by Henry James
‘What a cock,’ Waters remarked quietly, ‘the guy’s just been robbed, for chrissake; can’t be that bloody innocent, can they, your charming country bumpkins?’
Mullett stopped in his tracks and pivoted round on the polished floor – for a dreadful instant Waters thought he’d heard. ‘And Sergeant, I want this top priority. This man has only recently moved to the area, and I want people from the city to feel safe here. I want the culprit found, and I want him found soon.’
Time was proving of the essence on both cases. Frost had decided they needed to act, and held court at the two o’clock catch-up. The incident room was full, uniform and plain clothes listened intently. Two fans whirred, lamely circulating unpleasant air.
‘It’s called division of labour.’ He puffed earnestly on the end of a Rothmans.
‘Eh?’ Hanlon asked.
‘“Who’s doing what”, to you.’ Frost stepped back from the board. ‘Firstly we’ll deal with Rachel, whom we know to be dead. Now, although she didn’t own a motorcycle she is known to have associated with someone who rode one. Kate Greenlaw saw her on Saturday talking heatedly to a person on a bike; though Kate couldn’t name the make of bike, she later called back to say the rider had a red helmet. I know it’s not much, but it’s a start.
‘That evening Rachel was seen at the Codpiece fish and chip shop on the Southern Housing Estate. The proprietor reckons there were several gangs around passing through on their way to somewhere else. She had company at the house on Sandpiper Close; a man had shaved there. We’ve sent Forensics in to dust for fingerprints and they should be finishing up there shortly … Well done, PC Simms. What else do we know?’ He consulted a slip of paper. ‘Oh yeah, Rachel was banned from driving. A condition of her parole. Actually, where is PC Simms?’
A hand went up.
‘We didn’t check for motorbikes up at Sandpiper Close, nip back up there?’
‘I checked already; nobody has seen a motorbike at or near her house, though bikes are often heard around there, though it’s usually just a couple of teenagers screaming around on 50cc mopeds.’
‘What about the garage? Did you check the garage?’ Frost cut in sharply.
‘I—’
‘Arthur, run the lad up there too, snout around a bit.’ Hanlon nodded, and he and Simms left.
‘Detective Clarke.’ Frost turned his attention to his ex-landlady. ‘Jane Hammond? Nothing to report?’
‘Clare Hammond just called. She recalled one of her sister’s tricks knitted her a—’
‘Knitting? What flamin’ use is that? ’Ere, where you going?’ he snapped on seeing Waters about to slip out.
‘The super wants me to check on a theft over at Two Bridges.’
‘Is that really a priority?’
‘According to the super it is, yes,’ Waters said coolly. Frost didn’t want to question his pal in front of the entire room, even though it seemed a bizarre decision; the man had a lot on and Waters, unlike Frost, often gave Mullett a degree of respect he didn’t deserve.
‘Well, you better get on with it then,’ he acquiesced, then returned to Sue Clarke. ‘Where was I – yes, Jane Hammond. I need you to watch her flat.’
‘Sir?’
‘Covertly, see who turns up. Pals or punters. We’ve not much to go on; we need to find anyone who can shed light on her movements.’
‘That’s a job for uniform, surely.’
‘Normally yes, but the type of bloke she consorts with might be put off seeing a plod outside the front door, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose,’ she conceded.
‘Good, and if they’ve knitting needles on them ask what the knit-one, purl-one they get up to. After the message I heard on her answerphone, nothing would surprise me. Now,’ he said, addressing the room in general, ‘back to Rachel Curtis: although Denton is awash with biker gangs, I suspect she’s not part of one. I fear I’m going to do the unimaginable …’
‘Shave?’ shouted one.
‘Have a bath?’ cried another, followed by a whistle of the chorus of ‘Wherever I Lay My Hat’.
‘No, worse than that,’ he said grimly. ‘I’m going to have to go on the telly.’
Tuesday (4)
Superintendent Mullett was in a surprisingly good mood. A combination of fine weather, a holiday looming and Frost toeing the line for once, had for the first time in many months made him feel he could actually relax. The medication was doing the trick no doubt. And if he was being honest, the question of Grace’s culpability in the paperboy hit-and-run had cast a long shadow for many months. But now it was gone, just like that. Yes, now he could focus with energy and confidence on what mattered most: the golf club. The command of which grew ever more a reality as the days passed. Indeed the outgoing chairman, Hudson, had this minute called to report that his girlfriend had just been on the phone, seething with anger. She had been fired by Harry Baskin. Hudson was overjoyed: Karen was his now, and his alone, 24/7, and he was eager to channel all his energies in her direction. Distasteful though the thought was, it was an otherwise excellent result for Mullett – the golf club would be the first thing Hudson would want to strike off his list.
The super smiled smugly to himself, switched on the radio and settled back with his afternoon tea. He deserved ten minutes listening to the news, before addressing the paperwork in front of him. It always paid to be up on world events before a conversation with the Assistant Chief Constable, which was pending later. The focus very much appeared to be on the weather. There was a serious account of the bad weather wreaking death and destruction across the globe, which seemed on biblical proportions, from a hurricane in Texas to the severe flooding in Bilbao. Grim, but the UK was safe, ‘just a trifle hot’, he muttered, pulling out a memo from County entitled Woodentop. The peculiar title was in reference to a television programme, and offered guidance for dealing with ‘The dramatization of the police force’. Heavens, was this all they had time for? On the radio, the news presenter had shifted into an upbeat tone as he launched into an excited monologue about America’s latest space shuttle mission, which was to herald the first black man in space. Much was made of this fellow. Enough, he thought and flicked off the receiver, his mind now transported back to his own earthly sergeant.
He was mindful of the conversation with Sir Keith, the local MP, on the golf course on Sunday, concerning new money being brought to the town, and he was pleased he’d intercepted Waters. He was fond of the coloured sergeant, but Waters was prone to be dismissive of lesser crimes. His inner-city background dictated they should be ignored in favour of more serious offences. Denton was a different kettle of fish. One needed to think of the wider picture. Mullett hadn’t met this Holland fellow, but the last thing Denton needed was a chap from London being robbed and left dissatisfied with local law enforcement, badmouthing the force and the town to all and sundry—
The office door was flung open violently, causing Mullett to spill his tea.
‘What in the name … Frost!’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I had no alternative, Miss Smith was otherwise engaged. I have to advise you we need to go public, urgently.’
‘Go public? What, with the missing girl?’
‘No, Rachel Curtis. We need to make an appeal for witnesses now.’
‘Slow down. She’s dead, why the haste?’ Television only highlighted a difficult situation and was often counter-productive; it was a move that needed careful thought. ‘I see there may be a point in the case of Jane Hammond, the missing prostitute. But Curtis, a convicted felon on parole?’
‘Curtis was seen with a fella on a motorbike, and while I don’t think she’s part of a biker gang herself, she might have been seen by one or more of them. These guys are nomadic, travelling through, it’s crucial for us to act now.’
‘I see,’ Mullett said, perplexed. ‘Given the transitory nature of the motorcyclists, won’t they have moved on already … and would they even see a television set?’
‘All
the more need to do it now, hope they might catch it in a motorway café?’
‘Very well …’
Frost turned to go.
‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
‘You shave that beard off. I can’t have you appearing on national television looking like some sort of yeti.’
The unkempt inspector agreed with alacrity and left. Mullett sipped what remained of his tea. He was not sure what to think; Frost loathed public appearances. What with this and the current general agreeability of the man, it was natural for Mullett to be suspicious, but the super began to wonder if Frost had genuinely turned over a new leaf. The leaf of cooperation.
‘Ah, there you are, Miss Smith,’ Frost said unctuously. Mullett’s prim secretary instinctively shrank back. ‘Would you be so kind as to notify the BBC that we will need to record an appeal for help in time for the evening news?’
Frost turned the ignition over again.
‘Come on, start! You’ve had a new starter motor and battery, there’s no reason not to … At this rate you’ll be a completely new car by Christmas.’ The Metro cracked into life and whined as Frost over-revved the engine. He slammed the small car into reverse; he wanted to join Hanlon and Simms before they left Rachel Curtis’s place at Sandpiper Close. The Forensics team were already back, excited at the array of prints they’d gleaned.
Frost had promised Waters he’d not ruin the wedding photos with a Serpico-style look, so a shave was not so disastrous. Worth flattering Mullett into thinking he’d deign to spruce himself up for his benefit alone. The only drawback was that he wasn’t in possession of an actual razor. (Once or twice he’d used Clarke’s kitchen scissors to cut away foodstuffs that had become lodged and crusted in the growth, but apart from that …) His shaving equipment must be in one of the boxes in storage. He could nip into Boots on Market Square, but then he’d have to find somewhere to shave, which would involve too much messing around, and he needed to be at the church this afternoon for that run-through. They did, however, have the key to Rachel Curtis’s place. Not far from the church … Simms said the cleaner had told him someone had had a shave there, so why not pop round, give the bathroom a once-over again? They’d only glanced at it before.
He motored up the Bath Road, and was surprised to spot Hanlon’s Escort coming the other way. He flashed his lights at the oncoming vehicle. The other slowed down.
‘Bleedin’ hell, lads,’ Frost said through the open window, both cars stopped in the middle of the road, ‘that was quick?’
‘Nothing to report, Jack. No motorbike. Capri in the garage, covered in dust, and with a flat.’ Horns tooted angrily behind him.
‘All right, chuck us the keys.’
Clarke rested her elbows on the balustrade that lined the walkway to the flats in Clay House and looked out across the estate. She was on the third floor, which afforded her a view of council-house roofs shimmering in the mid-afternoon heat. The noise of children at play drifted up from the street below. She couldn’t imagine much in the way of traffic to a Clay House prostitute on a day like today; too hot, surely, for any sort of hanky-panky? Nevertheless she had positioned herself between the stairwell and Jane Hammond’s flat, a few doors away. It was now nearly four. In the forty minutes she’d been there she’d seen one old biddy, Hammond’s neighbour Mrs Ridley, and a couple of scruffy kids who’d regarded her curiously. She wasn’t sure she could hang around that much longer without arousing suspicion. Maybe she’d move to ground level – she could watch the comings and goings from there, but it was breezier up here … Just then she heard heavy footsteps approaching.
Out on to the walkway stepped a middle-aged man clutching a bulging carrier bag in each hand. The man had pale skin and a sparse ginger beard. He moved towards Clarke, not noticing her until he was practically upon her, when he gave a slight start.
‘Afternoon.’ He had small eyes, of indiscernible colour, set too close to the nose. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ The man – a resident, judging from his bags – expected a response.
‘Waiting for a friend,’ Clarke said, nodding towards the nearest door.
The man’s eyes followed her gesture. ‘I see.’ He blinked and looked off across the balustrade fleetingly, before muttering good afternoon and moving on.
Clarke wondered if he was unsettled, and possibly with good cause. There was every chance he knew who lived beyond the door she had indicated. Or maybe not? She watched until he stopped at his own entrance, just the other side of Jane Hammond’s flat, where he shot her another glance. Damn. She might as well tell him, being a neighbour, why she was here, just to put his mind at rest – but he disappeared behind the door in a flash, shutting it noisily.
She walked over and was about to knock, when she heard the clip of shoes on the balcony. Approaching her was a well-dressed balding man in an open-necked shirt. The man had registered her hesitation and slowed his stride. Clarke took a step back from the door, which prompted him to stop uneasily. She instinctively pulled out her badge. The man was breathing heavily, whether because of the stairs, or nerves, she couldn’t tell. If he was thinking of making a bolt for it, he lacked the energy, so he sighed and held up his hands.
Weaver’s heart was beating nineteen to the dozen. Who was the woman waiting for Cath? Should he have told her she was on holiday? But if he had, might that have suggested a knowledge of what Cath did on the side for pin money? Maybe the woman outside her door was a prostitute too. Weaver liked the look of her, that white bra pushed to the limit beneath her thin summer blouse. He’d paused for a moment outside his own front door – but self-control had won through and he’d fought off the desire to make conversation and hurried inside quickly.
Ben Weaver had not had a very productive morning. The process of embalming was not as straightforward and commonplace an activity as he’d imagined. The equipment required appeared to be the preserve of world leaders and morticians, the fluids were not to be had off the shelf at Boots, and he didn’t have the time for the complexities of draining the blood. The only useful thing he’d learned from the medical textbooks in the library was that for preservation purposes alcohol was a primary ingredient and he’d been able to get hold of ethanol, in the form of methylated spirits, from the hardware store.
He had bought ten litres. Any more he thought might arouse suspicion. He had to get to work now, his shift started soon and they’d complain to the agency if he was late.
Frost pulled into Sandpiper Close and noticed a motorcycle parked on the road, close to the pavement. Nothing unusual in that, he thought – he had motorcycles on the brain at the moment – though having said that, he didn’t recall seeing one yesterday.
He coaxed the Metro on to the drive. He gave the close a quick up and down. Dead: the quietness of a well-heeled residential street. He wondered briefly where they all might work.
The front door opened easily. Once inside he pushed it shut gently. In doing so he noticed the post on the floor. He had the immediate sensation that he was not alone in the house. Bending to the floor, Frost lightly touched a gas bill, which bore the unmistakable trace of a footprint. Still in a hunched position, he shut his eyes and listened.
Silence.
Above him a floorboard gave ever so slightly. Frost remained motionless, despite an acute burning feeling developing in his upper thighs. Then from behind he heard a dull thud. He spun round and up. Outside? He reached for the door; it had a complicated Yale lock, which in his haste he managed to double-lock before succeeding in opening it. Once outside he saw a helmeted figure scampering across the gravel. On reflex, Frost looked above and saw an open window above the porch. He heard the kick-start of a motorbike, the one he had seen on arrival. Damn! Flinging the Metro’s door open he dived in and fumbled with the ignition. Mercifully, the engine being warm, the thing started immediately. Frost cleared the drive quickly and the bike was just visible turning left out of the close towards the centre of town. He pushed the Metro as best
he could. It had a surprising amount of go – the MG badge on the front was more than mere decoration. The junction was clear and he was in hot pursuit.
In the first instance, Frost wondered why the rider had headed for the town centre, instead of the open road, but as he hit traffic he understood: the bike could dodge and weave between vehicles, leaving the Metro behind and the bike beyond reach. After half a mile Frost screeched to a halt before the Bath Road roundabout, narrowly missing a Ford Transit travelling the other way – also comfortably above the speed limit. The driver gave him the finger as Frost spun to a stop in its path. Slipping into first he floored the accelerator, but something was wrong – his left foot couldn’t find the clutch.
‘Flamin’ heck,’ he shouted and tried to see where the pedals were. He then realized his foot was indeed down hard on the clutch pedal. With his toe, he flicked the lifeless pedal upwards as the Metro rolled limply on to the scorched grass of the roundabout.
‘Knickers.’
The motorcyclist had long since gone. Frost kicked open the door and stood in the centre of the roundabout as the town’s traffic ground to a halt, and an orchestra of horns began to sound. He lit a cigarette and grinned ruefully, recalling how he’d often told his dead wife not to ride the clutch as it would go when she least expected it.
Tuesday (5)
‘I am not, I repeat, not, going to be your bloody driver, Jack,’ Clarke said as Frost got in and slammed the Escort’s door shut needlessly violently.
‘Flamin’ heck! I didn’t ask for you to come get me, or anyone else for that matter; I called in the registration number of the blasted motorbike then asked Bill to send a flamin’ tow-truck.’
But she wasn’t listening. He’d been marooned on the busiest roundabout in Denton, and had to walk up the Bath Road to a public call box and, given the length of time it took for Clarke to fetch him, he might as well have carried on walking. If it weren’t for this infernal heat (and the fact that he did indeed need someone to ferry him around) she’d have made him do just that.
