by Henry James
Frost stepped into the blackness and sniffed the air. He’d picked up a faint scent; those few seconds in the dark had focused his olfactory senses just enough to allow the hint of a familiar, metallic smell to hit him.
‘There.’ The room was suddenly illuminated. It was large, holding two snooker tables and an alcove with a leather seating area. The snooker tables were clear of balls. The glass table in the seating area had three glasses half full. Waters picked one up.
‘Scotch.’
Frost moved around the nearest table, running his palm around the rim. The smell had gone and all that remained was an empty room with some unfinished drinks. ‘Ouch,’ he said suddenly, catching his finger on a tiny splinter. Sucking his finger, he examined the nick in the polished wood. He knelt to eye level with the table and spotted a further two similar nicks in the edge. Strange, he thought. The baize itself also appeared to be stained, which was odd, given that this was a private room, and presumably infrequently used.
‘If you gentlemen have seen enough, I have the club to run … As I said, Mr Palmer is not here.’
Frost stood up. ‘You are correct, son. He is certainly not here. Thank you for your time. Be sure to give him my card and have him call me.’ Frost reached inside his mac pocket, fingering all manner of unidentifiable objects but not the one he needed. ‘Just have him call me – Frost at Eagle Lane. Tell him it’s very important. Come on, John.’
Outside the Dirty Penguin Frost pulled a cigarette from the pack with his teeth and lit it. ‘That last room,’ he said finally. ‘Did you smell anything?’
‘Only the Scotch.’
‘Other than the booze, I mean.’ He took a long drag, the rain hissing at the cigarette. ‘Did you pick up a vague hint of anything?’
‘Nope.’ Waters bent down to reach the flicker of Frost’s lighter in the gloom. ‘Amazed that hooter of yours can pick up anything, the amount you puff away.’
‘Yeah, you might be right,’ Frost conceded, ‘but just for a second, while dopey was trying to find the light switch, I could have sworn I got a whiff of blood.’
Clarke had left Roberts in an Eagle Lane interview room while she attended to Drysdale at the lab. She’d decided she would let the secondary-school teacher go on condition she cooperated. Waters had briefed Clarke on the parallels with two other rape cases in the next county. Clarke believed that Roberts’s indiscretion in the school toilet had unwittingly revealed a serial rapist. And now Roberts, having been shut in an interview room for three hours, had had enough time to realize the gravity of her situation. It was only half past six but the woman looked tired and pale.
‘Tell me, Miss Roberts, do you know much about Terry Windley other than his prowess at making love in a confined space?’
Roberts didn’t smile. Her mind, Clarke knew, was preoccupied with losing her teaching position, not to mention a possible conviction for wasting police time. Clarke stifled a yawn, feigning boredom and giving the impression that time was no object.
Roberts looked up. ‘Not really,’ she said, ‘he’s just fun. And fit – you know, athletic, teaches PE.’
‘Do you know why he drifts from one post to another, not settling for anything permanent?’
‘He’s desperate for a full-time job,’ Roberts replied, suddenly animated, ‘but can’t get one – he says all the jobs go to women. Says it’s sexism in reverse. Terry gets really cross about it – makes me laugh when he loses his temper. Although he’s well toned he’s not a big man, and I can’t take him seriously when he’s angry.’ A faint smile played on her lips.
‘Really? Would he get angry enough to take revenge on women?’
The smiled disappeared. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Really, I don’t.’
‘Listen here, Miss Roberts.’ Clarke leaned across the interview table, close enough to discern the other woman’s foundation line. ‘You want to keep your job and your good reputation, don’t you? Do you realize how much trouble you could be in for what you’ve done?’
The woman nodded miserably.
‘You help me and we will see what can be done. You hear?’ Clarke had no authority to offer a deal like this and knew it, but this wasn’t a formal interview – there were no witnesses. In all probability, if the press got hold of the story of Roberts’s attempted deception a scandal would break out and she’d be finished. They both knew it, and Clarke was prepared to take advantage of this.
‘Is there anything you could point to that’s characteristic of Windley?’
‘How do you mean?’ She frowned.
‘What he wears, for instance – shoes, or coat. A nice watch, maybe?’
‘Not really. He’s usually in a tracksuit at school. I haven’t seen him that often out of school – and it’s usually dark.’
‘How about a wristwatch – he must have one, to keep track of lesson times – can you recall?’
‘Wait a sec. He caught something climbing out of the window the other day – after we, you know …’ she said, frowning.
‘Try and think. As a PE teacher, was it a sports watch?’
The woman’s eyes grew big. ‘Yes, you’re right, it was … I’ve seen it. Has a yellow strap.’
Bingo, Clarke thought. ‘Right, Miss Roberts, we might be able to let you go home,’ she said coolly. Relief washed over the other woman’s face. ‘Just one thing you can do for me before you leave.’
Back at home, the crashing reality of Simms’s death struck Frost again. A colleague under his command had been killed on his very doorstep – he would get whoever did this if it was the last thing he ever did. As he went to answer the door, he reflected on how easy it would be for uniform, who’d been conducting the on-the-ground search for evidence, to miss something vital. The whole division was too overstretched to carry out investigations thoroughly.
Frost stood back to allow the plumber in, following him down the hallway. It was close to 7 p.m. He had missed the man that morning, having gone off to the filling station on the Lexton Road. He had tried to leave the key with his neighbour, but she’d been too spooked by Simms’s murder and refused as politely as possible – even offering to take his washing in instead (a gesture he was too embarrassed to accept). So Frost had left a message on the plumber’s answerphone saying he’d pay double if he called in again, this time later, at seven in the evening.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ Frost said. ‘Got called away.’ The man said nothing and marched through to the kitchen at the back of the house, his large toolbox bumping against the wall as he went. Frost padded down after him. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll still have to charge you for the call-out twice,’ the man said, ignoring his offer and staring at the kitchen floor, layered with sodden towels.
‘That’s all right,’ Frost said, fumbling with the kettle. He felt uncomfortable letting a stranger into the untidy kitchen with its mountains of washing-up and beer cans mixed with cereal packets on the work surface.
‘Two sugars.’ The man had a big quiff, rockabilly style. In fact his general appearance – checked shirt, turned-up jeans, enormous metal belt – suggested more obsessive music fan than tradesman.
‘You sure you’re a plumber?’ Frost asked uncertainly even as the sizeable toolbox was opened, and all manner of equipment was displayed.
‘You sure you’re a copper?’ The plumber paused to roll a cigarette.
‘I mean your attire.’ Frost gestured.
‘You’re hardly out of The Gentle Touch standing there in a reindeer jumper and green trousers. More like something out of a grotto.’
‘So I’ve been told. Had nothing clean. These trousers are for gardening, though I’ve never worn them for the purpose; unwanted Christmas present.’
‘And the jumper was wanted?’ The plumber grinned.
‘A Christmas present from my wife.’ Frost laughed in embarrassment; for the first time in his life his whole domestic situation struck him as laughable. He changed the subject. ‘Yes, I’m sorry again
not to have been here earlier; I expect you wondered where I’d got to.’
‘Eh?’ The man had slid the washing machine out and was looking disdainfully at the hoses. ‘Wasn’t there a copper killed around here over the weekend? I had an emergency callout not far from your road yesterday afternoon, and it was a nightmare trying to get through; it was all blocked off. And on top of it all, this bloody stupid woman in a sports car nearly ran me over while I was unloading. Though I wouldn’t have minded a bit of a tussle with her, she was a right babe!’
‘I’m sorry – babe in a sports car?’ Frost’s heart was in his throat.
‘Yeah. Cute.’ He heaved the machine back into place. ‘In a Triumph.’
‘Are you sure it was a Triumph?’
‘Sure I am. I got an old TR3 in pieces in the garage, I’m doing it up.’ He stood up and dusted off his hands, and then gestured at his outfit. ‘Go on rallies, don’t I.’
Clearly Frost was supposed to understand the connection between his attire and his hobby – needless to say, he didn’t.
‘What colour was her car?’ he asked.
‘Blue. It was a TR5 or maybe 4 – they’re identical, except for under the bonnet.’
Frost had immediately suspected that it was Daley. ‘Where?’ he persisted.
‘On the main road up from your place.’
She must have driven there on Saturday night. And waited. When she was surprised by the neighbour’s boy she must have panicked and fled – preferring not to chance the time and noise involved in climbing into and starting the sports car. Thus she had returned to pick the car up the following day. Uniform would have checked for anomalies in Vincent Close, but were unlikely to check far beyond the street itself. He sighed.
‘Cor, bleedin’ hell, your drains pong – what you been eating?’ the rockabilly plumber moaned.
‘You may well ask,’ he said, abstractedly. CID were already working on the principle she had panicked, and leaving the car behind would corroborate that – hence the search for a dropped weapon. All day yesterday men in uniform had been clambering through the dormant, carefully pruned rose bushes up and down the close. ‘Hold on a sec. What did you just say?’
‘Your drains. Pong something awful!’
They’d barely checked the street itself properly, let alone beneath it.
Monday (7)
‘Have I missed all the action?’ DC Hanlon asked, stepping into the glare of the arc light.
‘Yes, Arthur, surprise, surprise.’ Frost sniffed. It was a cold night to be standing in the street popping open manhole covers but it had been a swift and successful operation and Frost was in a jubilant mood. They had the murder weapon: a Second World War bayonet had been found resting on the ledge beneath the drain grate at the end of Frost’s road. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? You only had to toddle over to Gentlemen’s Walk.’
‘Leave it out, Jack,’ Hanlon sighed. ‘The fog’s not good for my condition.’
‘Condition? What condition? I thought it was dodgy guts?’ He patted his colleague’s shoulder, which was damp. He watched two uniform slide a manhole cover back into the pavement, the grinding sound echoing through the quiet street. ‘I know, I know, you don’t feel well, poor thing – right, what did our Frenchman have to say for himself?’
‘Couldn’t find him.’
‘What do you mean, you couldn’t find him?’ Frost asked.
‘Shop was shut by the time I got there, so I tried the flat he’s rented, across the square at Baron’s Court. No answer. So I went back to the shop and spoke to a neighbour. She said she’d seen him and his friend leave at about half ten or eleven, and they’ve not come back.’
‘Friend? What friend?’
‘Some other Frog. Swarthy-looking, so the girl said.’ Hanlon pulled out his notebook and glasses. ‘Wait, here it is: Gaston … Can’t read my own writing, something foreign – he’s an accountant stroke business partner.’
‘“Swarthy-looking”? What the bleedin’ hell does that mean? Where did they go?’
‘A little brown fella. Wears natty waistcoats. She didn’t know where they went – some bloke turned up in an overcoat and they left with him.’
‘OK, so the Frenchmen have just disappeared. C’est la vie,’ Frost joked. As far as he was concerned they and Palmer were low priority now they had the weapon.
‘Then I went over to Palmer’s gaff, his farm,’ Hanlon continued, ‘only to be confronted with some oily butler who gave me the creeps, who didn’t seem remotely concerned about where his master was.’
‘Never mind, we can worry about missing snooker-club managers tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s get a pint in.’ Frost pulled out a five-pound note. ‘On me – it’s been a good day.’
Hanlon beamed. ‘Wouldn’t say no.’
‘I thought you were ill?’ Hanlon’s face dropped. ‘I’m pulling your leg, Arthur. Let’s try my local.’ He surveyed the close. There were lights on in every house, people curious to see what their oddball detective neighbour was up to. ‘I doubt anyone will bother us.’ Suddenly the large lamp overhead clicked dramatically off and they stood, blinking, adjusting to the halfglow of the street lights.
‘After all the commotion you’ve caused round here they may not even serve you,’ Hanlon said as they made off into the dark, misty night, nodding to the Forensics team dismantling the arc lights.
‘Maybe they won’t. And you know what, Arthur, it just might be time to move on.’
Clarke was satisfied with her handling of Marie Roberts, but she felt out of sync with her colleagues and very much on her own. She checked the incident room – empty – then wandered into the general office where the phone was ringing persistently. She flicked on the lights and picked up Simms’s phone.
‘Yes.’ A caller wished to speak to Denton CID. ‘This is Detective Clarke speaking.’ A gruff male voice introduced himself as the desk sergeant at Rimmington. ‘The missing persons case, go on.’ Clarke nodded. She picked up a pen.
When Simms had put out a call for details on any missing persons last Thursday Rimmington Division had not been able to help because of teething problems with their new computer system; basically, their records were up in the air – until now, it seemed.
‘A woman reported her husband missing last Monday,’ the Rimmington desk sergeant continued.
‘Yes, go on.’ Clarke was momentarily distracted by a young PC who entered and sat down at the opposite desk, facing Simms’s old desk.
‘Six two. Fair hair. Moustache. Name of Paul Game.’
‘Really? Profession?’
‘Accountant.’
‘Oh.’ Cigarette smoke drifted over from the uniformed visitor. Clarke gave a slight cough; her lapse on Sunday had added to her morning sickness in spades, now the merest sight of a cigarette made her insides churn. Less than a week ago she was on twenty a day. ‘Accountant, eh?’
‘Yes, but he was supposed to be at the qualifiers in Sheffield on Saturday, which was what caused the alarm.’
‘Qualifiers, what’s that? Accountancy exams?’
A laugh came from the other end. ‘No, love, snooker. UK Snooker Championship at the Crucible, bloke fancied himself a bit. Was a regular at the Dirty Penguin, that’s a club here in Rimmington.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Talk about fortuitous. She flicked open her pad to her notes taken at the lab earlier in the day on the remains dragged from the reservoir. ‘I think there’s a chance we may have found your accountant. Have you any further details?’
Clarke scribbled a few more scant notes and hung up.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ she said to the visitor in uniform opposite, who with his broad, moonish brow looked vaguely familiar.
‘Hi, I’m David. David Simms.’
Tuesday (1)
‘Well done,’ commended Mullett. The station superintendent had heard about last night’s successful rummage in the Denton sewers and dashed in at the crack of dawn to meet Frost early – it was 7.
30 a.m. He also knew that with this result he’d have to promote Frost without further delay. They had sufficient evidence to charge Louise Daley with shooting Baskin and his nephew, and the murder of DC Derek Simms. ‘And the armed robbery of the payroll; you’ve not mentioned that – I assume you’ll be charging Daley for that too?’
‘Nah,’ Frost grunted, ‘not yet.’
‘Excuse me? The same gun, yes?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Come on, man, that minder has since died of a coronary, can’t you muster anything more than a shrug?’
‘We can’t be sure at this stage.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘We haven’t matched the bullets from the Gregory Leather shooting. Only the cartridge cases, which are from a nine millimetre—’
‘Why not?’ Mullett craned forward across the desk.
Frost shrugged. ‘They went missing.’
‘Missing? This is highly irregular.’ Mullett was frowning heavily. ‘Primary evidence can’t just disappear.’
‘I’m sure they’ll turn up.’
‘Turn up? Car keys or cigarette lighters turn up, not lead bullets from the scene of a crime.’ Mullett reached for the phone. ‘I’ll call Harding – someone must be held to account …’
‘No need, sir, I’m on it – the bullets should be on their way from Denton General, and Forensics officer Harding is out. In fact, he’s on his way over to see me. We’re pulling together a line-up for the payroll clerk to take a butcher’s at.’
‘But she was disguised as a pensioner.’ Mullett grunted with disapproval at the lack of a conclusion; he had his press statement to prepare for later that afternoon, and it was vital that he had enough positive news. Daley might be in custody but there was still the rape – Winslow had been very specific about the rape.
‘Enough of this’ – he waved his hand vaguely, searching for the appropriate word – ‘speculation. What of the rape at the school? And the girl outside the pub last Monday? We have a result there I believe.’ He pulled forward his notepad and plucked the cap from his Parker fountain pen.
