by Henry James
‘What did you make of that, then?’ Simms asked Waters as they climbed back into the Vauxhall.
He shrugged. ‘Not a lot to go on. I guess we’ll have to see if Sarah Ferguson’s story matches.’ He paused. ‘I’ve seen a few disturbing things in my time, but schoolgirls chucking each other off trains doesn’t seem likely to me.’
‘Hey, just a sec,’ Simms said, ‘she’s coming over.’
Gail Burleigh was furtively making her way towards them across the cobbled lane. Waters rolled down the window. ‘What is it, love?’
She tentatively looked both ways before bowing her head to the window. Waters could detect cigarette smoke.
‘I had been drinking that night,’ she said, then added in a strangely affected fashion, ‘I wanted to tell the truth, but couldn’t, you know, let on to the, you know, the folks …’
‘We understand, love,’ Simms said, leaning across. ‘Thanks for letting us know. Mum’s the word.’ The girl scurried back to the dark of the terrace. ‘Not such a model pupil after all.’ He smirked.
‘Maybe holding your booze is part of the Duke of Edinburgh award?’ Waters suggested as he turned the key in the Vauxhall’s ignition.
‘Imagine that, the whole bloody lot of them pissed.’ Simms lit a cigarette. ‘Talking of which, I’m feeling quite parched myself.’ He gestured towards the Fox which had just come into view. ‘Might as well grab a pint.’
‘It’s not quite six yet. Will it be open?’
‘These country boozers are a law unto themselves. But, before we go in, I just wanted to ask you a question … You’re not one of them, are you?’
‘One of what?’
‘You know, a poof?’ Simms looked at him with one eyebrow raised.
‘Eh? Because I said I liked Culture Club? I was just trying to relate to the kid. Try it sometime – you might find you win them over.’
‘Yeah, yeah, very smooth,’ Simms said. ‘Well, that’s a relief, anyway. Working with the only black policeman within a 100-mile radius is one thing, but being stuck with a gay black policeman would really be pushing it.’
‘C’mon, pretty boy, we’re in the ’80s, anything goes.’ Waters jigged his hands in the air light-heartedly.
‘Maybe on your beat, matey,’ grimaced Simms, pushing open the heavy wooden door of the pub, ‘but not in Denton. These old codgers would bag you as soon as look at you.’
Chris Everett was surprised to see the shabby Bedford van as he pulled up on his newly shingled drive. Tradesmen at this hour? He checked his watch – ten past six, definitely late in the day for workmen. The back of the van was open and he peered inside to see an assortment of poles and brushes. Shock pulsed through him like a lightning bolt – shit, no, it couldn’t be! Bloody Fiona, it was May, dammit! Why the fuck was she calling out a chimney sweep in May? The fire wouldn’t be used until the autumn, that was why he’d picked the chimney as a hiding place.
He raced through the hall and reception room and into the lounge. Sure enough, there were dust sheets all over the Wilton and cleaning rods and brushes mingling among the hearthside ornaments.
‘All right there, boss,’ said a chirpy little man, stepping out of the large inglenook fireplace.
‘Where is my wife?’ Everett said sharply.
‘Just run your girls off to ballet.’
Of course, he thought. But why the hell was this guy here? Everett looked on, paralysed with panic as the man started fitting pipes and brushes together.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’ the sweep said. ‘Maybe you have. Old house like this. I bet there’ve been a few happenings …’ He detached the hood of the wood burner.
Everett felt perspiration break out on his top lip. ‘Look, what exactly are you doing here? We have the chimney swept every October – not in the middle of May, for God’s sake!’
‘Pigeons,’ the man said bluntly, grimacing as he grappled with something up the chimney.
Why hadn’t Fiona mentioned this to him? Admittedly, he was seldom there during the day. And pretty elusive in the evenings, too, it was fair to say.
‘Been making a hell of a noise.’ The sweep began to poke the brush through the vent.
‘Stop!’ As he said it, Everett felt stupid. ‘You can’t, we’ve got people coming. Guests will be arriving any minute.’
‘Won’t be five minutes,’ the sweep said. ‘Hello, what’s this? Something’s in the way.’
Everett stood helpless as the sweep pulled the plastic bag out into the fireplace. Before he had a chance to think what to do, the man had the contents on the hearth.
‘Bloomin’ Nora!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve only got the crown jewels hiding up there!’
In desperation Everett made his move. He reached above the horse brasses and pulled his grandfather’s salmon gaff off the brickwork chimney breast. The ‘gaff’ or poacher’s hook was made of steel and brass and resembled an extendable butcher’s hook, only much sharper. The poacher needed only the deftest of light touches to pierce the fish’s flesh and take grip.
Everett didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t about to let some out-of-season chimney sweep probing for pigeons destroy his life. He came at the man from behind while he was crouched over the booty, and with one swift movement pulled back his head and sunk the gaff effortlessly into his neck, piercing the jugular. The stunned sweep gurgled and twitched for barely a minute, his dust sheets conveniently soaking up the gush of blood. Once he was sure the man had stopped moving, Everett glanced at his watch – he had about ten minutes before Fiona got back from dropping the twins off at ballet class.
Superintendent Mullett hurried down London Street towards the dry cleaner’s – passing, he noticed gloomily, firmly shut shop fronts – to finally pick up his shirts. He was dismayed to find it padlocked and not a flicker of life from within. He rattled the front door and then saw the notice. It wasn’t as simple as bank-holiday trading hours. Bailiffs had taken possession of the premises due to non-payment of rent, and the business had gone bust. Mullett’s mind took a second to compute. He squinted through the window and could actually see his shirts neatly ranged on a clothing rail – a dozen in all, along with a spare uniform.
There was no telephone number on the notice. He stood back from the store in bewilderment.
* * *
‘Ah, there you are,’ Frost said, looking up to see a tired DC Clarke standing in the doorway. He reached across the desk and switched off the noisy fan; the office was cooling as the day drew to a close.
‘Yes, I heard you were looking for me.’
‘I was. How’s your day been?’
Frost’s smile was met with a grimace. ‘Bloody terrible. My leg really hurts. Also, it’s …’ she sat down opposite, clearly in pain, fighting back the tears. ‘It’s humiliating.’
Frost squirmed in his chair. He hated this, but he knew he should make the effort to show sympathy. ‘I know,’ he soothed.
‘No, you bloody well don’t know!’ Clarke was convulsed in sobs. ‘Mullett has had me searching for my own attacker. First it was the schools, which was bad enough, then the estates, and then on Market Square, questioning every little oik who goes by. It’s really demeaning, Jack. The word’s out. I’m a laughing stock.’
‘What do you mean, the word’s out?’ Frost knew what a dim view Mullett would take of this attack being public knowledge. He certainly wouldn’t have notified the papers.
‘Word on the street, I expect. Probably the schools. A bunch of blasted kids down Milk Street were jeering at us, on the Southern Housing Estate. Myles and I were down there to check out some kid on parole. We stopped at a newsagent to pick up some cigarettes, and there must’ve been a dozen of them laughing at us.’
‘Are you sure they know? I’d be surprised if the schools would let it leak. The press don’t know – I’d have heard by now …’
‘They know, Jack. And then there’s uniform.’
Frost loosened his tie further, and pulled out a bottle of Bl
ack Label from the desk drawer. ‘Here, this’ll take the edge off.’ He emptied the cold coffee into the bin before pouring whisky into the cup. ‘Don’t worry about uniform – enough of them have been caught out in far more compromising circumstances.’
‘Well, if they have to know about this one, why can’t it be handed to them to follow up on? Got any aspirin I can take with this?’
Frost rummaged around in the drawers and pulled out a crumpled pack of pills. He tossed them over.
‘Anyway, are you coming over tonight?’
Fair enough she should ask. Tuesday night was the one he usually spent with her while Mary was at bingo. But this week he just didn’t want to. He was finding the whole thing too suffocating.
‘Later … I’ve got to do these crime stats for Allen. He’s skiving off on some computer course … a waste of time, don’t you think?’
‘Whatever, Jack. I’m too tired to argue with you now. Why did you want me, anyway?’
He felt it was a loaded question. ‘I just wanted to see how you are, and see if I could help track down the bastard who did this to you.’
‘Really? If I didn’t know better, I would have said Mullett had been breathing down your neck to sort this out. But I don’t actually care. I’m going home.’ Clarke got up stiffly and left.
‘See you later,’ Frost called out half-heartedly, topping up his own coffee mug with Black Label and lighting a cigarette. He pushed the crime stats out of the way and looked at the file on recent juvenile offenders Webster had dropped off. Most were familiar – a right bunch of stinkers. He’d go through those tomorrow. Only then did he notice the envelope marked JACK, his name underlined in ballpoint pen. Though in capitals, he thought he recognized the handwriting as Clarke’s. The sharp underlining indicated the contents had been written in haste, or anger. Frost sighed remorsefully and shoved it to one side; he had more pressing worries to contend with.
He picked up the phone and dialled his home number. It rang and rang; no answer. He checked his watch – it was just past 7.30. Mary may well have left already for bingo with the girls. Perhaps it was a sign that everything was all right – she was definitely out of sorts, as he’d said truthfully to Clarke. Not a word this morning. Something was up. He realized he should have called earlier, but the meeting with Mullett and Clarke’s appearance in his office had distracted him. And if there was a problem, then surely she would’ve called him? He got up to refill the kettle, thought better of it, grabbed his car keys off the desk and made for the door.
On his way out through reception, he passed Desk Sergeant Bill Wells, into the last half-hour of his shift. ‘Evening, Bill.’
‘You off somewhere, Jack?’ said Wells.
‘Home.’ Frost smiled weakly.
‘Home?’ Wells checked the wall clock behind. ‘Unlike you to be leaving this early. There’s nothing up, is there?’ Before he could answer Simms and Waters came through the double doors.
‘Ah, men, what news?’ Frost asked with gusto, glad of the distraction.
‘Nothing much,’ Simms replied. ‘We went back to Two Bridges to interview Gail Burleigh, one of the girls from the train. She had little to say and her parents are both posh wallies.’
‘Jolly good,’ Frost said, deflated. ‘That’s what I like to see – good, unbiased detective work.’
Frost rang his own front-door bell, something he was unaccustomed to doing, seldom being back before Mary was in bed. Last night had been an exception of sorts. He looked around the close. It was strange being home before dark. Out of habit he’d stopped at the corner shop for a dried-out sandwich and a couple of tins, but it was still only just before eight.
He was struck by the pleasant May evening. Blackbirds chattered melodically, and the cherry blossom in the garden was in the last throes of its pink splendour. Strangely, Frost had no recollection of previously noticing it in bloom. He’d planted the sapling when they’d first moved in fifteen years ago, that much he remembered, but afterwards he wasn’t sure he’d even given it a second glance.
As expected, the bell remained unanswered so he took out his key. The second he opened the door the neighbour’s cat rubbed around his legs and shot into the house. It drove him spare that Mary fed the brute; she knew he hated cats. Maybe that was why she did it.
The house was dark and silent, but for some reason he still felt compelled to check for signs of life. In the living room his records and cassettes remained scattered on the floor as he’d left them the previous evening. The kitchen was tidy but empty, apart from the cat, who sat expectantly in front of the fridge.
‘Think you might have a bit of a wait, pal.’ Frost sighed, slumping into a kitchen chair.
Suddenly the phone rang.
‘Jack?’ It was Desk Sergeant Bill Wells.
‘Still there, old son?’
‘It’s not quite eight yet; I’m counting off the minutes.’
It was a novelty for Frost to be called at home by Bill Wells; he was seldom there in the hours Wells manned the desk, and was far more accustomed to the voice of Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson on the other end of the line. It wasn’t unusual to be woken in the middle of the night by such calls.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s the super, Jack. He rang to ask who’s watching Baskin’s sauna tonight.’
‘Flamin’ hell, Bill!’
‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger! Sorry, but he was insistent. He’s waiting for me to call him back, and he said he’d left it with you. So, who’s gonna watch it?’
‘Me.’
‘What, from home? Shall I tell him you’re using binoculars?’
Frost sighed again. There was no way around it; he’d have to go himself. With Hanlon off, Williams dead and Allen on that stupid computer course, Denton CID was reduced to a pack of inexperienced kids. He didn’t want Simms near Baskin – he was too green and hot-headed, with none of the razor-sharp instincts needed to deal with a seasoned gangster. The girls were a risk, too; they had it in for Harry, maybe not undeservedly, but he didn’t want them throwing the book at him just because they saw crumpet hanging around his premises.
No, he could handle it quite comfortably.
Tuesday (6)
FROST SAT IN the car on the corner of Foundling Street enjoying Kung Po beef, special fried rice and a tinny.
After Wells’s call, he’d left home straightaway and stopped for a couple of pints in the Bull, across the road from his current position, just to get the lie of the land. It had been too early to be watching the massage parlour; any lewd goings-on surely took place much later. He then drove north on to Queen Street and stopped in at the Jade Rabbit to try and smooth things over. His apologies were graciously accepted and returned in equal measure with the offer of a free dinner, which was gratefully received. It was in their interest to promote goodwill; Frost was something of a regular there, but also they were clearly still on edge with regard to the errant nephew. If they’d previously been protecting him, it seemed they’d now decided on a different tack; the proprietor raised the topic before Frost had even mentioned it. He claimed to be outraged that the boy was in trouble, and that he would urge him to present himself to the police should he reappear. Frost was dismissive; the lad was on Baskin’s payroll, ergo he would do whatever Harry wished, regardless of the urgings of his uncle.
Now, at close to ten, while slurping from a tin of Harp, Frost noticed some interesting activity. A black Ford Granada pulled up, and two men in penguin suits emerged from the rear and made their way towards the parlour, the smaller of the two swaying noticeably. The man seemed vaguely familiar, despite being fifty yards off and visible only from the back. The door to the Pink Toothbrush was opened before the men had reached the threshold, and they both staggered in. The Granada remained in situ. Frost was just deciphering the registration, an X plate, new last year, when the lights were killed and the exhaust extinguished.
The Kung Po had filled him up and was the only thing he’d eaten si
nce breakfast. He felt strangely content alone in his car. His elusive, possibly ill wife and his wounded, upset girlfriend were far away in another world. He released the ring pull on another can of Harp.
The next thing he knew, it was 3 a.m. and a flashlight was being tapped remorselessly on the windscreen. He was just coming to when it moved round and blazed through the driver’s-side window, startling him fully awake. He wound down the window.
‘Evening, Officer.’ He smiled.
‘Sergeant Frost?’ said a uniform in surprise.
‘That’s me. Oh, blast,’ Frost said, looking past the officer towards the Pink Toothbrush; the lights were out and the Granada gone.
Frost turned the ignition key, causing the constable to step back. ‘The going-over I got in there must have been so good I dozed off!’ he called after him, smiling lamely. Kung Po and lager moved deep within his insides, necessitating an unsettling belch. He fished for a cigarette and reached for the final can of Harp to wash away the after-taste before pulling away.
Wednesday (1)
SIMMS HAD WOKEN early in spite of, or perhaps because of, the previous night’s heavy booze intake, and getting up had been a monumental struggle. As he and DS Waters left their police quarters on Fenwick Street, the searing brightness of the early-morning sun made his head pound. The booze had afforded them both a poor night’s sleep, and in Simms’s case a powerful hangover was kicking in.
Neither he nor Waters had meant to get quite so blasted. On the way out of Two Bridges they’d had several pints in the Fox before checking in at Eagle Lane, albeit briefly, then had decided on a Chinese takeaway and some tins from the Unwins next door. It would have all been fine had it ended there, but upon arrival at Fenwick Street they’d found Miller slumped in the lounge watching confiscated video nasties on the misappropriated Betamax video recorder. It was just too easy to crack open a bottle of Scotch – also confiscated – and settle down for an early-hours session of Driller Killer and Deep Throat. Now, of course, Simms felt like he’d actually starred in a video nasty.