Frost at Midnight

by Henry James

  But … but how long could he stay? A shiver ran through him as he played back yesterday’s close call. If he hadn’t recognized the policeman’s car he’d be locked up by now, never to breathe air as fresh as this again. Right up to the point when he had shaved her he could have claimed it was all a terrible accident. He could have come up with a story to explain the needle in the neck – but bald, naked and bathing in a bath of meths? There was no explaining that away as accidental … However, for now he was safe, and that was all that mattered. He hadn’t given Janey a second thought since discovering the police at his flat.

  This place was devoid of technology; he’d not even seen a call box on the way in. The radio reception in the car was poor and the television picture in the caravan was snowy. There was no running water, though, and that was considerably more problematic. He had figured out the foot pump in front of the basin for now, but the tap itself was dry as dust.

  ‘Ah, I thought there was somebody there.’ A voice out of the dark startled him.

  ‘H-hello? Who might you be?’

  ‘I’m the caravan park warden – more to the point, who are you?’

  ‘Cassidy.’ Weaver had assumed the old stroke victim’s name with ease.

  ‘I know Cassidy, and he’s a good deal older than you,’ came the reply.

  ‘Oh sorry’ – he faked a laugh – ‘I’m Mark Cassidy, the caravan’s my uncle’s. He said I could borrow it for a week.’

  The man stepped closer. ‘Ah, that’s grand, but you ought to let the warden’s office know. He shoulda told you that.’

  ‘Oh, maybe he forgot. He’s getting on a bit.’

  ‘Aye, that’s so. Well, you’ll be needing the key to the lavvies.’ He tossed up a key.

  ‘Very kind, thank you.’

  The man turned to leave.

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’ Weaver ventured.

  ‘Power goes off at midnight till six in the morning, and the water tap is up yonder.’

  ‘Water tap?’

  ‘He ain’t told you much, has he?’ The man laughed in the darkness. ‘We ain’t on the mains, you know. You’ll have to take your trolley and fill up the tank. It’ll be stored under the van.’

  ‘Oh, thanks for telling me.’ Well, that was something, but he didn’t fancy fiddling with water carriers at this time of night. He had picked up a couple of pints of milk and some tins of lager.

  This really was a good hiding place, so primitive, but he couldn’t stay for long. He’d need somewhere equally remote but much further away. Strangely enough, he did miss his routine contact with the church and old Father Hill. OK, the establishment itself had not been kind to him, but he did miss the closeness to God, which manifested itself through his relationship with the elderly vicar and the ancient building itself. Maybe there was another way to pursue his calling in the Church itself … Jonathan had always said the ‘other lot’ were more tolerant of their bent, or at least they kept it behind closed doors. Yes, if he could get across the water he might be able to start again …

  Thursday (1)

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He—’

  ‘Oww!’ Frost howled. The doctor pushed again, and again Frost yelped in pain.

  ‘Hmm.’ The doctor moved back to his desk. ‘You can put your T-shirt back on, Sergeant Frost.’

  ‘Inspector, Dr Mirchandani, I’ve been promoted since we last met.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Frost jumped off the couch with a wince. It was a while since he had troubled the surgery; he’d not seen his GP, the affable Mirchandani, since recovering from his appendix operation over two years ago. The family practitioner now sported a carefully sculpted beard.

  ‘On the scales, please.’

  ‘I used to have one of those,’ Frost said, over his shoulder.

  ‘A stethoscope? Unusual equipment for a policeman.’

  ‘No, a beard. Shaved it off yesterday, in fact. I didn’t carry it with the same dignity as you.’ Frost couldn’t help his ingratiating behaviour; he was always like this the moment he stepped inside a consulting room – be nice to your doctor, flatter him, and he’ll tell you you’re in good shape.

  Dr Mirchandani didn’t answer. Frost had always found the fellow genial, if haughty on occasion. Very clever no doubt, judging by the certificates on the wall.

  ‘Like I say, Doc,’ Frost continued, ‘I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s settee for a good few months. Very soft, can’t be good for my back. Then I moved to this Chinese fella’s place I know, and the bed is like concrete. Seems to have got worse. I’m sure a couple of painkillers will make me right as rain again.’

  The doctor’s attention was on the scales. ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your back … That will do, Inspector. Please take a seat.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Frost beamed.

  ‘How much alcohol do you drink?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t drink?’ The doctor stepped back, surprised.

  ‘Neat alcohol, no. Always with a mixer, hops and grain, that sort of thing,’ he joked unconvincingly.

  ‘Every night?’

  ‘Only from habit – I rarely get drunk.’ Frost had thought his back was much better, until the doc started prodding around.

  ‘A high tolerance does not immunize your body from damage by alcohol.’

  He shouldn’t be wasting the good doctor’s time, not when there was Gazzer Benson to deal with. He’d be out of here in five minutes, though.

  ‘Your kidneys are suffering; that’s your back pain. Your liver, not that you’re aware, is swollen. And you are overweight.’

  ‘Too much of the good life.’

  ‘How much are you smoking?’

  He had never counted. ‘Thirty a day?’ he guessed, knowing the truth to be closer to forty.

  ‘Try to limit what you drink. It is all right to drink in moderation.’

  Moderation? If there was one thing Jack Frost was, it was moderate! He was rarely drunk; the doc can’t have heard him.

  ‘Do you drink, Doc?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Only white wine, and only when I’m eating out. Not at home, I do not keep alcohol at home.’

  ‘I don’t have a home,’ Frost muttered, aware it sounded pitiful.

  ‘Then I suggest you find one, stability in one’s domestic life is good for one’s general health and well-being. In the meantime, I want a urine sample and a blood test, just to be sure.’ Only a doctor could come out with a sentence so rounded as that. ‘And watch what you eat. For a man of your height, you’re carrying too much weight. Have a night free from beer, and cut down on the cigarettes.’ The doctor moved back behind his desk, the consultation was at an end.

  ‘Yes, but what’s the worst that can happen – I burst the odd shirt button?’

  The doctor paused in his scribbling. ‘A stroke, heart attack, diabetes. I can’t comment on the state of your liver until I see the blood test result. But apart from that, you’re in remarkably good shape, considering. Go easy on the takeaway curries, and try and ease off the alcohol.’

  He should never have asked. ‘You don’t pull any punches,’ Frost said and took the slip. He was hoping for some painkillers for his back, but that clearly was not going to happen. ‘I’ll cut out the fry-up in the mornings – how does that sound?’

  ‘A good start. You’re as strong as an ox, but you’re not a young man any more. Time to slow down a bit, that’s my advice. Take that to the General as soon as you can, and we’ll call you with the results.’

  Outside the surgery, Frost sparked up a cigarette. It had clouded over. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of traffic on the road. He held up the cigarette and considered the glowing tip. A raindrop caused it to fizzle. ‘As strong as an ox, eh?’ he said and ambled off down the street, thinking maybe he ought to get a flat some time soon. He’d noticed one for sale in Sue Clarke’s block …
r />   Cones. There were orange cones everywhere.

  ‘What in the blazes?’ It was nine o’clock and the superintendent’s ten-minute car journey had taken half an hour already. The entire Market Square – the centre of Denton – was at a standstill. The superintendent switched off the ignition and opened the Rover’s door. He was in a foul mood. The election of a new golf-club chairman had been postponed. He emerged from the vehicle to hear a sharp blast of hooting from behind him. Placing his cap firmly on his head he turned and glared at a big man in a string vest at the wheel of a grimy Ford Transit. The man adopted a ‘Who, me?’ face, and the senior policeman turned his attention to the cones that lined the outer perimeter of the square. Parking was usually permitted on either side of the square, but not right now: someone had set out their orange cones, and that was that.

  That was inconvenient but didn’t explain the gridlock. He strode briskly through the traffic, to be confronted by two delivery vans in the middle of the road outside Aster’s department store. PC Miller was on the scene. Miller nodded at his approaching station chief just as the store manager started to make his protestations to the constable. Two men went about the business of unloading a floral sofa in a lackadaisical manner. The unmistakable figure of Frost in a pink polo top stood on the pavement in the shade of the shop awning, puffing away on a cigarette. Mullett ignored him. The store manager, a neat little man by the name of Perks, was addressing the slouched figure of Miller.

  ‘What the devil is going on here?’ Mullett demanded.

  ‘This delivery lorry is holding up the traffic, sir.’

  ‘Because there are cars parked here, on double yellow lines.’ The store manager pointed at a white Maxi. ‘We have permission to unload.’ He raised his arm to a sign.

  Mullett stepped up to the kerb. He couldn’t see anything. Market Square had always had double-yellows. Why were they not there?

  ‘Last winter did away with most of them,’ the store manager lamented, ‘should have been repainted ages ago.’

  ‘Does the council know?’ Mullett snapped. The police, he knew, should have been taking action rather than letting things get this bad – this was not an overnight erosion. The situation had clearly been made worse by incompetence of the very highest order. The traffic cones should have been placed overnight by uniform in carefully selected trouble spots and not, as it appeared, randomly scattered without any thought at all. He considered the smartly dressed store manager before him, and wondered whether he might have subsequently moved the cones to suit his own delivery purposes.

  ‘I have repeatedly told the council bods,’ the manager said, ‘but they ignore me, like your very own officers …’

  ‘One minute, sir, if I may consult my junior officer.’ Mullett called PC Miller to one side and issued a very plain instruction. The store manager was to have his delivery, and he, Miller, was to expedite the process.

  ‘What, like, carry stuff?’ he said, dismayed.

  Mullett nodded and handed him the keys to the Rover. ‘And then as a special treat you can bring my car round to Eagle Lane.’ He smiled as sweetly as he could.

  Finally he had a new victim! Someone upon whom to unleash the indiscriminate fury he felt towards everyone and everything. The super was going to walk to Eagle Lane and crucify Wallace.

  Waters thanked the smartly dressed woman for interrupting her morning routine to speak to him. Amanda Booth, Rachel Curtis’s neighbour from two doors down on Sandpiper Close, was one of the names in the Tête-à-Tête appointment book Frost had given him to check out.

  ‘You didn’t fancy the party yourself then?’

  ‘Naah.’ Although she was smartly turned out with a perfect bob, the woman was chewing gum and had a coarse twang to her voice. He guessed she’d have got on with Rachel Curtis. ‘I ’ad something on meself, but thought Rach might fancy a bit of fun, having just got out. I’d never have mentioned the party if I thought …’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Friday morning. I popped round to see how she was doing before we went away for the weekend.’

  ‘Right, and how was she?’

  ‘In good spirits.’

  ‘And when you mentioned the Two Bridges party did she seem keen?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Yeah, but she reckoned she’d get grief from her probation officer, who was being a bit of a pain in the arse.’

  ‘Fergusson?’

  ‘Didn’t say his name.’

  ‘Any men friends around the house?’

  ‘Not that I seen.’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Booth.’

  ‘No problem, love.’ She winked and gave him a crooked friendly smile. Then she jumped in a 500 SL.

  ‘Wonder what you do for a living,’ he said as he waved her goodbye and watched the Merc two-seater back out of the drive.

  After Amanda Booth had roared off, he became aware of his car radio crackling through the Vauxhall’s open window. He reached inside and grabbed the handset. There’d been a fatality up at Two Bridges.

  ‘Can’t someone else take it?’ he said, thinking he wanted another word with Fergusson.

  ‘You already know the address, is the thing,’ Wells said distantly. ‘I believe the fatality took place over at that London fella’s house, Holland? And you’re that side of town.’ Wells then started to grumble on about the traffic.

  Waters wasn’t listening any more. Holland. He checked the time – ten past nine – he’d call Sue Clarke first from a phone box, she might still be at home.

  Thursday (2)

  DC Sue Clarke had craved a quiet hour with her infant son before heading for the station. She knew that Frost, if he remembered, was at the doctor’s and thought she’d not be missed. Guilt had washed over her on the long drive back yesterday evening from Somerset; she’d abandoned her child for the job faster than a Navratilova serve. Three days in and she’d barely seen the little mite, except for the night feeds. And that was starting to take a toll – she’d overslept this morning; her mother had woken her when John Waters called.

  Could she check in with Curtis’s probation officer? His offices were on the London Road, near her flat. She shucked on her raincoat and said goodbye to her family. She would have to get Philip into a nursery. Her mum looked how she felt. After a vague promise of being home by mid-afternoon, she left, Philip’s cries following her out of the door.

  The weather had broken, and there had been showers throughout the night. Typical, wonderful all week, then when it really counts, with John and Kim’s wedding tomorrow, lets you down. Spots of rain caught her lapels as she hovered outside a grimy sixties office building on the London Road. There was only a satellite probation office here; the main office was in Bath, and Denton shared Fergusson and another officer with three other towns, including Rimmington. She asked at the desk for Fergusson.

  ‘Fridays and Mondays only,’ came the short reply. The man lived in Denton, she could call on him this evening, but that would be a nuisance. She flashed her badge.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Rachel Curtis. I understand her case was being handled by Mr Fergusson, and I would like to see further details of her parole conditions, restrictions on movements and so forth.’

  ‘We can tell you that; the admin clerk will have access to the records, bear with me.’ She reached for the phone. ‘Take a seat, please.’

  She did as requested and sat down next to an old man who was fast asleep. The reception area reminded her of the doctor’s surgery, the air heavy with dead waiting time. Her mind turned to Frost. Would the doctor discover something wrong with him? He’d been moaning like billy-o about his back. God knows, he was fantastically unhealthy. She had worried he’d contaminate Philip when he was in the flat; he was forever blowing smoke rings at the baby, who appeared delighted by the game, but surely it was terrible for his health. If Frost had stayed any longer the kid would be smoking before he could walk …

  ‘Detective Clarke.’ A buck-toothed gin
ger-haired woman appeared with a buff folder. ‘If you’ll come with me.’ Clarke rose and followed the woman down a corridor. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand we cannot divulge this sort of information in public. So …’ She held the door open to a small room not much larger than a toilet cubicle. Clarke had barely sat down before the woman began reciting the contents of the file, the conditions of the release, and the dates and times of the meetings with the probation officer. The restrictions placed on Curtis were ones of distance: she was not allowed beyond a ten-mile radius from Denton, with a dispensation to visit her mother in Sheffield on a prearranged basis. Two Bridges was five miles outside Denton.

  ‘There’s nothing there about a curfew?’

  ‘I have just read you the conditions, miss,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Mind if I have a read?’

  ‘I can’t let you have the file, it is to remain with me.’

  ‘I only want a quick scan, you’ll be right there … I’m hard of hearing, too much loud music.’ She had heard Frost pull this one in the past.

  The woman slowly turned the report round on the desk. ‘Very well, but be careful not to mark it.’

  Admin assistants. She had always thought them a self-important mob.

  On the first sheet, the dates and times of meetings were recorded. There had been three of them. She flipped over to the next page where the rules governing Curtis’s release were typed up. Aware she was being watched like a hawk, she read slowly and carefully. But nope, there were no time constraints, only the distance of ten miles, and that she was not to drive, which they knew already. She turned to the next page, headed ‘Observations’.

  ‘If you want any more information, you’ll need to make an appointment with Mr Fergusson himself,’ said the woman and whisked the file away.

  That was the last straw. ‘Anyone would think we’re not on the same side,’ moaned Clarke.