by Henry James
‘I’m not sure I can remember exactly,’ said the bank manager.
‘You haven’t seen or spoken to your nephew for a year and you can’t remember why?’ Frost scoffed.
‘Not to do with money, then?’ added Hanlon.
‘Well,’ Michael Hudson started, ‘there is a business arrangement between Bennington’s Bank and Hudson’s Classic Cars.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Frost, still with his back to them.
‘There’s no need to adopt that threatening tone, Sergeant.’ Hudson leant forward in his chair. ‘Everything’s above board here – I can absolutely assure you of that.’ He removed a crisp white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and dabbed at his forehead. ‘The bank’s dealings with my nephew’s car business are under strictly normal commercial terms.’
‘Normal terms, hey?’ Frost said, finally turning to face the room. ‘The same as you treat every customer, I’m sure.’ He fired up another cigarette. ‘What I’m still not getting, then, is why you two have fallen out – and yet you still do business together.’
‘This is a large bank. I don’t handle every account,’ Michael Hudson said. ‘As to our falling-out … I’m not sure I can quite remember the details, though it would have had nothing to do with business. To be quite honest, Steven is one of those people who are always rather full of themselves. Likes to be a big fish.’
‘You mean he’s a bit flash?’ said Hanlon.
‘I suppose you could say that. But family is family. I was very close to his father, my late brother.’
‘Any idea where Steven might be now?’ said Frost.
‘No idea, I’m afraid. I’d help if I could.’
The bank manager was still looking very pale. Yet Frost felt little sympathy for him – he just didn’t seem quite concerned enough. Truth was, Frost had always distrusted bank managers. ‘Any idea at all where Julie could be?’ he snapped.
‘No. I barely know her.’
‘Well, if you hear anything, anything at all,’ said Hanlon, ‘we’ll expect you to get in touch with us right away.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Hudson, dabbing his forehead again. ‘This has all come as something of a shock – we were in France. Only got back late last night. This is the first I’ve heard about it. I’m sorry I can’t help more.’
‘Not that sorry,’ said Frost, unable to help himself.
‘I beg your pardon? Superintendent Mullett happens to be a friend of mine. I’d watch what you’re inferring.’ Hudson eyed his large, multi-buttoned desk phone.
Frost extinguished his cigarette with his fingertips, putting the butt in his mac pocket. ‘Then you’ll know all about his aims to clear up crime in Denton, from domestic abuse to fraud and corruption.’
‘Look,’ said Michael Hudson, adopting a more conciliatory tone, ‘I’ve always been rather wary of Steven.’
‘But you were more than willing to lend him some cash?’ quizzed Hanlon.
‘That was a business decision. We are a progressive bank – we like to help local businesses. Anything we can do to help the economy move out of recession.’
‘All right,’ stated Frost, ‘no need to take up any more of your precious time.’ He moved closer to the desk for one last nosey. ‘But if your nephew does pop by for a large withdrawal, let him know we’ve got all the ports covered.’
Frost, with Hanlon struggling to keep up behind, exited the grand office, passing the secretary at her desk in the executive lobby.
On the ground floor Frost saw a clutch of smart young female tellers sitting behind half an inch of bullet-proof glass. He chanced a smile in their general direction, wondering for a second whether he should have gone into high finance rather than rotten police work.
‘I thought we were on to something,’ he said, on the pavement. They were walking towards the car, parked in the far corner of Market Square. He stopped to light a cigarette, cupping the flame. ‘I’m not so sure now.’
‘You think money’s behind all this?’ said Hanlon.
‘Doesn’t look like it. Come on.’ Frost increased his pace. ‘Let’s get over to the hospital, see how Wendy’s doing.’
‘And the little Fraser girl,’ Hanlon added, making for the driver’s door.
As they were leaving Market Square, Control bleated into life. A jogger had discovered a man floating in the canal, and the corpse was now at the county pathology laboratory. DC Sue Clarke was already there. However, as the most senior detective on duty, Frost was to join her immediately.
The sudden, mid-morning sunshine glistened on the wet, winding country road to the county lab. Frost sank further down in the passenger seat and expelled smoke, blinking at the glare. His mind was juggling the disappearances of Bert Williams and Julie Hudson, conjuring up very different emotions. And then there was the girl’s father, Steven Hudson. ‘I’m coming round to your new look,’ said Hanlon, breaking the silence. Neither had said a word since leaving Market Square. ‘Adds a certain swagger to your stride. Ever thought about becoming a villain?’
‘Is there that much difference between us and them?’
‘Not a lot sometimes, I suppose.’
‘Well, don’t get used to it. My suit’ll be back from the cleaner’s first thing tomorrow. If that blasted curry hasn’t burnt a hole in it.’
‘Hot, was it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Frost distractedly.
‘Bet the missus was none too pleased – when you turned up with her portion in your crotch.’ Hanlon smiled.
‘She’s none too pleased with whatever I do.’
The radio crackled into life just as the unobtrusive, single-storey county lab building came into view. Frost grabbed the handset and answered.
It was PC Pooley, sounding grave. ‘Mr Frost, is Arthur Hanlon with you?’
‘Yes, the great hulk’s here.’
‘Got some bad news for him,’ said Pooley. ‘His mum’s been taken ill. She’s in Denton General.’
Hanlon’s face fell as Frost relayed the message. They pulled in alongside DC Clarke’s Escort.
‘Tell you what,’ said Frost, ‘best you get straight off and see your mum, so take the car. The lovely Sue can have the pleasure of driving me back.’
‘You sure, Jack?’
‘ ’Course,’ said Frost, clambering out of the car. ‘Go on, hop it.’
Inside the drab lab complex Frost was engulfed by cold, antiseptic air. He made his way silently across the grey carpet tiles of the lobby, not bothering to flash his credentials at the uniformed security woman at the front desk, and ventured quickly down a harshly lit corridor.
A left turn, a right turn, another left and he was faced with a set of forbidding steel swing-doors; a couple of portholes at head height revealed little. He pushed straight into the laboratory, where he was greeted by another temperature drop.
Polar-blue fluorescent lighting glared down on Dr Drysdale, the neatly gowned, and as ever neatly groomed, middle-aged pathologist, who was flanked by his assistant, a gawky, dark-haired youth of eighteen or so.
Standing a few feet away was DC Clarke, looking smart and sexy in a tight-fitting navy trouser suit, a white blouse showing at the collar, her ample breasts held snugly by the jacket. Her shoulder-length, light-auburn hair appeared full of bounce, while her cheeks showed a hint of colour.
Drysdale looked up from the corpse, beckoning Frost over. ‘Better late than never,’ he said crisply.
Frost felt that he and not the stiff was under the chilly spotlight: Drysdale and Sue Clarke were regarding him warily.
‘Like the get-up,’ said Clarke, grinning.
Frost fingered the neck of his jumper self-consciously.
‘Drowned,’ Drysdale sniffed.
‘Really, Doc, in a canal? You do surprise me.’ Frost surveyed the corpse – a male, late sixties, large bald patch, short, untidy grey beard. The poor bugger had clearly suffered a battering as well.
‘With the amount of filthy water
he had in his lungs,’ the pathologist continued. ‘Stomach contents: tea, white bread, chicken and chips. No alcohol.’
‘Chips? What sort of chips?’ Frost asked keenly, poking the corpse on the arm with his forefinger.
‘A chip is a chip, Mr Frost.’
‘A chip is not a chip, Doc. Oven, crinkle-cut, home-made, those little French fries you get in that McDonald’s? Fat, greasy chip-shop chips? You’d be surprised.’
‘Obviously your field of expertise. Here, take a look.’ Drysdale pointed to a bucket by the table.
Frost quickly turned away, as did Sue Clarke. ‘Not likely,’ Frost snapped, ‘I’ve got enough food for thought. When would he have last eaten?’
‘I can’t be exact, but would estimate around two yesterday afternoon,’ said Drysdale.
‘That’s good enough for me.’ Frost paused, automatically feeling in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘I was always warned not to go swimming on a full stomach. Sue, do we have anything else to go on?’
Clarke was brushing something off her jacket sleeve. Then, looking straight at Frost with her large hazel eyes, she said studiously, ‘It seems the victim was beaten up, probably robbed, before he ended up in the canal.’
‘State the bleeding obvious,’ Frost grumbled, returning her stare.
Undeterred, she added, ‘There was no wallet. Nothing else to identify him with.’
‘Right – that makes it murder, manslaughter, aggravated robbery, or a stupid accident. Whichever, we’ve got an unidentified corpse on our hands. Someone’s going to be upset. Time of death?’
‘Doctor Maltby, who pronounced the victim dead at the scene this morning, thought late yesterday afternoon, around four or five,’ Clarke said.
‘For once that old soak isn’t far out,’ chipped in Drysdale. ‘The body has definitely been in the water overnight. See the bloating, and skin coloration.’ Drysdale delicately prodded the corpse’s neck, before running his gloved fingers over the stiff’s face. ‘By the way, he wore heavy glasses.’ Drysdale indicated a couple of tiny indentations on either side of the nose.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Frost snapped impatiently.
‘Give me a chance,’ Drysdale said crossly. ‘He may have had seriously impaired vision. There’s too much bruising around the sockets of the eyes – here and here – for me to be any more certain right now. I’ll need to do further tests.’
‘You’ve all the time in the world,’ Frost said. ‘He’s not going anywhere. But initial thoughts, beyond the fact he drowned?’
The pathologist paused, straightened up and rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘Bruises along the torso, the ribs, and more concentrated contusions around the head and neck,’ he said calmly. ‘Though the skin is not broken, apart from a split lip. A number of teeth are freshly missing, not that he had many. The skull is not visibly fractured, but I haven’t yet checked for signs of concussion – where’s my saw?’
Frost flinched as the assistant moved over to a side tray, containing a gruesome selection of implements. ‘Just tell us what you reckon now, could you?’ Frost said anxiously.
‘I would say he’d been beaten, kicked and punched, and, by the look of these contusions, by more than one person. A gang?’
Frost noticed Clarke frown, her young face betraying shock and horror.
‘Though not severely enough to kill him,’ Drysdale finally added. ‘He was alive when he hit the water. Whether he was conscious or unconscious is another matter, and one, in my opinion, that’ll determine the culpability of the people who attacked him.’
‘You stick to your job, Doc, and I’ll stick to mine,’ said Frost, deciding he’d seen enough. ‘Now, I’d like to take a quick look at the deceased’s clothing, if you’ve not sent it to Forensics yet, and then we’ll leave you to get the chainsaw out.’
Some minutes later, by the small car park, Frost said, ‘Any chance of a lift, love? DC Hanlon’s had to take off – his mum’s been rushed to hospital. Wouldn’t want to have to spend the night out here, on my own.’
‘Of course,’ said Clarke, unlocking the unmarked Escort.
Frost thought her tone indicated otherwise. ‘Jolly good,’ he said nevertheless, climbing into the passenger seat and reaching into his pockets for his cigarettes.
‘Though, I’m in a bit of a rush to get back to Eagle Lane,’ Clarke said, slipping gracefully behind the wheel and unbuttoning her jacket.
Frost couldn’t help glancing at her fabulous chest. It was some sight.
‘All that paperwork on that dead man to be done,’ she said. ‘I don’t like to let it get on top of me.’
‘No, of course not,’ Frost replied cautiously – he hadn’t worked with Clarke much before. ‘I’m the same myself. Love to have a clean and tidy desk. Fag?’
‘No thanks, not while I’m driving.’
‘Didn’t realize you used to be a traffic cop,’ Frost exhaled, as Clarke accelerated out on to the main road and aggressively screeched through the gears until the speedo touched 70 mph.
‘Very funny. Just haven’t got all day,’ she said. ‘What’s with the red jumper and the flares?’ She looked over at him, for a little too long, he thought. ‘Hot undercover job?’
‘Could say that.’ He decided not to distract her further from her driving and to try to keep his gob shut. Fortunately the road ahead was clear – if only his mind was too.
He had grave concerns for missing Julie Hudson and the health of her mother, Wendy, and was feeling increasing frustration that Steven Hudson had yet to be apprehended. And then there was little bruised Becky Fraser now stuck in isolation, with Becky’s father, this Simon Trench fellow, also not located, let alone interviewed.
And on top of all that, Frost was now faced with having to identify a battered corpse. Someone could be missing a husband, a father. Frost wondered whether it was an isolated incident or whether the gang would strike again. Whoever he was, the canal corpse, he wasn’t well off, judging from his clothing, and the worn soles of his cheap shoes.
Sue Clarke, Frost decided, could at least deal with that case. She seemed especially efficient and keen, eager to get stuck in.
Reaching for his cigarettes, then realizing he was already smoking one, Frost hoped Hanlon wasn’t going to be sidetracked for too long by his sick mother. Frost badly needed his assistance. DC Clarke was fine, more than fine in fact, but he thought Hanlon dependable.
Frost’s mind drifted back to Bert Williams as they hammered down the autumn lanes. The inspector had failed to report for duty plenty of times before. Not so often for two days on the trot. Though it was Betty who had really spooked Frost – that business about Bert popping out to the phone box, at all hours.
Strange. Frost was as certain as he could be that Williams was not having an affair. Other women were not his passion. It was alcohol, and, Frost supposed, still some sort of commitment to the force – once a copper, always a copper. Who knew what the old fool was up to. Nothing to do with work, Frost hoped, not some wild goose chase. There were plenty of ruthless bastards out there.
Frost had told Betty that he’d look for Bert, and he would. There were the boozers of course, the old haunts, and then that mountain of paperwork on Bert’s desk. Perhaps that would reveal something. Yet that was exactly what Frost now saw he’d been avoiding. Because that would mean work, CID work, and some daft hunch or other, driving Bert on, regardless of the risks. Frost knew how stubborn the inspector could be, how hung up he was about sliding disgracefully into retirement.
Fields flashed by as Frost kept glancing in Clarke’s direction, weak sunlight catching her auburn hair and smooth, glowing cheeks.
‘This bothering you?’ he finally said, holding up his cigarette.
‘No problem,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘I’ve always found smoking rather sexy, like in the old black-and-white movies. Stupid really, but there you are.’
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Frost reached forward and turned on
the radio, whacking up the volume. Bloody Abba again. But by the outskirts of Denton he found himself distractedly tapping out the beat on the glove compartment – catchy tune.
Frost abruptly stopped, stubbed out his cigarette and stared gloomily out of the window at the rows of pre-war semis. He and Mary lived in one just like that.
As they approached Market Square Frost said, ‘Pull over, love, there’s something I need from Aster’s.’
‘Don’t tell me, a new suit?’
‘From Aster’s, on my salary? You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘That’s an expensive new mac you’re wearing over your civvies though, isn’t it? Apart from the odd stain. Where does that come from?’
‘It was a present,’ said Frost, jumping out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him, and giving Clarke little alternative but to follow.
‘I can’t just park there,’ he heard her say, as he pushed against the main revolving door into the store. ‘I’ll get a ticket.’
‘Let’s hurry up, then,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We want the third floor.’
‘Whatever for?’ Clarke was close behind him now, Frost’s progress being impeded by hordes of OAPs hunched around the bargain bins on the ground floor.
‘Come on,’ he shouted above the din of excited old codgers, ‘we’ll take the back stairs.’
The third floor was much less crowded, the school-uniform area all but empty and just a few housewives browsing in the lingerie section. Frost, with Clarke dutifully following a few paces behind, meandered through the colourful aisles. ‘What sort of underwear tickles your fancy, Sue?’ he asked loudly. ‘French knickers?’
‘G-strings, preferably black,’ Clarke said crossly, struggling to keep up. ‘What the hell do you think?’
‘Only asking,’ he said. ‘Come over here, there’s something I want to try.’ He sprinted ahead.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Clarke, ‘you’re one of those men who likes to wear women’s underwear.’
