Morning Frost

by Henry James

  Saturday (5)

  As the daylight slipped away beyond the rotten window frame and a clear, crisp chill took hold of the rooftops of the Southern Housing Estate, Louise Daley flicked her hair back behind her ears and reached under the bed to retrieve a large suitcase. She heaved it on to the orange counterpane, swiftly twiddled with the combination and pinged open the locks. With the lid open the giant case took up most of the ancient queen-size bed. Inside were an impressive array of wigs, make-up and costumes, all neatly folded and arranged for the optimum use of space – this case contained her whole life, such as it was.

  Moving aside a purple sequinned dress, she uncovered what she was after. She lifted out the uniform and laid it out on the bed. It had been a good few years since she’d last worn it; back in the days when she had just started out as a strippergram, before Baskin spotted her performing in a pub, and signed her up for the Coconut Grove. The nurse’s uniform was the genuine thing – she’d bought it off a friend in nursing college – not some cheap sex outfit from the back pages of Men Only. Louise was always as authentic as possible, that’s what made her so good.

  Louise had never anticipated graduating from stripper to assassin, but a year in hiding – a fugitive from the law – had left her slim options for earning cash. It was surprising how in demand she, as a woman, was, and few were as young and as proficient as Louise Daley. Her reputation in the criminal world was growing; a cold, ruthless yet beautiful killer with a perfect hit rate. Until now.

  And Daley had jumped at the chance of shooting Baskin; she loathed his sort. Initially she’d been surprised that Palmer would go after Harry – they were, as far as she knew, friends – but she didn’t question the motive when the sum involved was mentioned. Palmer even gave her the opportune time; a card-playing crony of his had said that Baskin was often alone in the morning after staying up all night playing cards. But the gun had let her down. And then there was yesterday’s fiasco, to compound matters.

  But she had to focus on Baskin. She needed the money now. It seemed unlikely that he would be out of hospital before she left for Spain on Tuesday, so she had little option but to finish the job in this way. Sunday mornings in hospitals were the busiest for visitors, and yet this was the time she’d chosen – it was risky, but her strategy was the greater the panic created, the better her chance of getting away. Plus if she was really lucky, she might get Frost at the same time.

  She put the nurse’s uniform to one side, and held up the purple-sequin number. This would have to do for tonight. She was still uncomfortable about venturing outside the flat, but Marty had reassured her that everything would be fine – the dinner was at his place after all, and as if he’d put her in any danger. ‘Think of it as a farewell dinner,’ he’d said – though she suspected it was nothing of the sort. Rather, she was sure he intended to parade her in front of a couple of local businessmen. Palmer was just like Baskin, that much she knew: him being a friend of her father’s made very little difference.

  ‘Have a nice evening, madam.’ Frost was still wearing an inane grin as the woman slammed the door in his face. He shouldn’t have had that extra pint with Sandy Lane. On an empty stomach it had gone to his head. He turned and felt the first splashes of oncoming rain – the November weather kicking in with zeal. The Cortina was sprayed with sycamore wings loosened by the strengthening wind.

  Cecil Rhodes’s mother had not been appreciative of his call. Having been notified of her son’s condition by uniform on Thursday, this subsequent call from CID in the form of Frost, and the unsubtle probing to elicit whether Cecil was in any way mixed up in activities on the fringes of the law (other than working for her dodgy brother Harry, that is) did not go down well. And it only rubbed salt into the wound by drawing out how Cecil had ended up working for Uncle Harry in the first place. Mrs Rhodes had explained mournfully how Cecil’s schoolfriends, who were blessed with more get up and go, had found places at Denton Tech, whilst her boy, having failed everything he sat at school then dropped out of art college, developed an addiction to computer games. He soon lost touch with most of his friends, all except for his one and only girlfriend, and even that had fizzled out.

  Frost lit a Rothmans and flicked on the wipers. No, he thought, this boy may smoke a bit of weed, but he doesn’t have the initiative or the energy to deal in it. Palmer was wrong on that count, of that he was sure. But a word with the ex-girlfriend might be worth it, to see if the boy ever talked about his lot with Harry.

  That would keep until tomorrow, though – it was getting late, although not too late for a visit to Harry himself. Earlier that evening he’d called and left a message with Desk Sergeant Bill Wells saying he had remembered something important. An evening visit shouldn’t be a problem as Baskin was now ensconced in a private room.

  Frost didn’t buy the theory that Baskin was a porn peddler. It wasn’t his style. Compared to the hardcore nasties evoked by Sandy Lane in the pub earlier, the Coconut Grove was merely a cabaret. But he could see the demand for video cassettes and VCRs exploding. The Great British Public was straining at the leash to get beyond the three channels on the telly (although he had a vague feeling that, quite incredibly, some new channel had been added recently – what was it called now?); why settle for Susan Stranks in a tight T-shirt when the full exposure is on a Betamax from Scandinavia? Could that warehouse Clarke was watching be involved, though? Might it contain knock-off VCRs? However, so far her surveillance had produced a big fat zero. Frost felt a twinge in his stomach – the pasty and Guinness of earlier appeared to be at odds with his internals. And where the bloody hell was Clarke? Anyone would think it was the weekend.

  DC Derek Simms waited at the door. He was knackered; he’d been on his toes all day, and now, standing in the cold outside the schoolteacher’s flat, he felt dog-tired. It was dark and time for an early night. A firework crackled in the sky behind him, causing him to jump. He rang the doorbell again. She probably wasn’t in – no lights were visible beyond the frosted glass. By now Clarke would be in Essex, delivering the news to her parents about her pregnancy, and Simms was fulfilling his promise to check out rape victim Marie Roberts’s story; the teacher had claimed to be single and distraught, but Clarke reckoned she’d clocked her bopping around at the concert the previous evening with some bloke. It appeared that tonight she’d gone out on the tiles again; just as well, as he had no idea what he was going to say. He turned to go.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Err … evening. Detective Constable Derek Simms, Denton CID.’ Simms addressed a voice that came out of the darkness from behind the security chain.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Marie Roberts?’ The woman didn’t budge, which Simms thought odd – surely it wasn’t that strange to find the police following up. He felt at a loss for words. ‘This is just routine. My colleague asked me to check on you – following the interview yesterday.’

  ‘On a Saturday night?’

  Simms put on a soothing voice. ‘I can assure you, Miss Roberts, that the night of the week is irrelevant in a serious case like yours. It’s standard practice to follow up the day after, when the victim’s mind is perhaps a little clearer and free from the initial shock.’ He was impressed by his efforts.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’d better come in then. But can you wait a minute? I’m not decent.’

  She shut the door. Simms looked back over the balcony. The street was poorly lit.

  The small flat was warm and airless; the heat was more uncomfortable than cosy. He wanted to remove his leather jacket, but felt it might seem inappropriate.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Simms asked for a glass of water, and took a seat on the low sofa. The small TV flickered softly in the corner. Bruce Forsyth. Jesus, was that man ever off the telly?

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t recall anything more,’ said Marie Roberts as she handed him a glass. Her dressing gown had opened slightly, revealing a hint of pale thigh at his eye level. Simms could not help but fe
el a stirring – he found her attractive.

  ‘That’s OK.’ He cleared his throat hoarsely. This wasn’t what he was expecting – Clarke had described her as dowdy. ‘How are you – in yourself?’ He was aware as soon as he’d said it that the question sounded trite.

  ‘Bearing up, you know.’ She flicked her long fair hair away from her face and sat down in the chair opposite. ‘I feel sort of …’ She let the words hang there.

  ‘Sort of what?’ he asked after a lengthy pause.

  She brought her feet up on to the chair and hugged her knees. ‘Lost … and sort of lonely.’

  ‘That’s to be expected,’ he said uneasily, ‘after what you’ve been through.’

  ‘You think?’ She looked over at him intently.

  Simms was taken aback, that she should question the suggestion, which was matter-of-fact. He felt a twitch of discomfort. ‘I guess.’

  A sudden thud was heard from somewhere within the flat. Marie Roberts sat up straight. ‘Bilbo.’ She tutted.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My cat.’ She got up. As she passed him, Simms thought he felt the tip of her finger brush his shoulder but he couldn’t be sure. A moment later, she returned with the hairiest cat he’d ever seen. Reseating herself, she stroked the furry beast languidly.

  Simms felt he had lost his poise. ‘Yes, it must be difficult – if you’re alone. Have you no family or friends?’

  ‘I’m not from round here – my family are from Scotland.’ The cat jumped off her lap, dislodging her dressing gown. Simms found it hard not to look at her pearl-white thigh, which she left on view a fraction too long. Was she coming on to him? Surely not. ‘I find it difficult to make friends.’

  She was, he reckoned, about the same age as him, though, as he often felt with women, had the upper hand in maturity. But he wasn’t stupid. ‘So, you’ve not had anyone round – or been out?’

  Marie Roberts tensed – or did he imagine she had? Stiffened perhaps; then in an instant her features softened and she sighed. ‘I went out … needed to. No point staying cooped up in here, dwelling on it … Look, can I get you something proper to drink? It is Saturday night, after all.’

  She got up again, not waiting for an answer. Simms was sorely tempted. What would Frost do in this situation? He reckoned he would take a drink; although it was a breach of conduct, he’d do it just to see where the girl was leading, and more importantly, why. Simms was not Frost, but he wasn’t a stiff like Mullett either. Waters was where he wanted to be – but the guy was just too cool to work out.

  ‘Err … just a small one, then,’ he called out.

  Mullett, attempting to relax, was distracted by the sight of his wife’s pink fluffy slippers twitching along to the music. James Galway; how on earth could anyone be moved to even tap their feet to this penny-whistle merchant? Aggressively he snapped his Telegraph into shape. They were due to put a video cassette on at eight, as per their routine. Jaws again. It was all very well having one of these machines, but the choice at Denton Video was at best narrow. Still, it beat Bruce Forsyth hands down. If he joined the Masons perhaps they would get out more; he’d heard several mentions of ‘Ladies’ Nights’ …

  ‘I say, darling, would you mind …’

  His wife looked up quizzically from her crochet.

  He knew it wasn’t really her feet, or indeed the Irish flautist, that was irritating him. It was an unpalatable mix of Frost and the Masons, plus blasted Denton itself. Mullett reached out of the armchair to turn down the hi-fi only to hear in its place the doorbell chiming. Who on earth? ‘Dear? Dear …?’ he pleaded. His ever-patient wife placed her work to one side.

  As she went to the door Mullett sipped his German white wine. The Piesporter tasted dreadful, and his throat burned as though he’d swallowed surgical spirit. Mosel Region my foot, he thought; Panzer-tank brake fluid would be closer to the mark. Why he had let himself be talked into joining a wine club, heaven only knows.

  ‘Poppet, it’s the police.’

  ‘My dear, I am the police.’ Unmoved by this, his wife stood uncertainly at the lounge door. Her cheek twitched nervously, a sure sign of worry. Maybe it was bad news? ‘Show them in,’ he said.

  In his dark uniform, the tall officer looked utterly incongruous against the flowery soft furnishings of the Mullett living room. It felt like a violation. This must be how Joe Public feels, thought Mullett fleetingly. He almost picked up the young officer for not taking off his shoes.

  ‘Yes, Baker, what is it?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, didn’t realize this was where you …’ The young PC tipped his helmet deferentially.

  ‘Never mind that, you’re here now – what’s this to do with?’

  ‘A young lad was fatally knocked off his bike at the bottom of One Tree Hill on Friday morning.’

  Mullett waited for more, but Baker offered nothing else. ‘And?’

  ‘We’re doing a door-to-door – all the streets on the boy’s round.’

  Mullett glanced at his wife. ‘I see,’ he said finally. Until now it had not occurred to him that it might be his paperboy who had been killed.

  ‘Just to see if anyone saw anything—’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ Mullett cleared his throat. ‘And the time of the … death?’

  ‘Ten past seven.’

  ‘Well, Constable, I would still be here – I don’t leave the house until seven thirty.’ Mullett expected this to be adequate, but PC Baker stood firm. ‘Sorry, will there be anything else?’

  ‘Your good lady, sir?’

  Mullett glanced at Audrey, who stood to the right of Baker, looking peculiar. ‘Yes, my dear? What time do you leave for the hospital – a little after seven, isn’t it?’

  Saturday (6)

  Detective Sergeant John Waters was less than pleased to be still at Eagle Lane Station at nearly nine o’clock on a Saturday night, but the tip from Scotland Yard about Frank Bates had opened a can of worms, and he now found himself knee-deep in enquiries from across the country on unsolved rape cases. Desk Sergeant Bill Wells, who could read his annoyance, made misguided attempts to placate him.

  ‘You’re not the only one working on a Saturday night – I’m here too.’

  ‘But not for much longer, Bill – Johnson will be here to relieve you any minute.’

  ‘OK, well, Frost’s gone to see Baskin.’

  ‘And Simms and Clarke?’

  ‘Err … no idea.’

  In any case it didn’t really matter where they were, just that being the last man standing he had to pick up all the late nonsense on his lonesome.

  A drunken holler echoed down the corridor. ‘How can people be so – so drunk this early in the evening?’ But he already knew the answer before Wells pronounced it.

  ‘Town were at home today. And they lost three–nil.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether they win or lose, the outcome is the same.’ The doors went and two PCs struggled in with another drunk, presumably the one Waters was expecting. ‘If they win they simply get even drunker …’ He sighed. ‘This my dude?’

  There had been a fight at the train station. Denton supporters had hidden in the Ladies and ambushed the jubilant victors when they thought they were home and dry, waiting on the homebound platform. As if the fight itself were not enough, an inebriated fan had exposed himself twice, once to a member of the station staff and once to a woman who’d discovered him asleep in one of the Ladies’ cubicles.

  ‘This the one?’

  ‘Won’t give his name, will you?’ PC Collier said, propping up a lad in his mid-twenties.

  ‘Gone all shy, have we?’ Waters stepped up to the lad, who was frowning intently and trying his best to focus. Having had his Saturday night messed up, Waters was lacking in sympathy. Another roar came from the corridor. ‘Bill, go check that out, will you? Sounds like a riot …’

  The drunk grinned. ‘Up the Town!’

  ‘You like that?’ Waters toyed. ‘Now then, why are you too shy to give me y
our name when you’re so comfortable showing old ladies your willy?’

  ‘I think he’s drunk, Sarge,’ Collier said.

  ‘No! What makes you think that? Well, maybe this’ll sober him up a bit …’ Waters reached between the man’s legs and squeezed hard, producing a squeal akin to a cat’s when having its tail trodden on.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Wells returned from the corridor, aghast at yet more noise.

  ‘Not sure, Bill – just trying to find the source of our problem, but have drawn a blank.’

  ‘He looks in pain,’ Wells observed. Collier staggered as the drunk almost went over.

  ‘He’s just tired out; people think it’s playing football that’s hard work – all that running about – but it has nothing on actually watching the game. All that drinking, shouting, fighting – exhausting. Chuck him downstairs.’

  ‘We can’t – no room at the inn. There’s several being detained in the interview rooms as it is.’

  ‘You’re kidding. They’ll just have to share cells, then.’

  ‘Mr Mullett’s not keen on that,’ Wells replied. ‘Always ends in trouble.’

  ‘This isn’t the Yorkshire Ripper, men, just some kid who’s had too much to drink. Jack’s done this tons of times.’ Although he knew that wasn’t necessarily the best rational argument. ‘Talking of which, I hope he’s scooting back soon.’

  ‘Queen of diamonds.’ Baskin sighed, sliding the thermometer from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘You’re a sly one, Jack Frost. Your deal.’

  Frost picked up the cards from the hospital bed, while Baskin removed a pencil stub from behind his ear and marked the IOU on the pad.

  ‘Not as sly as you, Harry.’ He shuffled the deck proficiently. ‘Important information, my arse.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Jack.’ Baskin looked woeful. ‘It’s lonely in here – and the missus isn’t talking to me. She’s very fond of Cecil.’