by Henry James
She took a cigarette, then leant over his lighter. ‘Maurice Litchfield, remember him?’ she said, standing up.
‘I’d stay clear of him – the dirty sod.’
‘For God’s sake, Jack. I was waiting for you, outside his home. You left a message for me to meet you there and I got the impression it was urgent.’
‘To be honest, Sue, I suddenly didn’t feel up to joining in. Bit of a pain in my stomach.’
‘Pain in my arse, more like,’ sulked Clarke.
‘You sure you didn’t pop in to see Maurice?’
Just then Hanlon entered the room, out of breath. ‘So what are we looking for, Jack? A man who carries a cricket bat around in the boot of his car? Can’t be too common this time of year. Still, it’s a tall order – even if we had a stop-and-search in place.’
‘Maybe we could speak to our friend Patterson,’ said Frost. ‘Perhaps he can set up an armed roadblock, single-handed. Doesn’t look like the type to put up with any nonsense.’
‘Something I’m missing?’ said Clarke eagerly.
‘Anything else to go on, Jack?’ asked Hanlon, ignoring Clarke.
‘Let me see,’ said Frost. ‘Where’s that report?’ Cigarette between his lips, he rummaged around on his desk. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He unsealed the large manila envelope. ‘Let’s see what it says.’
There was silence in the room for a couple of minutes. Clarke looked at Hanlon for an explanation. Hanlon just shrugged.
‘Got the speed wrong,’ Frost finally said. ‘The damage to the car – it couldn’t have been going more than ten or fifteen miles per hour. I tell you, they don’t make chassis like they used to.’
‘The cricket bat?’ Hanlon prompted.
‘Might have been a snooker cue,’ said Frost. ‘Same thing.’
‘But you said Forensics had found linseed oil on Bert’s clothes,’ said Hanlon seriously.
‘Did I? Look, Arthur, you couldn’t fetch me something from the food trolley, I haven’t eaten all day and my stomach’s playing up.’
‘Meals on wheels ran out of food ages ago and the bakery will be shut by now,’ said Hanlon.
Clarke looked at her watch. It was gone six and she suddenly felt very tired. ‘We could nip over to the pub. And you could both fill me in. I’ve spent most of the afternoon feeling out of the loop.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Frost, staring at Clarke, with his mischievous dark eyes, ‘I’ll fill you in, and Arthur can do his best to get a warrant to search 37 Carson Road. Owned by one George Foster and most recently occupied by his niece, an ex-stripper turned getaway driver, Louise Daley.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Hanlon.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Frost. ‘Come on, Sue.’
Dragging Clarke out of the room and into the corridor, Frost shouted over his shoulder, ‘Arthur, if you have any luck twisting Mullett’s arm, you might want to get the artillery lined up ready, too. Could get heavy. Failing that we’ll have to pop round ourselves.’
‘Jack,’ said Clarke as they hurried towards the exit, ‘I hate to remind you again, but Maurice Litchfield’s place?’
‘You are desperate, Sue. We’ll get there eventually.’
Thursday (8)
Mullett rang down to the cells. He’d got wind that nothing short of a riot was about to erupt, though he wasn’t going anywhere near the cells himself, knowing he’d never get out of the place tonight if he did so. He and Mrs M had a Rotary Club dinner.
‘Simon Trench is banging his head against the wall,’ said Duty Constable Jordan, on the other end of the line.
‘At least no one’s doing it for him,’ said Mullett.
‘Says his human rights have been contravened, that he’s going to sue, et cetera. He has got a bit of a swollen nose and a black eye.’
‘He should have thought about that before he removed his little girl’s human rights, for good,’ said Mullett, searching his desk for the latest arrest-and-charge sheet. It wasn’t to hand, and Miss Smith, as usual, was long gone.
‘Tell him he can see a lawyer in the morning. With any luck, the National shrinks will have taken him off to Broadmoor by then.’
‘The lad, Kevin Jones, is none too happy either,’ Jordan continued. ‘Making a hell of a lot of noise for a thirteen-year-old. His mum and someone from Social Services are still hanging about in an interview room, not being much quieter by all accounts, saying they won’t go home without him, and if we don’t watch it they’ll come down on us like a ton of bricks. They’re muttering about child abuse, you name it.’
‘Blast,’ sighed Mullett. ‘I meant to talk to DC Clarke about him, find out the latest. Well, we can’t put him up for the night without everyone and his nanny having a say. He’ll have to go home, but on the understanding that he needs to be back here at nine in the morning, or we’ll have him picked up and slapped with yet another charge.’
‘Steve Hudson spat at me through the food hole,’ said Jordan.
‘Spit at him back,’ said Mullett. He really didn’t have time for this. He paused. ‘Steve Hudson, you say? Wait a minute.’ Mullett looked across his desk at the photograph of his beloved wife, standing outside their fine, new Denton home, part financed, as it happened, by a large mortgage from Bennington’s.
‘By God, I thought he’d been released.’ Mullett tried hard to think back to his last conversation with Frost about Steve Hudson. All he could remember was Frost storming into his office and being unspeakably rude to Steve Hudson’s uncle Michael, who was only there to discuss bank security and the Fortress raid. ‘Is there a charge?’ Mullett demanded.
‘Yes. Says on my sheet that he’s being charged with attempted murder.’
‘Who the hell signed that?’ Mullett retrieved a handkerchief from his top pocket and quickly blew his nose with one hand. He felt like he had hayfever, wondered whether all the decorating was beginning to trouble his sinuses. ‘Don’t tell me—’
‘DS Frost,’ said Jordan.
Mullett could hear shouting and clanging on the other end of the line. ‘What’s going on now?’ The super wasn’t sure what staff were left in the building, how many troops he could rally in an emergency. Briefly his mind alighted on the unnerving image of DCI Patterson: SAS-trained, he’d probably be able to quell a riot by himself. But Mullett had little idea what Patterson had really been up to since he’d arrived. He’d been assigned a room down near Records, and hadn’t been seen much since.
‘It’s the lad Kevin Jones and the child-killer Simon Trench,’ said Jordan. ‘They seem to be acting up in unison. They’re across the corridor from each other.’
‘Maybe you should put them in together,’ said Mullett wearily. ‘That could solve a few problems.’
‘And create quite a few more,’ said Jordan drily. ‘The only prisoner who’s not saying a word is Lee Wright. In fact, time I checked on him. He was rather upset earlier. Almost remorseful, I’d say.’
‘I should hope so!’ yelled Mullett. ‘Abducting a child is no laughing matter, whether it’s his own daughter or not. The sooner he’s sent back to a proper slammer, rather than taking up our valuable space, the better. Why haven’t the prison service picked him up yet? Make some calls, Jordan. I want him removed.’
Thursday (9)
‘Had you heard of erotic asphyxiation before today?’ Frost said loudly, pushing into the bustling, smoky pub. What a relief to be out of the station.
‘What do you think?’ Sue Clarke said, shaking her wet head and shoulders and looking around for somewhere to put her coat and umbrella.
‘Young thing like you, thought you’d … well, finger on the pulse, or what have you.’ Frost felt for his cigarettes.
‘Even I have limits – you should know that by now.’
Clarke found a small table, and Frost shuffled over to the bar, returning with their drinks and two packets of crisps. ‘Dinner,’ he said, chucking Clarke a packet of salt and vinegar. He was having smoky bacon.
&nbs
p; ‘What I don’t quite understand,’ said Clarke, shrugging, ‘is why there weren’t more marks on Vanessa Litchfield’s neck, even if she’d agreed to be near-asphyxiated.’
‘They’re very careful, apparently,’ explained Frost, eyeing Clarke keenly, ‘about what techniques they use. Otherwise, as far as I can work out, half of Denton would be wandering around looking like they’d been half choked to death.’
‘Jesus! It’s that popular? Where have I been?’
‘You tell me.’ Frost couldn’t help smiling. A Space Invaders machine was beeping away nearby.
‘So has Maurice Litchfield come clean?’ Clarke said. ‘Why did you want me there this afternoon?’
‘He hasn’t quite admitted to it yet – but he will. I thought your calm, soothing presence would seal the deal.’ Frost took a drink of his beer, the warm liquid settling nicely in his stomach.
‘You should have heard me interviewing Kevin Jones. I was anything but calm. I could have murdered the little sod. At least I got all the names of his cohorts.’ She sipped at her rum and coke. ‘Frankly, I’m getting a bit sick of being pigeonholed as a soft, easy touch, just because I’m a woman. Heard of women’s lib?’
‘All for it,’ said Frost enthusiastically. ‘What do you want to wear a bra for, anyway, when you’ve got such lovely—’
‘I could strangle you sometimes, Jack Frost.’
‘We could give it a go.’
‘Just get back to Maurice Litchfield, will you.’
‘I bumped into him in Denton Rec earlier this afternoon,’ said Frost, wheezing slightly. ‘He was with Sally Cooper. While Maurice and I got into something of a heated discussion, I think it dawned on Mrs Cooper what he could be facing if he doesn’t come clean. We’ll get round there first thing tomorrow morning, give him another night to sweat over it. Don’t think I’ve got the energy right now, anyway.’
‘So what’s he looking at – manslaughter?’
‘At the most, if he gets the right judge. It’s the public humiliation that I think will sink him though. He works in the City, for God’s sake, one of those posh commuters. What are they going to say on the train in the morning? Strangely sensitive chap as well, even with his hobby.’
Clarke got up to go to the Ladies, and Frost watched her turning heads as she weaved through the crowded bar, remembering how Mary used to have that effect. Mary had been a cracker, no two ways about it, and she’d known it, too.
Shit, he said to himself. He’d blind forgotten their wedding anniversary tomorrow. No box of Black Magic, no flowers, no table booked. It wasn’t much of a marriage any more, but that wouldn’t stop the little firebrand from going ballistic. He’d have to think of something.
The moment he saw Sue Clarke returning his mood lifted.
‘That bloke from the ATB is over there,’ she said, sitting down. ‘Patterson.’
‘Oh, him. Don’t know what he does all day, except ear-wigging other people’s conversations.’
‘I suppose that’s what they’re meant to do, isn’t it? All that covert stuff?’ Clarke gave him a big smile. ‘So what’s all this about snooker cues, George Foster and strippers driving getaway cars? You can’t be serious.’
‘I thought you were all for equal rights and women’s lib,’ said Frost. ‘Why can’t women drive getaway cars? Christ, you drive quick enough.’ Frost suddenly felt nauseous. When he went for a piss earlier it hurt like hell all down his right side. Something was up and he knew it.
‘Jack, you still with us?’ said Clarke.
‘Yeah, sorry. Stomach-ache, that’s all. Where was I?’
‘Getaway drivers – of the female variety. You look pale, you need to look after yourself.’
‘I’ll be OK.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘If I’m right, the getaway car used in the raid on the Fortress, and the other recent building society jobs, was driven by a woman: Louise Daley. A right little mouthy handful who happens to be the niece of George Foster. He no doubt roped her in – sort of thing he’d do.’
‘I know who he is,’ said Clarke. ‘We studied him as part of our training: a hardcore criminal who graduated from Denton’s seedier side to the big smoke. In and out of prison.’
‘I’ve got Lee Wright to thank for steering me in the right direction and confirming the worst. The thing is, Foster, it seems more than likely, has hooked up with a nasty little Irishman named Joe Kelly. Lee Wright was banged up with those two for a short while. Foster and Kelly then recruited this ex-cop turned security guard, Blake Richards. A right violent bastard. On paper, it’s a gang made in heaven – or should that be hell?’ Frost looked around the smoky pub. He couldn’t see Patterson anywhere.
‘Go on,’ urged Clarke, staring at him, a worried look still on her face.
Frost suddenly knew he was going to tell her everything. Knew he had to get it off his chest. ‘Bert Williams was on to them. He’d been looking at Blake Richards’s old Met file, came across the connections to George Foster and Joe Kelly, too.’
Clarke looked at him, wide-eyed, fresh-faced, her whole career stretching ahead of her.
‘Where he died,’ Frost continued, ‘the more I think about it, is exactly where you’d meet someone for a quiet chat.’
Clarke was leaning in closer.
‘Bert met someone out there, on that remote lane. There’s no other possible reason why anyone would go that way, even if you were taking the back route back from the Chequers. Even if you were blind drunk.’
‘But why would he meet anyone there, anyway?’ asked Clarke.
‘Bert thought he was getting some information. About the imminent Fortress raid, is my guess.’ Frost lowered his voice. ‘Someone could have been paying Bert back – Bert let a few things go in his time, we all do – or maybe they had an axe to grind. Perhaps both. Except that whoever Bert met on Saturday afternoon had changed their mind. Or they’d always been stringing him along.’
‘Or someone else got wind of the fact Bert was sniffing around,’ said Sue Clarke excitedly, ‘that the gang was about to be rumbled, and decided to intervene.’
At that Frost leant right across and kissed Sue Clarke, full on the lips. Pulling back, he said, ‘I wonder if Lee Wright told me absolutely everything.’
Bill Wells couldn’t reach anybody he needed. One minute the station was buzzing, everyone running around frantically, leave cancelled, blanket overtime. The next it was completely dead. Just the pong of new paint and a growing sense of frustration as the hours slipped away without any serious breakthroughs.
He stuffed a stale digestive into the right-hand side of his mouth and tried to chew, but his sore gums were still giving him grief.
It was nearly eight. Johnny Johnson wouldn’t be here until ten. Now the flowers were gone, Bert’s memorial dumped into a black bin bag as per Mullett’s orders, Wells only had the Denton Round Table Poppy Appeal to look at.
When the phone went he was almost relieved. Yet another disturbance in Denton Close. But this one was more specific: a man was digging up his front lawn, in his dressing-gown. Wells knew Frost wasn’t in the building, so he tried Hanlon’s extension, to no avail. Control was undecided as to whether an area car should be dispatched – there was no law against gardening at night, or gardening in your dressing-gown, after all. However, the address was ringing alarm bells with Wells.
He needed Frost here to make a decision. Failing that, Hanlon. Failing Hanlon, Clarke. Failing Clarke, himself, Wells supposed. He was interrupted from frantically dialling their extensions by a thin lad, in an anorak a couple of sizes too big for him, pushing open the door and ambling up to the front desk. The station sergeant recognized him as the informer who had come in earlier with DCI Patterson. Being an informer seemed like a cushy number to Wells, though not without certain risks, he supposed.
‘Got a light, mate?’ Brendan Murphy said, resting an elbow on the counter.
‘Just a sec. Sure there’s one here somewhere.’ Well’s rifled through the drawers.
> ‘I was hoping to catch DCI Patterson,’ Murphy said.
‘Saw him walk out of here a while ago.’ Wells offered him some matches.
‘Right. Well, that’s a bummer,’ Murphy said, lighting his cigarette and then putting the box in his pocket. ‘Is a DS Frost here by any chance?’
‘No luck there, either,’ said Wells. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘No – it’s Patterson I really need. I’ll see if I can find him elsewhere.’
‘You could try the pub. The Coach and Horses, just up Eagle Lane. Lot of officers head there after work.’
‘What’s that stink?’ Murphy said, sniffing, and helping himself to a poppy.
‘That’ll be the emulsion.’
‘Doesn’t smell like paint to me.’
‘No, it’s not, you’re right,’ said Wells, as Desmond Thorley appeared at the counter.
‘Jesus,’ said Murphy.
‘Not you again,’ said Wells dismissively. ‘Sneaking up on us too. Scared we’d lock the door if we saw you coming? Well, I can tell you, Desmond Thorley, we’re not putting you up for another night running.’
‘Only trying to help,’ grumbled Thorley.
‘What is it this time, then?’ said Wells.
‘Found this in the woods.’ From the folds of his stinking rags, Thorley pulled out a black leather mask, a zip for the mouth, a beak for the nose, two tiny round holes for the eyes, and flopped it on the desk.
‘I’ve seen and smelt enough,’ Murphy said, looking up from fixing the poppy in his lapel and pushing through the station doors back into the sodden night, leaving a curl of cigarette smoke.
‘Where exactly did you find it?’ Wells asked Thorley. He’d studied the Fortress raid incident board in the canteen, determined as ever to pull one over on his higher-ranking colleagues and escape the drudgery of the front desk. Scant praise he’d got for helping to organize the Market Square evacuation.
‘Some fifty yards or so from my humble abode, near a big clump of rhododendron bushes,’ explained Thorley. ‘Where I saw those people the other night. There’s been some strange goings-on, as I’ve been trying to tell you all. I reckon this was dropped.’
