by Henry James
‘Mr Fergusson will see you now,’ said the receptionist, and indicated the route he should take within the building. Frost thanked her politely before making his way down the corridor. The receptionist eyed him warily – she must have thought him a jilted ex-con, sitting there in a morning suit.
Fergusson sat in an anonymous office lined on each wall with battleship-grey filing cabinets, all unmarked and revealing nothing about their contents. The Scotsman could just as easily be about to issue a parking permit in a council office as tick off one of his charges.
‘Inspector Frost, it’s been a while.’ The man in his late fifties glanced fleetingly up from his paperwork. If he’d noticed Frost’s attire, he didn’t show it.
‘Do you mind?’ Frost placed his hand on the plastic chair.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, head back in his business.
Frost sat down and watched the man as he furiously scribbled a report of some kind.
‘Hope you don’t mind me finishing off here, it’s just I’m only in Denton Mondays and Fridays and the paperwork piles up.’ The man’s Glaswegian burr was warm in tone.
‘Not at all, you scribble away.’ Frost pulled out a Rothmans.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t do that.’ The probation officer raised his head for the first time. Frost, holding the cigarette between his lips, met a hard stare, which lingered for a second before being replaced by a smile.
‘Of course,’ he said in friendly fashion, and sat for a minute longer, while the man continued to write. The casualness and lack of urgency was part of the inspector’s ploy, but he was conscious of the time.
After a further minute he cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, but I thought the receptionist sending me through was an indication you were ready? And I’m expected elsewhere, very soon.’
‘Quite right,’ Fergusson said, pointedly placing the pen to one side, and lacing his fingers in front of him. ‘I’m sure you too are a busy fellow. My apologies. How can I help?’
‘Rachel Curtis.’
‘Yes, poor wee lass. I spoke to your colleague at the weekend. Black fella.’
‘Indeed you did, but further information has come to light.’
‘She certainly had no shortage of enemies, it would seem. I’m sure you have your work cut out,’ the probation officer continued. ‘I’m not sure I can be of much help; as I said before, I only saw her once or twice before she died.’
Frost made no comment on that. ‘I’m interested in her psychological state. How would you describe her state of mind – those times you met her, that is?’
‘You’re talking to the wrong person. I’m a probation officer, not a psychologist.’
‘But she was released on mental health grounds. You must have been briefed?’
‘Yes, of course …’ he stuttered. ‘But I hadn’t seen her for long enough that I’d feel able to – to establish her state of mind.’
‘Once or twice, yes, you said.’ Frost twiddled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. The other man watched. Frost pointed towards the filing cabinets with the Rothmans. ‘Dig the file out, then. Let’s see what it says?’
‘Look, Inspector, I know very well what it says.’
‘Enlighten me then: what sort of person was Rachel Curtis?’
Fergusson pushed himself back in his chair, and took a moment to consider. ‘She was vulnerable. Easily led.’
‘Go on.’
‘A lack of parental guidance as a teenager allowed her to slip under the influence of ne’er-do-wells. But a willingness, or desire to be led, meant that she repeated her mistakes time and time again, into adulthood and, alas, we know how it ended.’
‘Very good,’ Frost complimented. ‘Can you expand on lack of parental guidance? Her mum’s alive and kicking – we just dragged her all the way down here from Sheffield, somewhat reluctantly, but people express their grief in different ways …’
‘Her father,’ Fergusson said, lowering his voice. ‘The father was, I believe, in and out of prison.’
‘Ah, so it was a man about the house she was missing.’
‘Yes, if you must put it in those simple terms.’
‘Thank you.’ Frost smiled, then said, ‘But … taking this a step further: do you think she craved a strong disciplinarian, a man who would tell her what to do, to compensate for the lack of structure in her home life? Good or bad, right or wrong, that was irrelevant so long as someone else took control. That made her feel safe, so that was all that mattered.’ He let his words sink in and lit his cigarette. ‘That’s why she stayed with Nicholson, regardless of the pain and trouble he caused her. Now, though, with him off the scene, banged up, she found herself feeling unstable again. Without her anchor, as it were, she was all over the place. Getting a tattoo one minute, roaring off to crash a party on a motorbike the next.’
‘Yes. I guess so.’
‘But’ – Frost held up his cigarette in full view, then delivered his punchline – ‘in the final two weeks of her life there was a man. A man with authority. A man she would kick out against, a man she would try and resist, but ultimately a man who would make her do as she was told. Even leave the first party she’d gone to as a young, free, unattached, attractive woman.’
A bead of perspiration appeared on Fergusson’s forehead. ‘That’s a remarkably well-thought-out assessment. Have you considered branching out into psychiatry?’ he said coolly.
‘I suppose her death might have been an accident.’ Frost looked for an ashtray.
Fergusson offered a teacup. The man had forgotten his own objection to the inspector smoking, an omission that in itself betrayed his inner tension.
‘It comes to us all, we cannot say when.’
‘Indeed, that reminds me – my condolences on your mother,’ Frost said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your mother passed away recently, I gather …?’
For a moment Fergusson struggled for words, then said, ‘All terribly sudden. How did you know?’
‘My wife is buried in St Mary’s.’
The answer appeared to settle Fergusson down, but it did not explain, as they were both well aware, how Frost could know. His mother was, after all, buried under her maiden name of Mackenzie.
‘Perhaps I might dig out the file after all,’ said the probation officer and rose to his feet. ‘Might I offer you a cup of tea?’
Frost nodded. ‘Lovely, two sugars.’
After Fergusson slipped out of the room, Frost sprang over towards the filing cabinets. He squinted at the tiny labels. A–D was the one he wanted. There it was, as Clarke had said it would be. He pulled the file out, and then followed Fergusson into the corridor where the probation officer’s departure had been curtailed by DC Hanlon and a uniformed officer.
‘On second thoughts,’ Frost called out, ‘only the one sugar. The doctor says I’ve gotta lose a few pounds.’
The church was packed. Clarke stood in the second pew from the front. Across the aisle there was a startling array of afro hair. She considered herself modern, but never in her life had she seen so many black people in this neck of the woods, least of all in a church. Not that she set foot inside a church more than once a year.
A sense of unease was palpable on both sides of the aisle, bride’s and groom’s, black and white. Not for the first time, Waters paced the stone floor. Handsome bugger, she thought to herself. He cut a slick figure, no doubt about that, but there was something else, she couldn’t put her finger on it. Abruptly, without warning, the church organ piped into life. The bride was almost here, but the best man wasn’t. Waters looked at her, his eyes pleading for reassurance she couldn’t in all honesty give. She shrugged and smiled. It could be worse … better Frost be missing than the bride. Still, she couldn’t help but worry. He wasn’t used to that new motorcycle, and he’d refused to hear of wearing a helmet, anything could have happened. That man was a poster boy for irresponsible behaviour of all kinds.
Waters took his place at the f
ront of the church; all eyes were now on the groom. Clarke cast a quick glance behind her – Kim was there in the doorway. This wedding was happening with or without a best man. It was a perfunctory role after all, only of any value for toe-curling speeches and, on occasion, supplying the ring. And John wouldn’t be daft enough to have entrusted Frost with the ring …
Frost wasn’t aware of the church bells until he’d switched off the Bullet’s engine. Its finer qualities were, Frost now realized, more aesthetic than practical: he’d be more comfortable mounting a lawnmower, and the noise was deafening, but hell, it looked the part. He pulled his hip flask from his pocket. It was sterling silver, somewhat tarnished, engraved with the words Drink me in Victorian calligraphy. He took a swig to calm him down. Motorcycling would take some getting used to. Frost’s legs were still jelly as he ran into the church. The bells had stopped. Come to think of it, so had the organ. He was either just in time or too late. A speech was echoing throughout the stone nave.
‘He’s more popular than I thought,’ said Frost, and grinned at frowning guests. At the far end of the aisle, the happy couple stood before the good Father. Frost adjusted his jacket, and walked as calmly and nobly as he could towards the altar, each footstep echoing around the space. The congregation couldn’t decide whether to be furious or relieved. Consistent as ever, Frost certainly knew how to make an entrance.
He slipped into place. The vicar raised an eyebrow as he started on the vows. Frost gently elbowed John, who greeted him with a sly smile of relief. Frost could barely suppress a childish snigger, but was brought swiftly down to earth when Father Hill requested the ring. With all the excitement of nailing Fergusson and in his haste to get to the church on time, he had forgotten to collect his car keys. Balls. All eyes were on him. The silence grew stronger with each passing second.
Frost, always resourceful in a crisis, linked his hands behind his back and deftly began to twist his own wedding ring free from his finger. Initially it proved unwilling but eventually it gave in. See, sometimes a little sweat on a bloke was a good thing! He plopped the hot metal band into the vicar’s palm. Had he had any eyebrows, Waters would here have been seen to raise them. This was not the elegant band he’d spent a small fortune on. This … ‘ring’ wouldn’t have looked out of place in a mechanic’s workshop!
The service proceeded to its natural conclusion, the grubby ring having slipped on to Kim’s elegant finger effortlessly, as opposed to Frost’s short stubby ones, and the happy couple exited the church.
‘Cut that fine, Jack,’ Hanlon said as they both launched confetti aimlessly into the air.
‘Perfect timing, by my reckoning.’
‘Bothered to turn up then?’ Clarke joined them.
‘Nice hat,’ Frost said.
‘Well, what have you got to say?’
‘Eh?’
‘Come on, you’ve got that look about you.’ Clarke appraised him. ‘Some say it’s a twinkle, I say it’s smug …’
They moved with the crowd, the sun beating down on them. The reception was at Chadwick Hall, a couple of miles south of Denton. Frost considered the Bullet; he didn’t trust himself on it after a few drinks. He’d doubtless end up in a ditch.
‘I’ll drive you,’ Clarke said, reading his mind.
‘Donal Fergusson killed Rachel Curtis.’
‘The probation officer?’ Clarke opened the Escort door for him. Hanlon jumped in the back.
‘Exactly.’
‘How did you reach that conclusion, Jack?’ Hanlon asked.
‘Rachel desperately needed a controlling influence in her life – when Nicholson got banged up, she was left adrift.’
‘But he was a homicidal maniac.’ Clarke pulled out, joining the throng of vehicles.
‘Yes, but she still needed a guiding influence, remember what her mother said, lacking a father she fell victim to wrong ’uns? Fergusson knew this from her psychological assessment. And he was well placed, an official guardian, if you like, to keep an eye on her.’
‘Disgusting abuse of power,’ Clarke said.
‘How’d you twig, Jack?’ Hanlon asked from the back seat.
‘Curtis had been caught having it off in a graveyard as a teenager,’ Frost said, turning round in the car. ‘That’s not a fact anyone would know unless they had access to her personal history. By dumping her body there, the killer no doubt assumed we’d be asking questions, and her mother might implicate the old boyfriend in Sheffield.’
‘But he’s dead …’
‘And it wouldn’t make sense anyway,’ Frost continued. ‘She’s not a kid any more.’
‘Might be kinky, that’s what you assumed, isn’t it,’ Hanlon said.
‘True, but I think it was just opportune. Fergusson buried his mother there only two weeks ago. St Mary’s churchyard is secluded, screened from the road. Curtis was placed dramatically, on the only flat tombstone in the whole place. It was a stage. He’d have to have planned it.’
‘I’m with you, but I still don’t get why he killed her?’
‘They had a row. He came to collect her under the guise of being her taxi driver – Castleton’s daughter did sell that flat cap, by the way, but not to him – to Rachel, who wanted it for a ‘grumpy old man’. She thought the pattern some sort of tartan that would remind him of home. Go figure that. Rachel would have chosen not to cause a scene at the party; remember, this woman is vulnerable, used to being ordered about. And she’d be unlikely to argue with her probation officer in public, wouldn’t she? These are all London types that know nothing of her history. The only one who knows about her is Gazzer Benson, who’d agreed to pick her up at midnight.’
‘But she’d already left. Hence him ripping up Holland’s lawn.’
‘Right.’ They pulled into the grounds of a grand country house. ‘I reckon they had a row in the motor. He either pushed her out …’
‘… or she jumped?’ Clarke suggested.
‘Maybe. And ran along the road. Until he caught up with her. But either way, he left her body at the church to fool us – it’s nowhere near Two Bridges, his place or hers. But actually, it’s the key that gave him away … Forensics are all over his Vauxhall Viva as we speak.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’ Hanlon interjected.
‘I really think she might have tried to do a runner; remember Dr Death said she had marks of new tarmac on her feet? Well it’s not just outside the Codpiece there’s roadworks – no, there’s been a ton of resurfacing on the back roads between Two Bridges and town, in particular the fork that runs towards St Mary’s. But you’d not be able to make that out in the dark as there’s no streetlights. Maybe he stops by the river and tries it on with her, she resists, they argue and she makes a bolt for it. She gets a short distance, falls on the unmade road surface, breaks her ankle … He then picks her up, and well, you can fill in the rest. Poor woman.’
Clarke parked the car. No one said a word. Rachel Curtis had been a victim all her life. She never had a chance. Outside it was a beautiful day. The setting was sumptuous and all around them wedding guests wearing colourful clothes were emerging from their vehicles.
Frost was the first to break the silence. ‘Flamin’ heck, this is a bit posh. Very classy.’
All eyes were focused on the impressive mansion before them. ‘Yes, like your speech will be, I imagine,’ said Sue. ‘Are you thinking of putting your tie on before then or what?’
‘Collar’s already on the tight side.’
Frost could reduce the finest tailoring in all the land to something befitting a Dickensian pauper, but she had to hand it to him – he was a bloody amazing detective. As they got out of the car she admired him as he swigged thirstily from a hip flask.
‘Ahh … I love a good wedding.’ He beamed. ‘Come on!’
Friday (3)
Mullett sat staring at the front page of the newspaper. He’d completely forgotten about Holland, or more to the point, he’d forgotten about Holland’s high profile.
The fellow was a Somebody in the fashion business and his death was sure to make the national news. And so it had. The front page of the Daily Mail in fact. DESIGNER’S DEATH SHROUDED IN MYSTERY read the headline, with an accompanying photo of Holland hobnobbing with a popstar Mullett had never heard of. There was no mention in the report of the missing money but no doubt that would follow. He expected Eagle Lane would be teeming with reporters any second. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. He stretched then rose, folded the paper and left the office – it was high time CID returned from the festivities.
Mullett had been in a little over an hour. The doctor had prescribed him more medication – something he was loath to take. Maybe he didn’t need it; his doctor suggested he take up another form of exercise, something more energetic than golf (and it was true, golf had not helped his stress levels – not that he had explained precisely how unhelpful it was proving on that front). He was determined to dust off his tennis racket. The very thought of it made him feel calmer. He nodded to a pair of uniformed officers who stepped aside as he rounded the front desk.
‘Wait a second,’ he stopped in his tracks, ‘Where’s Wells?’
‘Sergeant Wells has the afternoon off, sir. I’m Constable Dawson.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mullett knew the lad, a recent addition to Eagle Lane. What he didn’t realize was that Wells had abandoned his post to a constable fresh out of Hendon. He continued on to CID but it was fast becoming obvious that he would be greeted by an empty office. He was not wrong. Nevertheless he moved along the desks searching for signs of recent activity. One desk in particular was unusually tidy. Waters, he thought. On close inspection he saw a note stuck on to the computer screen that read, Gone for tapas – back on 4th. JW.
Mullett balled his fists. Right. The absolute last straw. Frost clearly hadn’t told Waters that his leave was cancelled. Not that the super had anything against Waters, lack of wedding invite aside, he was a nice chap and good at his job, but a direct order was not to be disobeyed. He considered the note left by the detective sergeant. If Waters had only approached him directly, if he’d made the case for his honeymoon … he might have been persuaded. But Frost had never given Waters a chance, just as he’d never given Mullett the respect he deserved.
