by Danny Miller
‘Fair enough.’
‘When I heard what was happening to him in prison, I reached out, tried to stop it. But as I discovered, there were darker forces at play. There were people that wanted Conrad, if not dead, then certainly buried. And that’s what happened to him. His various escape attempts led to him being shunted from prison to prison, held in solitary, then goaded by the prison wardens. They soon got what they wanted, he was certified insane. He got into some scrapes, but he didn’t kill anyone. They said he attacked people, maybe so, but I know that at Durham the warders bloody well paid people to attack him.’
‘Why? Why single him out for this treatment?’
Cavanagh considered this, then tilted his head to the side and gave his companion a curious glance. ‘Funny thing is, Frost, you haven’t once asked me what was in the box. That’s usually the first question anyone asks about a box: what’s in it?’
‘Not in this case, it isn’t.’
Cavanagh’s expressive eyebrows again shot up at this, and his moustache rippled on his top lip like a caterpillar crawling across a leaf.
‘Only because I don’t think you’ve ever told anyone this,’ Frost clarified.
Everything about the captain got raised further, including the glass in his hand, in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘How could you tell?’
‘Because of the way you tell the story. You’ve relished every minute of it. You’re a trustworthy man, a man who’s good at keeping secrets, and you’ve kept this one for a long time.’
The captain took a deep unsteady breath that was full of emotion. ‘And the only reason I’m telling you now is because both the players are dead. It can’t harm anyone. Apart from me.’
‘And now me.’
‘Only if you find out what was in the box.’
‘Ruin my illustrious career?’
‘This information has been kept secret for a good reason.’
‘Could it topple governments?’
‘Worse. Nothing so transient as mere governments. They come and go. This, Inspector Frost, goes right to the top and is always with us.’
The captain leaned forward to give Frost the information he’d waited so avidly to hear. Frost did the same, but when he glanced around, there was a waiter at his side.
‘Anything else, gentlemen?’
Cavanagh’s and Frost’s eyes met in agreement. ‘Why not? Be rude not to.’
Before the waiter crept away, Frost reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Please, allow me.’ He took a tenner and put it on the waiter’s tray.
‘Ah, one thing I miss about the job, that expense account. And I have to say the Yard was rather generous and forgiving when it came to the bar bills—’ Cavanagh broke off as he spotted something on the table. It was a photo that had fallen out of Frost’s wallet. He picked it up and went to hand it back to the DI, then he stopped. His eyes narrowed and the dense nail of his forefinger tapped a figure in the picture. ‘Is that the missing girl?’
‘What makes you ask?’ queried Frost.
‘Seems familiar, thought I recognized her face from the newspapers, terrible business.’
Frost corrected him. ‘No, Ruby Hanson is the girl on the end with her mother. The girl you pointed out is Ivan Fielding’s granddaughter, with her mother.’
‘Her … mother?’ The captain’s eyes narrowed further, as if trying to bring something, or someone, into focus. Like with one of those spooky old photos where the faint outline of a spectre haunts the frame.
John Waters was stood in front of the full-length mirror. He was wearing a midnight-blue Armani suit, crisp white shirt and skinny black tie. It was the suit he’d bought for his wedding to Kim less than two years ago. And the nearest he’d got to a tuxedo, seeing as he didn’t own one, and certainly had no intention of hiring one at Moss Bros. Whilst hardly dead man’s shoes, he didn’t really savour the idea of wearing other people’s clothes and paying for the privilege. The Armani didn’t come out to play often, and now seemed like as good a time as any.
It was supposed to be his big night, the regional copper-of-the-year ceremony, and he got to pick up his commendation for bravery. A medal would be pinned to his chest for saving two women from a blazing fire started by some drug dealers who were trying to run them off the Southern Housing Estate, all because they had the temerity to stand up to the scumbags. Ella and Cathy didn’t want anyone else’s children dying on the cheap smack the dealers were putting out in the area. They had both already lost their only sons.
He was proud of the work he’d done on that case. But it had come at a price. It had marked him for life. Physically, he still wasn’t at full capacity, wondered if he ever would be again. He still felt taut, fragile, vulnerable, a dry autumn leaf ready to crumble underfoot at any moment. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that if he came up against anyone, challenged anyone, he’d come off second best. It wasn’t a good feeling. You needed confidence: it was your armour. You couldn’t just rely on your badge and cries of ‘Police! Stop!’ Sometimes they didn’t. And that’s when you really proved your worth.
But then again, he’d listened to Frost. His DI, who had famously stopped a bullet in a bank robbery – with his face. He always said the bullet just grazed his cheek, but in reality, it took a fair amount of skin with it and left a nasty little scar. Frost never talked about it. He didn’t even bother to pick up his medal of commendation. Threw a sickie on the night, said he was struck down with a migraine. Of course no one questioned it. But Albert Briggs from Rimmington CID said he saw Frost in the Feathers pub that night, knocking back the Teacher’s and Hofmeister like a man on a mission.
The only time Frost had talked about it was when Waters was in the hospital. Jack said he wouldn’t be without his scar. It served as a reminder of what the job was really about at times, and how fragile existence is, all the time. It was his badge.
Still, it niggled and surprised Waters that Frost was complaining about simple back pain since taking a header down the stairs, and then falling into a pit, whilst he’d had to endure three months of skin-graft surgery on his back where the flames had flayed off his skin. The scars were still too unsightly to be worn with pride, though they were healing, turning from a livid red to a more palatable pink. Kim said she didn’t notice them. Which, for a man of his colour, was an out-and-out lie. But where he couldn’t bear to look at them, she certainly didn’t have a problem rubbing aloe vera over them. It was a recommendation from his mother, an old Island remedy that seemed to be working.
But he couldn’t stay too mad at his colleague and friend. Jack Frost could be an insensitive prick at times, but nine times out of ten, he got the big things spot on. And maybe he had every right to whinge about his back – after all, as some streetwise philosopher once pointed out: it ain’t the earthquakes that kill you, it’s the stubbed toes.
‘You look great.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ said Waters, looking at Kim reflected in the mirror. She was wearing a one-shoulder turquoise taffeta dress, studded with the occasional rhinestone. With her frosted hair, the glitter accentuating her cheekbones and her glossy pink lips, she looked gloriously inappropriately attired for a sombre civic do at the dusty and musty town hall. It was the most colourful he’d seen her in a while. It was a first-date, let’s-go-dancing outfit. Since her miscarriage, she’d been in mourning; and this outfit looked like it marked an end to that.
‘You look beautiful. You always do.’
‘That’s not true. I’m sorry.’
‘For what? You don’t have to—’
‘Yes, I do.’
She came up to him and took his hand.
‘I haven’t been a wife to you, I know that.’
‘That’s not been on my mind.’
There they stood, their reflections looking perfectly suited, almost like a picture in a glossy magazine. Waters turned away from the image to face the reality of his wife. She was even more beautiful to him in the flesh. He kiss
ed her. He drew her into him, began to gently peck at her neck, a neck fragrant with Rive Gauche. Then he stopped. Just as he could feel himself tense up, he could feel her do the same. He released her waist; his hold on it had been tentative at best.
Her head dipped, she wouldn’t look at him. ‘Not now. I’ve just got dressed, made up.’
It was a practical but poor excuse, and one he’d heard, with variations on the theme, too many times over the last six months. Six months. She stepped out of the room. And he glanced towards the mirror again. Never believe what they try and sell you in the glossy magazines, he thought.
Sunday (3)
The function room at Denton town hall was swathed in blue, there were blue cloths on the tables, blue crêpe paper was tacked to much of the walls, and there was a strip of blue carpet to replace the red one at the entrance. They’d gone all out for the boys in blue. The decor was rather stating the obvious and, as some concerned coppers had pointed out, it had cut into the budget, the drinks budget that is.
But by the time Frost arrived, everyone was on their third or fourth drink, and decor and fiscal concerns had pretty much left the function room; it was just full of coppers from the county turning the air blue with blue jokes now.
Frost had shoe-horned himself into his best suit that seemed to be inexplicably getting tighter and tighter each year. He’d had to buy it for his wife’s funeral, more than two years ago. Frost blamed the copious Kung Po at the Jade Rabbit, not the Harp, the Hofmeister, the Holstein, or even the Heineken when the other three weren’t available. He emptied his can of Top Deck shandy into the glass and took his inaugural swig of the brew. He winced, almost in pain, as it fizzed its sickly-sweet way down his gullet. He thought he’d take his foot off the gas after his meeting with Captain Cavanagh, who, boy oh boy, even though he was a captain in the Guards, drank like the captain of a pirate galleon on shore leave after six months at sea.
He was still wincing when Stanley Mullett sidled up to him. ‘Cheers, son, I’ll have a pint of … Oh, sorry, sir, my mistake, I didn’t recognize you in that outfit, thought you were a waiter. Very smart.’
Mullett, in full evening dress – a satin stripe running down his trouser leg, satin cuffs and shawl collar to his DJ, and a bow-tie that was probably a real one, that he actually knew how to tie – sat down next to Frost. His hair was heavily brilliantined, matching the effulgence of his patent-leather shoes. Authority loves to dress up, loves to press its case, thought Frost.
‘That tie, Frost …’
‘Clever, isn’t it? Very good use of the space, I thought.’
‘It’s unbecoming in a senior officer.’
‘We’re not the fashion police, sir. Which will be my standard reply this evening.’
Mullett raised his withering, hornrimmed gaze from his DI’s neck, and fixed him firmly in its glare. ‘Where were you this afternoon?’
‘Most of my time was spent with the Hansons. We’ve had a breakthrough, I believe.’
‘Yes, I heard. They’ve both been engaging in extra-marital affairs. Where else?’
‘Where else, how?’
Frost could see he was frustrating Mullett with his picture of innocence, and Mullett cut to the chase: ‘I hope Ruby Hanson is getting your full undivided attention.’
The DI took another swig of his Top Deck, to rid himself of the bad taste that was developing in his mouth and replace it with the bitterness of lemons and limes instead. ‘With all due respect, I don’t think you’re aware of just how bloody awful that sounds. A young kid is missing, and you’re suggesting that I—’
Mullett raised a placating hand. ‘I know you’ve been obsessed with the Ivan Fielding case, and all the rumour and intrigue swirling around it. It’s tempting for a detective to get drawn into that kind of thing. Solve an historic case, get your name in the papers, on TV.’
‘Not me. Not when a kid’s life is in danger. I leave all the heroics and glory to others.’
Mullett must have noticed the indignation emanating from Frost, because he sat back in his chair, took an engine-turned silver cigarette case from his inside pocket and relieved it of a dainty-looking cocktail cigarette that he lit up with an impossibly slim rolled-gold lighter. Notoriously tight, he didn’t offer Frost one. And maybe that’s why Frost had taken to stealing Mullett’s cigarettes off his desk at every opportunity he got. And he got a lot, the amount of times he was summoned to his office for a bollocking.
‘So I have your word that you have not been actively pursuing the Ivan Fielding case?’
Frost followed suit and relaxed back into his chair. He pinched out a cigarette from the crumpled box of B&H on the table and sparked it up. He took a long slow draw on the coffin nail and cogitated on what his super was asking. He didn’t want to get caught out in a career-ending lie. He eventually released the smoke and plumed it out in the direction of Sandy Lane, who was by the bar with his snapper, recording the event.
‘I have not.’
‘Are you sure?’
Just what the hell did Mullett know? ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Of course he wasn’t sure. But he was pretty sure he hadn’t been actively pursuing it, rather the case just kept on presenting itself to him. After all, it was Captain Cavanagh who had contacted him for the meeting earlier today, not the other way around.
‘My full attention is on getting that little girl back. And with the leads we have, I’m sure we’ll be achieving that within the next forty-eight hours.’
Mullett expelled a breath of relieved air. ‘That is excellent news, excellent. She’s alive. After the death of the two boys last year, I don’t think the area could take another tragic loss of a child.’
‘No, sir, I know what you mean.’
With that, the superintendent stubbed out his barely depleted cigarette in the ashtray, shot his cuffs and stalked off.
Frost watched as Mullett weaved his way through the mass of blue tables and over to ACC Winslow, the real power in the room that night. In Winslow’s party were the four supers from the other four regions in the county. Once Mullett had taken his seat next to Winslow, the two top brass drew their heads together in a secretive huddle. Frost knew what the subject was, though. And he also knew that buried somewhere in the Fielding case was a cover-up, a cover-up that went right to the top. Captain Cavanagh had alluded to it, but held back from telling him the full story. Maybe he didn’t know? Or maybe all the booze at the hotel had got the better of him and he realized he’d said too much. Or maybe, just maybe, under all the bluster and confidence the old warrior was … scared.
It wasn’t just the fabulous wealth of the object that was taken that night in 1967 … it was more. It was history. It was information that could rewrite history. And who knew, maybe change the course of it.
So when ACC Winslow’s shadowy glance eventually made it over to him, Frost met it with a raised can of Top Deck. Surely the ultimate insult, he thought.
‘Guv?’
He turned sharply around, too sharply, and felt a ripping pain in his back. He muttered some curses, and saw PC Simms hovering at his side holding a couple of expensive-looking drinks. They certainly hadn’t been budgeted for, none of the complimentary cheap stuff they were doling out.
‘Back still playing up, guv?’
‘Only when I laugh. Who are you now, James bloody Bond?’
Simms looked down at himself, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing – again. He too was togged up in a tuxedo. ‘Nice, eh? It’s rented.’
‘I’d find it deeply disturbing if you owned it, especially on your wages.’
Simms straightened his bow-tie and flicked a speck of lint off his satin collar. ‘That said, I could get a taste for this.’
Frost dropped his spent cigarette in the empty can of Top Deck and heard it fizz away. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, son, but I can guarantee you that nothing that great in your life will happen on a regular enough basis to justify the expenditure on a penguin suit. Unless
something really bad happens, you get the sack, and are forced to get a job as a waiter. Anyway, how did you get a ticket for this, Plain Clothes Only, you’re not a DC yet.’
‘The super got me one. A thank-you for my work on the Denton Woods demonstration.’
‘Oh yeah, you still working for the Stasi, taking names and addresses?’
Simms shrugged. Probably more familiar with Spectre than the realities of the Stasi, thought Frost. He pulled out a chair for Simms to join him. ‘Put the drinks down, garçon, don’t want them curdling in your hot little hand.’
Simms looked down at the fancy whisky cocktails. ‘Ah, yeah, these are for the super and ACC Winslow.’
‘Bloody nerve of those two, you might look like a waiter, but you’re not one yet. Sod them’ – he jabbed a finger into the table – ‘we’ll have those, they can get their own.’
‘They didn’t ask me to get them, I found out what they were drinking and decided to take the initiative. Nice tie, by the way, guv. Can you play Goldfinger on it?’
‘Very smart, Dave. You look like a bad magician,’ said Sue Clarke coming over with two pints of Hofmeister.
‘Or an emaciated bouncer,’ laughed Frost.
Clarke put the drinks on the table. ‘You looked like you could do with a pint.’
Simms looked sheepish, and went off to deliver his drinks to the top brass.
‘What do you think?’
Frost picked up his pint and downed a substantial amount, then wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand before answering. ‘Very good, just what the doctor ordered.’
She groaned. ‘I meant my frock.’
Frost sat back and took it in. It was a black and magenta off-the-shoulder number with ruffles and puff sleeves, adorned with flamingos in sequins.
‘Give us a twirl, Anthea.’ Clarke obliged. ‘Oh, yes, very nice. The business, the bee’s knees.’ He took another swig of his lager and Clarke sat down next to him. ‘We’re going to have to do something about Simms.’