Morning Frost

by Henry James

  Monday (1)

  Louise Daley pulled into the National service station on the northbound carriageway of the Lexton Road.

  She was anxious to be on her way. In the cold light of day, the seriousness of her predicament seemed very real. She would have gone on Sunday night after ditching the Frenchman, but being late on a Sunday, the petrol stations were all shut, and the Triumph drank fuel like it was going out of fashion. So she had to wait until first light. She told herself to be calm; once over the border into Wales she would be fine – it might as well be South America so removed did it feel from the rest of the British Isles. And then perhaps France in a month or two? She smiled fondly as she recalled Charles’s parting words.

  As she hung up the pump she clocked a bobby in the adjacent bay filling up an Allegro panda car, whilst his partner in the passenger seat ogled her. She smiled back coyly – he must be all of nineteen, twenty – and he grinned back and winked. They’re barely out of nappies these days, she thought, walking briskly into the garage shop.

  ‘Number two and twenty Consulate, please.’

  She noticed behind the kiosk an ‘information wanted’ poster relating to an armed robbery. Her armed robbery. ‘You’ve got my money,’ she said to the sketch that should have been her.

  ‘Five pounds twelve pence, love,’ the attendant said, moving his gaze to the policeman now striding across the forecourt.

  She handed over a fiver and counted out the change.

  ‘Hey, what you doing?’ she asked, as the cashier held the note up to the window.

  ‘Got to check,’ he said, pulling out a clipboard from beside the till. He raised his eyebrows. ‘This here’s a fake.’

  ‘What you got there, pal?’ the young policeman, now standing behind Louise, asked.

  She felt a flicker of panic; she was trapped. Stay calm, she told herself.

  ‘A fake note.’

  ‘Oh, how terribly embarrassing!’ Louise replied, cringing as best she could.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ The policeman reached over, taking the offending bill and perusing it. ‘Do you recall where you got this note, miss?’

  ‘You know, I really don’t.’ She looked the picture of innocence.

  ‘I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a statement.’

  ‘Really? I’m in an awful hurry – can’t it wait?’ She gave him her most beguiling smile and twirled her hair between her fingers.

  ‘Afraid not, miss. We won’t keep you long.’ She cursed inwardly. The other PC, the younger one in the car, she could have twisted him round her little finger. ‘Maybe you’d like to make a call first?’ he offered by way of compensation, looking to the cashier.

  ‘There’s a public phone round the back, next to the loos.’

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind, if that’s OK – I’ll just call the office …’

  Where the bloody hell did I pick up duff money? She couldn’t believe it – had Charles really paid her in hokey notes? Of all the stupid things!

  ‘Where shall I tell my boss you boys are taking me?’ she asked gaily on the threshold of the garage shop, hoping against the odds it might be Rimmington and not Denton – they were between the two towns.

  ‘Eagle Lane, Denton.’

  ‘Fine.’ She smiled, knowing that if she got within spitting distance of Frost there was no way she’d ever leave Eagle Lane a free woman. ‘Is it OK if I just pop to the car for a telephone number?’ The constable nodded assent, and she strolled across the forecourt to the TR4, in as casual a way as she could manage. Her handbag was on the passenger seat, the butt of the Beretta just nudging the zip. Louise opened the car door, reached inside to retrieve her bag and made a show of ferreting around for her pocket diary. Smiling, she brandished the Letts at the shop window and continued walking towards the phone box, which was close to the exit for the main road and not visible from either the shop or the panda car. She’d be making a call for sure – two, in fact – but not just yet. Waiting for a gap in the traffic she dashed to the central reservation – she reckoned she had five minutes max to make good her getaway.

  ‘You’re joking!’ Frost almost choked. He, Waters and Bill Wells were just entering the car park at the rear of Eagle Lane.

  ‘No, I’m not, Jack.’ Wells really wasn’t.

  ‘John?’ Frost said plaintively. Waters shrugged.

  ‘But look at it!’ Frost implored, gesturing at the new car.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Waters offered sympathetically.

  ‘But it looks like a Noddy car – I’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘It’s aerodynamic,’ Waters said, patting the Sierra’s bonnet.

  ‘It’s a new car is what it is, and you gotta sign for it,’ insisted the desk sergeant, holding out a clipboard and pen.

  Frost puffed on a cigarette, annoyed. ‘I don’t know, computers, new cars … where’s it all leading? Not sure I can handle all this change on a Monday morning. Can’t I just keep the old one?’

  Waters saw that Frost seemed genuinely spooked by the march of progress at Eagle Lane, as if this exchange of old for new would destroy his equilibrium and impair his ability to function as a detective. Peculiar, given that Jack was only thirty-nine – what would he be like when he was forty-nine?

  ‘No, you can’t. You might want to buy a new pullover, though,’ Wells suggested as Frost scribbled on the clipboard.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been wearing that reindeer one, since—’

  ‘Blast, that reminds me, I’ve got to let the plumber in at nine-thirty.’

  ‘Is it still not fixed?’ Waters asked as Frost peered hesitantly inside the vehicle, as though fearful of finding aliens lurking within.

  ‘No, I’ve been a bit distracted.’ Frost climbed into the car. ‘And Bill, if you think the jumper’s been worn for too long you ain’t seen nothing. There are some things that get a second lease of life when you wear them inside out – that’s a whole extra week!’ He adjusted his crotch manfully, grinning, before pulling the door shut and turning on the ignition.

  ‘God forbid,’ Wells said to Waters. ‘Still, he seems pretty perky, all things considered.’

  ‘Yeah, but what else can you do? Letting things get on top of you ain’t going to solve anything.’

  ‘Pity a plumber isn’t going to shave him and wash his hair.’

  Frost crunched the gears, put the car into reverse, and then stopped while he desperately tried to work out where the cigarette lighter was.

  ‘The guy has just lost his wife—’ Waters stopped mid-sentence, distracted by a uniformed officer running towards them, waving frantically.

  Seeing the exchange between Waters and the breathless PC, Frost quit playing with the car and yanked the stiff new handbrake.

  He caught the tail-end of a hurried conversation: a woman had been apprehended while trying to purchase fuel at a filling station with a fake five-pound note. On the pretext of calling her office she had legged it rather than answer a few questions at Eagle Lane.

  ‘This girl who did a runner, how old did they reckon she was?’ Frost asked.

  The PC tugged his ear. ‘Mid-twenties? Bit of a corker, too; short auburn hair and driving a Triumph convertible – the motor’s still on the forecourt.’

  ‘That so? And how much headstart did she have?’ Frost asked, aware that whoever it was more than likely had more on their conscience than a dodgy fiver. His interest was piqued; good-looking women were top of his list today.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The time from when the girl left to make the phone call until your colleagues in blue woke up to the fact she wasn’t coming back.’

  The PC scratched his head. ‘Five, ten minutes?’

  She couldn’t have got far – if they caned it, they might just catch her. Frost tugged Waters’ sleeve urgently. ‘Right, let’s see what this toy car can do – John, hop in.’

  It was ten to nine when Clarke sat down at Simms’s de
sk in the CID office. The station was deserted. So much the better, she thought; usually Clarke was keen to know what was afoot, but today she just didn’t care. She hoped that the peace and quiet would allow her to adjust, without people swarming around her commiserating over Derek (some tart in uniform had already broken down in front of her as if to suggest they were suffering in unison). Whatever spin was put on it, Derek’s death had upset her deeply, and tossing and turning in bed until the small hours worrying in vain whether he had cared for her was only a small part of it.

  She sighed and took a mouthful of coffee. Frost had said last night he wanted Waters to pick up Simms’s work, but she’d been adamant that if she couldn’t get involved with Simms’s murder, which was clearly out of the question, then she could deal with what was left on his desk. In the end Frost relented; not that he had much choice, given how understaffed they were.

  She flicked through Simms’s notebook. A pang of emotion struck her at the sight of his neat, almost juvenile handwriting. Simms was a diligent note-taker – unlike his senior, Frost, who did not by any means lead by example. Most of the contents were familiar; a child knocked over, which looked to be hit-and-run – low priority – and the Gregory Leather case. That was a different matter, given that the minder had died last night.

  Simms’s phone rang. Clarke picked it up hesitantly. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Sue, there’s a young lad on the phone, he’s says he’s got some important information about the lady who ran away from the garage this morning.’

  Clarke didn’t understand. ‘I’m not with you, Bill.’

  ‘A woman tried to pay with a dodgy fiver at the petrol station out on the Lexton Road – uniform had her red-handed, but let her get away. Jack went charging off after her in his new wheels.’

  None of it made much sense to Clarke, though it did explain why the place was so quiet. ‘OK, put him through. What’s his name?’

  ‘Won’t give it – wishes to remain anonymous. And will only talk to a “detective”. Only a young lad.’

  ‘Jesus H …’ Waters breathed, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat as Frost hoofed it on to the dual carriageway, narrowly missing the cab of an articulated lorry. ‘Shouldn’t you go easy a bit, you know, run the engine in?’

  ‘You what? This is a police motor, not an Arab stallion … Besides, this should come broken in, don’t you think?’ Frost was hunched over the wheel like some crazed character from Wacky Races. ‘Don’t be such a baby – that truck was miles away.’

  ‘If you say so – but see that stick thing in the middle, it’s for changing what we call “gears”. When clocking seventy miles an hour it is usual practice to move into a higher “gear” from that which you pulled out of the station in. The engine will thank you for it, believe me.’ He knew it was pointless arguing. ‘In any case, whack the siren on the roof if you’re going to drive like that—’

  ‘Siren?’ Frost feigned bafflement. ‘Here, light me a fag – not fathomed out where the lighter is in here yet.’

  Waters wound down the window and lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure going like a bat out of hell will make any difference – she’ll be long gone by now.’

  ‘There were two area cars ahead of us – there’s nowhere to run – bugger all round here: the garage, a brewery, and farmland either side. And they’d called ahead for assistance from Rimmington traffic police. Don’t be so negative,’ Frost admonished, pursing his lips around the Rothmans Waters passed over.

  Waters shrugged. ‘If you think this woman is in any way connected to the mayhem we’ve undergone this last week, it’s very unlikely she’ll be hanging around waiting for you to roll up – the woman or women we’re after are way too smart.’ He decided to change the subject; Frost was impossible to influence when he’d set his mind on something; besides, they were almost at the garage; arguing seemed pointless. ‘How was Clarke last night?’

  ‘Pretty perky, all things considered.’ Frost flashed his headlights frantically at a three-wheeled van dawdling in the fast lane.

  ‘“Pretty perky”?’ Waters exclaimed. ‘That surprises me – weren’t they dating now? I would have thought, at the very least, she’d be pretty upset.’

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Frost replied resolutely, slowing down. ‘Tough girl, that one. Get out of the way!’

  Waters looked at Frost, surprised at his off-hand manner. ‘No doubt she’ll get over it, but she only found out yesterday evening …’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Frost said, screeching abruptly to a halt, ‘just look at those two gormless drips.’

  Waters glanced at the two uniformed lads on the garage forecourt; their look said it all: they had lost the girl.

  Monday (2)

  Louise stared out of the window of the truck cab at the undulating countryside sweeping by, ploughed fields interspersed with the rich colour of woodlands in autumnal decline. She was not one to appreciate the beauty of the English countryside, but today she welcomed the dazzling array of colours and open space with a sense of relief as she left Denton behind. Yes, she thought to herself, I’ll need a new look – orange and yellow with a hint of gold?

  ‘Beautiful, those trees.’ She sighed.

  ‘What’s that, love?’ She turned to the bristly driver who’d picked her up twenty minutes ago on the southbound carriageway of the Lexton Road. ‘Let me turn this off.’ And with a tarantula-knuckled hand he leaned across and flicked off what she took to be a Citizens’ Band radio which had crackled annoyingly with gibberish ever since she’d climbed in.

  ‘Oh nothing, it’s just nice to be out in the country.’ She smiled.

  His glances at her cleavage were shameless, which she didn’t mind – he wouldn’t have picked her up if she looked and smelt like he did. Her gamble had paid off: she’d had to decide on the spot whether to try it cross country on foot or show a bit of leg and hope she’d get picked up in a matter of minutes, before the police had twigged she wasn’t coming back.

  ‘The only country I likes is sort of Country Music – you like Billie Jo?’ He rattled a cassette box at her.

  ‘Oh, I adore her – do put it on.’ She couldn’t abide C&W music, and couldn’t grasp its popularity in this part of the world; Wiltshire was hardly Texas, but if suffering ‘Blanket on the Ground’ was the price of getting her to Bournemouth, it was a small one to pay for a getaway.

  The trucker exhaled delightedly as he slipped the cassette in. At least the music would keep him quiet, and allow her time to think. It was reassuring that the only flashing lights she’d seen had been hurtling up the other carriageway, in the opposite direction. She thought she’d let a few miles pass, until they were outside the county, then request a stop for a pee so she could use the phone. She couldn’t work out whether the ardent Frenchman would have knowingly slipped her duff notes. She’d call him, but not before trying Marty; OK, they’d not parted the best of friends, but she had met Charles through him, so he could at least tip her off if the bloke was crooked. She hoped not, though – France was looking more appealing by the minute. What would the autumn season in Paris bring?

  ‘Ah, there you both are.’ Clarke greeted them with a triumphant smile, surprising Frost as he and Waters entered the general CID office looking deflated. Disappointed as Frost was at losing the girl at the filling station, he was glad to see Clarke smile. ‘It would appear, gentlemen, that your luck is about to change.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’ Frost slumped down at the desk opposite, very much doubting it. ‘John, stick the kettle on, I’m gasping. Losing a suspect always makes me thirsty.’

  ‘A young local lad by the name of Simon Hope called just before nine.’

  ‘Who the blazes is Simon Hope?’

  Simon Hope, Frost now discovered, spent a lot of time tinkering with CB radio, and had been using an illegal AM radio to eavesdrop on police transmissions when he was meant to be getting ready for school. Clarke had taken his initially anonymous call: five minutes after hearing
on police radio how a woman had abandoned her car at the garage, Hope, on switching frequencies, had overheard a trucker boasting over the airwaves that he’d spied a ‘real cutie’ to pick up on the roadside just outside Denton. Clever lad. It did finally seem their luck was about to change.

  ‘I could kiss the little blighter!’ Frost exclaimed.

  ‘Well, you can’t – I promised to preserve his anonymity.’

  ‘What did he hear?’

  ‘That Tricky Whiskers was Bournemouth bound.’

  ‘Tricky Whiskers? What sort of name is that?’ Frost spluttered.

  ‘It’s a handle – a name used on CB radio. A sort of nickname,’ Waters said, handing him a coffee. ‘Did you ever see Convoy? “Rubber Duck”?’

  Frost, bemused, shook his head, and pressed on: ‘Do we have any idea where this Mister Whiskers is now? I mean, she could jump off anywhere between here and Bournemouth.’ Frost pulled the regional map for the South Coast from the shelf above his head, and thumbed through to the relevant pages, his forehead creasing as he squinted at the vexing mess of red and yellow squiggles.

  ‘Nope, he went off air. Control have notified every traffic division between here and the coast.’

  ‘Well, fat lot of good that will do – stop me if I’m wrong, but I doubt he’s got “Tricky Whiskers” painted the length of his articulated, has he? I mean, how the flaming hell will we find him? This is urgent. He has no idea who he has on board.’

  ‘Do we?’ Waters asked.

  ‘Yes. We do.’ He reached inside his mac and produced a portrait photo, which he spun over to the opposite desk.