Morning Frost

by Henry James

  ‘How so?’ Frost asked, intrigued.

  ‘Military blades, for instance, are designed for killing, and as such are bevelled to allow easier penetration into the body, which was bad news for our poor friend here.’

  ‘I see, so we’re looking for an army knife or dagger?’

  ‘Perhaps … or maybe a bayonet, given the length and narrow width.’ Drysdale rubbed his grey chin pensively.

  ‘Baïonnette, French for a type of knife … know that?’ Frost said, vainly trying to detach the pierced dead body in front of him from the chirpy young policeman he’d been drinking with last night.

  ‘No, I didn’t; nor did I imagine you knew any French,’ Drysdale stuttered uncomfortably, perhaps having second thoughts about speaking his mind, but moving towards a brightly lit glass cabinet. ‘Here is something I forgot to mention to Sergeant Waters … It has to do with the deceased’s personal effects.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘These.’ Drysdale held up two small pouches.

  Stanley Mullett sheepishly reversed his wife’s Midget out of the double garage and on to the drive. The suburban Sunday-morning ritual of washing one’s motor vehicle, very popular in Wessex Crescent, was not an activity he would usually participate in, small-talk with the neighbours being something he preferred to avoid. Climbing out of the compact sports car he regarded it sternly.

  Mullett pulled on a pair of pink Marigolds, nodded to the accountant across the road who was hosing down a Volvo, and plunged the sponge deep into the bucket of sudsy water. The MG Midget was a 1977 Jubilee special edition in British Racing Green; they’d bought it when he was made chief inspector five years ago. The car had many period features, such as a walnut dash, but it did retain the large, modern ‘rubber bumper’, as opposed to reverting to the chrome. One could plough into an elephant with one of these and pull away with not so much as a scuff, he reflected as he soaped the front headlights.

  After a meticulous inspection of the front bumper – mercifully pristine – he made a quick show of splashing suds over the rest of the car. Relieved, he found himself breaking into a nostalgic whistle; an out-of-tune rendition of the Brotherhood of Man’s ’76 Eurovision winner, ‘Save Your Kisses For Me’. He unwound the garden hose.

  It wasn’t until the soapy water had drained from the windscreen that he noticed a hairline crack running down the nearside of the glass. He looked nervously about the crescent. Volvo man and his pompous wife had just that minute shot off in their Sunday best, so for the moment all was deserted. He put his thumb to the end of the hose and directed the powerful jet across the large bonnet. The sharp autumn sun which until now had remained hidden chose this moment to reveal itself, and at the same time illuminate a slight but very definite impression on the bonnet of the Midget, as though a heavy weight had landed there.

  Waters turned off at Brick Road and parked up outside the address he’d been given by the student barman from the Bricklayer’s. The boy had been only too willing to help, and had arranged for his flatmate Laura to be home on her own. The girl would telephone the landlord and ask him as a matter of urgency to fix a leaky feed on the washing machine (Waters had got the idea from Frost’s plumbing issues). The landlord was one Terry Windley, twenty-six years old and a supply teacher at Denton Comp. Windley had inherited the flat from his mother, who had died the previous year, and rather than sell it he’d opted to rent it out to students. Waters hadn’t realized this part of the long street had private properties, unlike the partially derelict end by the vandalized phone box where he’d spent a couple of nights. Suddenly and with a groan he clocked a bright red call box outside a row of shops that were just beyond the flats; this one had all its glass and was yet to be adorned with graffiti.

  To Waters’ mind, any landlord prepared to come out on a Sunday morning at the drop of a hat was immediately suspect – most tenants would be waiting several days before a landlord even acknowledged the need to take action. He parked the Vauxhall, lit a cigarette and rolled the window down, letting in the damp autumn air. He felt slightly uneasy. A black guy sitting on his own in a low-rent residential area was bound to draw attention. During the early mornings when he’d been watching the phone box it wasn’t so bad, but here he felt exposed. A curtain twitched in a ground-floor window, in the block where the students lived.

  A skinhead came bowling along the pavement with a newspaper under his arm, walking a surly-looking terrier. As he came nearer he locked his eyes on the Vauxhall – or, to be more accurate, the black man inside. Waters could sense confrontation brewing. A blue Leyland Princess pulled up opposite, outside the flats. Damn. The landlord’s vehicle. Waters didn’t want a scene that would blow the element of surprise. He leaned over to the passenger seat and wound down the window, just as the skinhead – every inch the archetypal aggressive white male, with bulky torso and pale, skinny tattooed arms, bare even at this time of year – reached the car. He took the bait and leaned in to utter some curse or other, but instead quickly pulled away and, tugging aggressively on the dog’s lead, continued up the street. Waters’ police badge glinted from the passenger seat. He sighed with relief.

  On the other side of the road a slight, wispy-looking man wearing a red body warmer over a tracksuit had got out of the Princess and was making his way towards the flats. He shot a look at the first-floor window, expectantly. The curtains were suddenly pulled open in a hurry – the signal.

  Waters gave it a couple of minutes before slipping out of the car and crossing the road, so as not to appear to be on the man’s tail. He rapped lightly on the door of the flat. A girl of eighteen or nineteen with long orange hair silently let him in. He nodded and she smiled coyly – pretty, if it wasn’t for a nose piercing that looked infected.

  In the kitchen the landlord was already crouched under the sink, body warmer riding up to reveal a pasty white back.

  Waters looked to the girl and said loudly, ‘Thank you for your time, Laura. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about last week – your whereabouts on Monday night, for instance?’

  The landlord flinched, banging his head on the base of the sink as he tried to get up hurriedly. Waters reckoned he was little more than five foot four even at full height, and the slight frame and longish fair hair lent him a boyish appearance.

  ‘Gave me a bit of a fright there!’ He looked nervously from one to the other and then thumbed towards the sink. ‘Nothing wrong there, Laura …’

  ‘And who might you be?’ Waters stared at him hard; he was perspiring, but that might be from the effort of being doubled up under the sink. He didn’t appear to be wearing a watch.

  ‘Terry Windley – I’m the landlord.’

  ‘Is that so? And might I ask where you were on Monday just gone, sir?’ he asked politely; Windley’s response was all he needed – one way or the other.

  ‘Me? I thought you were asking her?’ Windley was backed up against the draining board, now looking daggers at the girl.

  Waters had taken an instant dislike to him. ‘Yeah, and now I’m asking you. Well?’

  ‘I’m a teacher,’ he said defensively.

  ‘I don’t care whether you’re an astronaut – a girl was—’

  Waters caught the blow on his lower jaw – he could taste the metal on his teeth. He stumbled against a flimsy kitchen chair, which did nothing to break his fall. How did he not see that coming? His athletic build allowed him to spring up swiftly, only to take the solid weight of the wrench full in the face. The bridge of his nose exploded and blood sprayed forth, causing the hitherto silent Laura to emit a piercing scream. Although it was messy the pain was bearable, and Waters stood facing his assailant, who seemed unsure what to do next. Not wishing to give him another opportunity to swing the wrench, Waters dealt him a right hook, sending him crashing into the draining board, glasses and crockery tumbling off the drying rack and flying in all directions.

  ‘There wasn’t any need for that,’ Waters said to the crumpled heap. ‘You got a phone
?’ he asked the girl who nodded, dumbstruck, pointing to the doorway to the hall.

  The supine Windley, blinking rapidly several times, suddenly started screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Help! Help! Police!’

  Waters moved forward, about to kick the whining man in the crotch, but stopped himself, sensing vaguely that something had gone dreadfully wrong.

  ‘What do you mean, Waters attacked him?’ Frost’s mind was on the road ahead, trying not to miss the lay-by, and he couldn’t quite grasp what Desk Sergeant Bill Wells was telling him over the radio.

  ‘It’s what he’s claiming – says there are witnesses.’

  ‘Eh? He was following up a lead on Brick Road – he wasn’t out picking fights.’ He frowned, darting a glance to the left, thinking he’d missed it – he had. ‘Bill, this’ll have to wait. But on another matter, get on to Forensics for me: we’re missing the bullets from the Oildrum Lane payroll robbery; Simms had the cases, but not the lead itself. The lead bullets – you got that?’ But Frost didn’t catch the response; chucking the handset aside, he laid both hands back on the steering wheel and screeched suddenly to a halt, prompting a barrage of horns.

  ‘Sunday drivers,’ Frost muttered under his breath, pulling a sloppy five-point turn which cut off the oncoming traffic. When he finally reached his destination he parked up facing a dormant articulated lorry. The lay-by, popular with truckers, was off the Lexton Road, the busy main artery out to the north of Denton. On flinging the Cortina door shut, it struck him that it looked completely different. He took a step back and worked out what it was: the vehicle had been cleaned. Apart from the odd dint the trusty Ford looked as good as new, and he felt he was seeing it properly for the first time in the three years he’d had it; and, ironically, tomorrow was the day he was due to hand it in. Suddenly a cold shudder rippled over him as he realized the only reason the car had been washed was to remove the blood of his dead colleague.

  He turned from the car and surveyed the bleak roadside landscape before him. This section of the Lexton Road was on the fringes of Denton; a carpet showroom and a large Rumbelows superstore occupied the east side, and a transport café stood five hundred yards up on the west side – the last stop before the motorway, hence its popularity with truckers. Plus the occasional area car; two had been stationed here following the armed robbery on Friday afternoon.

  Dead Lane – the road to the Coconut Grove – was in front of him to the north; behind the café stretched acres of arable farmland, belonging to the Sandersons. Frost crossed the road, hopeful that Hanlon should be down there already, as it was already gone midday. The public-footpath sign was set a way back from the road, behind a worn kissing gate. With some effort Frost pushed it open and followed a path that ran alongside a ploughed field, bordered by a drainage ditch and hedge.

  The earth was damp underfoot; Frost was optimistic that there might be footprints once the terrain grew less uneven. Baskin was right, it would have been impossible in heels.

  Eventually, perspiring and short of breath, Frost arrived at woodland, just as Baskin had described. The path, though smattered with fallen leaves, was not entirely obscured. There had been rain in the last couple of days but no heavy downpour for a while and Frost felt sure there was still enough of a canopy to protect any footprints – the clods in uniform had done a half-hearted search of the club’s surrounds but he doubted they’d troubled themselves to go this far back. He trudged slowly, more due to weariness than diligent inspection, but it allowed for a meticulous combing of the path.

  After five minutes his search was rewarded with more than he’d bargained for. Lying in some brambles was a woman’s red stiletto. Frost sheathed his right hand in a plastic bag and gently retrieved the shoe.

  ‘Dainty,’ he muttered to himself before ambling further along the path. The rear of the club was edging into view between the thinning trees, which ended, along with the track, fifty feet from the back entrance. The rest of the way was smooth, damp earth. Frost scanned the ground until he found what he was looking for.

  ‘Oi! Jack!’ a voice beckoned.

  ‘Ahh, Arthur, there you are,’ Frost called, kneeling down and scanning the ground.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ the tubby detective grumbled. ‘It’s half twelve. You said midday!’

  Frost checked his wristwatch – it had taken him twenty-five minutes. Admittedly he wasn’t the quickest mover in the world – far from it – but it would probably still have taken a younger, fitter person a good fifteen to twenty minutes. And allowing a minute for her to change her clothes … he took out his notebook.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Hanlon was looming over him.

  ‘Careful where you tread!’ Frost lightly brushed aside fallen leaves to reveal what he’d hoped for.

  ‘Footprints?’

  ‘Size three, to be exact.’

  ‘Blimey, Jack, you can be that accurate?’ Hanlon puffed.

  ‘Trust me, Arthur. We’re looking for a proper Cinderella.’ Frost smiled, producing the red stiletto.

  Sunday (4)

  Frost jogged up the steps to Eagle Lane and pushed through the swing doors. He was aware the station would be on edge; the police airwaves were awash with the news of DC Simms’s murder. He was back later than expected. Control had put through a call from Harding at Forensics – there was an evidence discrepancy at the Oildrum Lane crime scene. ‘One thing at a time,’ he muttered to himself.

  Mullett had abandoned his usual fiscal prudence and pulled out all the stops; uniform were in on a double shift and double pay, canvassing the town. Initially Frost’s own neighbourhood had come in for heavy scrutiny, but by this afternoon every pub and club in Denton had been shaken down. All the local grasses had been pulled in. But nobody knew a thing about the stabbing of Detective Constable Derek Simms.

  Frost walked briskly through the foyer, not wishing to be buttonholed. He caught sight of Desk Sergeant Bill Wells arguing with a civilian, a gobby solicitor Frost knew to be trouble. ‘Afternoon, Bill,’ Frost said, gliding by and making straight for the incident room.

  ‘Wait … Jack …’ Wells beckoned to him.

  ‘Not now,’ he called back. Frost had decided to address the men as soon as possible. Given that the incident had occurred on his street, he felt he should be seen to take the initiative, regardless of Mullett assigning the case to Waters. (Mullett would undoubtedly lay it on thick on Monday morning, and whilst the super had sucked in extra resources Frost didn’t expect to see him again today. By now he’d be playing golf, or maybe polishing the Rover.)

  He pushed open the incident-room door, killing the hubbub instantly. This might not be a breeze, he thought. Snatching a pretty WPC’s coffee he made for the far end of the room towards the progress boards where the uniform duty sergeant had been coordinating the door-to-door.

  ‘Ladies and gents, may I have your attention,’ he demanded needlessly as the sergeant stepped aside. ‘We could be forgiven for declaring ourselves in crisis. So I feel perhaps an impromptu assessment is warranted.’

  He surveyed the team in front of him; a lot of them were unfamiliar. Hanlon and a couple of youngsters from uniform were all he recognized. He stubbed out his cigarette and paused a second, taking in the board behind him. Through a complex network of lines, cases and timelines akin to a plate of spaghetti, he couldn’t help but notice his own address, a recent addition in bold marker pen.

  Simms’s murder was at the forefront of everybody’s mind, but to keep things on an even keel and avoid emotion he decided to open in an upbeat way: ‘Today we have made breakthroughs on several cases. Firstly, the Baskin case – important evidence has been found. And second, the Marie Roberts rape has turned a corn—’ But he could see Hanlon was shaking his head slowly … where was Waters?

  ‘So … the Coconut Grove, at least,’ he continued. ‘We have one fingerprint on a red stiletto found this morning in the woods between the Grove and the fields – which means we have the escape route for the gl
amorous would-be assassin and the approximate time she would have popped up on the main road.’ Nods of affirmation from around the room. ‘There will be an appeal for witnesses in tomorrow’s Denton Echo. The print is downstairs, with Records looking for a match – knowing the approximate age and sex, we should have something shortly.

  ‘Secondly, we have these.’ He held up two pouches containing 9mm shells. ‘Two found at Baskin’s, and the others at Oildrum Lane, the site of the payroll robbery. Now, we can’t be sure, but it’s likely it’s the same gun—’

  ‘Why can’t we be sure?’ a uniform asked.

  ‘Because we need all the bullets. We have the ones from the Grove, but not from Oildrum Lane. They appear to have gone missing.’ The shells had been found with Simms’s personal effects, but not the bullets. He paused to light a Rothmans. Harding’s call came to mind. The hospital had, it seemed, mislaid the bullets pulled from Benson, the payroll minder. Apparently the police hadn’t asked for them, and as the man wasn’t in a critical condition it was possible they’d been thrown away. But more problematic was the shot fired in the car window on Oildrum Lane: a new recruit was on the scene from Forensics and he’d failed to inspect the car at the crime scene. When the car was later inspected at the pound, the bullet had gone from the door. There was much finger-pointing at this cock-up, but Frost in his heart suspected where the blame lay, although he dare not say. And where the shot was now was a mystery. He exhaled and continued, ‘The Forensics bod reckons they were certainly fired from a similar gun, but to be sure he’d need the physical lead itself to match up the barrel-striation marks.’

  ‘The country is awash with nine-millimetre automatics from the Continent and the States,’ a Forensics officer cut in. ‘Walthers, Berettas, Lugers.’

  ‘Quite. But this is Denton, not New York. The proximity of the crimes makes it certainly possible, plus both were perpetrated by a female.’ He pointed to the artist’s impressions on the boards. ‘Perhaps one and the same.’