal of the body. Embalming was not something he knew much about, but he was no idiot – he had O levels in both Chemistry and Biology, and if it was good enough for Chairman Mao and Lenin, it was good enough for a Denton prostitute …
He knelt down over the bath and set to work. The body should be clean and hairless but it was no use – the razor blade was blunt and he’d need another to do the job properly. He might as well make a day of it – a trip to the library, then probably the chemist’s and the hardware store. He’d wanted to do as much as he could before he collected the money required for France. He stood up and sighed. So much to do. He regarded the pile of clothes at the foot of the bath. Those could go in a bin on the way to the shops; not the blouse, that had blood on it, but the underwear and skirt. He picked the garments up, shoved them in a carrier bag and left the flat.
A tingle of excitement raced through him as he hurried across the landing to the stairwell, knowing the plastic bag under his arm contained her underwear; underwear that only minutes ago he’d held to his mouth. As he rounded the corner on to the musty concrete staircase he collided with a shortish podgy man in a pink top.
‘Oooff!’ the man wheezed.
‘I’m so sorry!’ Weaver exclaimed.
‘Not at all, I should have been looking where I was going. Better still, I shoulda got the lift.’
‘It’s broken,’ he replied coolly on recognizing the man.
‘Wait a minute … Mr Webb, the verger?’
‘Weaver. That’s right.’ He hovered on the top step.
‘Weaver. Sorry. Well, see you later.’ He smiled and continued on his way.
What did he mean, ‘See you later’?
Tuesday (2)<
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There was a terrible pounding in Dominic Holland’s head. He had just sat down in an uncomfortable glass chair, half an hour late for the meeting in the company offices at South Kensington, one of London’s most fashionable districts. He felt unwell and had slept badly at a friend’s flat. Though the fan whirred and vibrated with all its might, the office was still excruciatingly stuffy for ten in the morning. He looked at a greasy croissant on the desk in front of him and thought he might be sick.
The launch party last night was a glitzy affair at Hanover Square; everyone from Vogue was there, Boy George and Marilyn, all of Depeche Mode, Terry Whatsisname from The Tube and a wrinkly Beatle (George or Ringo – he wasn’t sure which). But the champagne was cheap and nasty. Had to be to explain the ferocity of the hangover he was currently experiencing.
Emma was wittering on interminably about the numbers; always the numbers, all the more so when they weren’t good. And the July figures certainly were not good – they were very, very bad, as she was going to great lengths to make clear. She was a whiz on the figures. He needed to have his wits about him. Niles Tanklehurst, their PA, wafted in with some coffee.
Dominic, perspiring, said, ‘No, just water. And might we open the window?’
‘Are you all right?’ Emma paused her monologue on the results.
‘I’m grand, thanks; just a tad peaky.’
‘Hmm.’ She pursed neon-pink lips. ‘I hope you’re taking this in – it’s not pretty; the overspend on marketing is not yielding results.’
He’d insisted on that extra cash. Hooting on about brand awareness, capitalizing on the success of the Tightspots campaign, which he later realized to his chagrin had been stuff and nonsense.
‘And the cashflow is simply dire.’ She drew the word out as if searching for another. Diarrhoea, maybe. Either way, he didn’t want to think about it.
