by Henry James
He slipped a cassette of Queen’s The Game into the car stereo, in the hope it’d perk him up a bit. But the opening thud of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, usually a spirit-lifter, merely served to make his headache worse.
‘Got a new album out this month,’ he said to Waters, who looked equally pained in the passenger seat. ‘A mate’s getting me a bootleg tonight.’
‘So you like them, do you?’ Waters asked.
‘Queen? You bet.’
‘Just wondered, since you disapproved mightily of Culture Club yesterday evening …’
‘Eh? Yeah, too right. A pansy in make-up – got no time for that. This is rock, mate.’ And he turned up the volume despite his throbbing head.
Eagle Lane wasn’t far from the police billet, but for Simms, perspiring heavily and feeling shaky, the journey was taking an eternity. To begin with, they’d been stuck behind a rubbish truck, its progress excruciatingly slow. The jollity of the binmen just beyond the Cortina’s bonnet, laughing as they emptied the clanging steel cylinders into the jaws of the truck, grated annoyingly. The collections had all been delayed a day because of the bank holiday.
‘About time too,’ Simms grumbled. ‘The whole of Denton pongs, especially in this weather. We still have to clear up the filth, bank holiday or not. I don’t see why that lot should be an exception.’
The lorry finally indicated left. Simms impatiently put his foot down.
‘Jesus – watch it!’ Waters shouted and the car screeched to a halt. A paperboy on a BMX had hopped off the kerb and into the path of the accelerating car. Simms stopped just in time. The boy, wearing a blue-hooded tracksuit top, acknowledged his good fortune by spinning round and giving them the finger.
‘Cheeky sod!’ Waters wound down the window as Simms drew up to the boy at the traffic lights. ‘Oi, you, if you didn’t have that hood up you might …’ But the boy had begun to pedal off, paying no attention to Waters.
‘Oi!’ Simms shouted, leaning across his colleague. The boy finally turned and scowled. He was fair-haired and wearing a pair of earphones.
‘No wonder he’s behaving like a muppet. He can’t see or hear with that get-up on.’ Simms shook his head in disbelief. ‘That reminds me. The Ellis girl had a Walkman on the train with her.’
‘Oh yeah? What was she listening to?’
‘Listening to?’ Simms replied, bemused.
‘On the tape? Might be worth a listen.’
‘Mmm, good idea. Remind me when we get in, if we get there in one piece, that is.’
Superintendent Stanley Mullett brought the Rover to a halt in the car park of Denton Golf Club. The quality of the vehicles around him spoke volumes. There were two Jags, several Rovers and even a Rolls, which must belong to the mayor. The very cream of Denton was here today.
He got out and sniffed the morning air. It was 8.15, and an extravagant breakfast awaited him in the clubhouse before the mayor officially opened the new course to the members. Yes, Denton at last had an eighteen-hole course, an expansion funded by a local investment committee and designed to attract big business. In addition to today’s opening, there would also be a charity match on Friday afternoon, followed by a gala dinner, the whole thing intended as a lavish corporate schmoozing event. Mullett couldn’t quite see how a retired boxer and one of the Two Ronnies appearing at a golf-club jolly would promote investment in Denton, but his was not to reason why. He was simply delighted to be on the guest list.
All was right with the world today, he thought. A chinwag with a couple of notables and then tee-off at nine; how civilized. He straightened his Windsor knot, smoothed his V-neck and checked his plus-fours. Fortunately, none of these items had been at the dry cleaner’s – he knew better than to let that lot loose on the merino or herringbone tweed.
He flopped on his hat, pinged open the boot and pulled out his clubs. What a fantastic morning! He even found himself humming as he strolled across the gravel and into the new clubhouse.
‘Stanley, old chap, good to see you.’ It was Hudson, the portly manager of Bennington’s Bank, who met him at reception, a glass of champagne in hand. Of all the people who could have greeted his entry, Hudson was probably his least favourite. ‘Come and grab yourself a glass of fizz.’
‘Morning, Hudson.’ Mullett smiled tightly. ‘Bit early in the day for me.’ Or for anyone apart from alcoholics – it wasn’t even 9 a.m. – but clearly not for you, you corpulent windbag.
‘Nonsense – wouldn’t be a champagne breakfast without it, would it?’ The bank manager looked distinctly flushed already.
‘I guess not.’
Hudson led him up a small flight of stairs and into the main club room, where a dozen or so members loitered expectantly. Mullett found himself rather disappointed with the decor. It seemed gauche and resembled an airport lounge; not exactly how he’d pictured an elite golf club. The only thing that gave a clue to the building’s function were the photographs transferred from the previous clubhouse – shots of members, of holes-in-one and of minor celebs shaking the incumbent club secretary’s hand, all of which looked totally incongruous in the new surroundings. Hudson led him on through to the main attraction – an entire plate-glass wall looking out on to the fairway.
‘Impressive, eh?’ said Hudson, as if he were personally responsible for this majestic glass showpiece. And to a degree he was. Bennington’s had bank-rolled the improvements on a loan with repayment terms that Mullett suspected were more than lenient. There was nobody more suitable to the role of club treasurer – especially given the bank manager’s handicap. Hudson was a truly awful golfer – a blindfolded monkey with a spade could get round the course more quickly.
‘Yes indeed,’ said Mullett, accepting a flute of champagne from a girl dressed for a cabaret, ‘it certainly is.’ At that point a burly fellow broke away from the cluster standing in front of the plate-glass window and made his way over.
‘Hello there, squire,’ said the man in a coarse East London accent, nodding to Hudson, who smiled in acknowledgement. They exchanged a few pleasantries before Hudson made off to join the party at the window. Mullett squinted at this rotund cockney with sideburns and cigar but couldn’t place him.
The man clocked the divisional commander’s confusion. ‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’ he said, puffing on his cigar.
Mullett reflected briefly on how he’d much rather be talking to the mayor, or even to Assistant Chief Constable Winslow, and surreptitiously scanned the group at the window to see if they were there.
‘Have my lads sorted your nick out yet?’
Heaven help him, it was Baskin, Denton’s leading ‘entrepreneur’, small-time hood and owner of the building firm – why else would a type like him be in this sort of club.
‘Not quite,’ Mullett replied, with a strained smile, feigning ignorance. ‘A very good job you’ve done here … Mister?’
‘Baskin. Harry Baskin.’
Mullett’s smile tightened. ‘Yes, of course. I’ve been wanting to speak to you. One of my officers was stabbed on one of your premises on Monday morning.’
‘Yes, what a shame. If only she’d come round after twelve it could all have been avoided.’
‘I’m sorry – what do you mean?’ Mullett couldn’t stand the smug gangster. He felt his hackles rising, but knew his temper would have to be controlled if he didn’t want to create a scene in front of Denton’s finest.
Baskin was clearly aware of this and was milking it. ‘We weren’t open, you see. There’s no security when the premises are shut. So I can’t be held responsible, can I? Any luck in catching the little buggers?’
Mullett was about to respond when he was suddenly distracted by some excitement at the window. Hudson beckoned him over.
‘Excuse me, it appears that I’m required,’ Mullett said. He made his way over. The tackily dressed girls had been topping him up with the cheap champagne and he already felt lightheaded.
‘Look!’ Hudson exclaimed. Running across
the second-hole green was a man who Mullett assumed was the groundsman, in a state of agitation.
‘Shouldn’t he be on a small tractor, or something?’ someone said. The man’s run across the course had clearly taken its toll, and he seemed to be on the verge of collapse as he approached the clubhouse. He looked up at the window and began gesticulating wildly.
‘I guess we should discover what’s up with the poor fellow,’ said a tall, distinguished-looking man with a close-cropped beard and a pink cravat. Mullett recognized him as Sir Keith Neal, the MP for Denton and Rimmington.
A small group led by Sir Keith made their way down on to the green. Mullett was one of the party; his instincts were telling him, through the fuzz of the champagne, that something was very wrong indeed.
‘Superintendent! Here, please,’ said Sir Keith. The huddle parted so Mullett could approach the stout, dark-haired workman in a flat cap, who was panting heavily. ‘Give the fellow space!’
‘D-dead,’ the man stammered, alarm in his eyes. ‘Dead boy.’
‘Where?’ demanded Mullett, assuming an air of authority. All eyes were now on him.
‘Ninth hole,’ the man spluttered. ‘I was ch-checking the course for moles …’
‘Let’s take a buggy. Myself, Sir Keith and …’
‘Knowles,’ said the traumatized groundsman.
‘Mr Knowles will point the way.’
The buggy trundled across the impressive grounds. It wasn’t long before Mullett could make out something lying close to the ninth hole, stark white against the green, and as they drew closer it became apparent that it was indeed a body. Mullett jumped off first and strode towards it. He felt his insides churn.
The boy was naked, lying prone in a star shape.
The body was cut open from groin to neck.
Mark Fong sat looking terrified in Interview Room 1. Frost had requested that DC Myles sit in, in an effort to calm the boy’s nerves. He could do with something of that sort himself. It was gone 10 a.m. and although the caffeine and nicotine had reduced the usual midweek befuddlement, which had been compounded by spending half the night in the Cortina, it was the worry of Mary not coming home last night that he couldn’t shake off. She’d gone off before, usually to her mother’s, but this time he felt it was different. He’d get to it once he had Fong sorted out.
The lad’s appearance at the station had been something of a surprise. Frost supposed at first that his uncle had coerced him into handing himself in voluntarily, but it seemed unlikely; the kid was shaking like a leaf. In which case, probably Baskin had had one of his thugs drop him off. Frost disliked Baskin’s gesture; the crook doubtless felt he was doing the DS a favour, but it bothered Frost that Baskin thought nothing of dumping some poor expendable sod in the mire.
‘Mark, can you tell me why you were on the last train back to Denton on Saturday night?’
‘I visit family.’
‘Yes, I know, Mr Baskin and your uncle said as much.’
‘Huh?’ The boy frowned, his features creasing, though the inch-long scratch on the left cheek was still visible.
‘Your uncle said … Never mind. Why did you come back so late? I mean, the last train – if your grandmother was sick, surely she’d be asleep.’ Frost observed Myles placing her hands to the side of her head in a sleep gesture. He rolled his eyes. Fong’s English might not be great, but it ought to be better than his uncle’s, and Frost was sure he understood.
‘Family. In Chinatown.’
‘Yes, but why so late back?’ Frost persisted.
‘Eat. In Chinatown. With family. In Chinatown.’
‘Do you remember who else was in the carriage with you? Did you see any young girls?’
‘On the train, how many people?’ Myles asked.
‘Carriage empty.’
‘Which carriage?’ Frost asked. The boy looked blank, but behind the eyes there was fear. ‘Smoke?’ The detective offered him a Rothmans. He shook his head vigorously.
‘How d’you get that scratch on your face?’ Myles asked, running her forefinger down her cheek.
‘Cat,’ Fong said quickly.
‘He understood that, all right. OK, will you please excuse me for a minute.’ Frost got up and made for the door, at which point the boy began to jabber in earnest, obviously realizing he was in it up to his neck. Myles leaned forward across the desk, trying to catch what he was saying. ‘DC Myles, will you come with me, please?’
Frost closed the interview room door behind them. He was thinking back to what Simms had said about the Ellis girl’s bag, assuming it was hers. It was found in the front carriage. A smoker’s car. Fong clearly didn’t smoke, and the station exit at Denton was midway down the platform. Fong had been first off the train. The two girls had not been right behind him as they left the station. He was beginning to think he was barking up the wrong tree. But if Mark Fong had seen and done nothing, and the scratch on the side of his face really was from a cat, then why had he run?
‘What’s up?’ said DC Myles.
‘Something’s not quite right. When he did a runner from the takeaway, I was convinced he was our boy, especially given the scratch. But now I’m not so sure.’
‘Well, perhaps you’re right. But as you left, he admitted noticing three girls at Paddington.’
Frost’s eyes widened. ‘Really? Three?’ Could this be evidence that Samantha and the pair from Two Bridges had known each other? ‘Did he see them catch the train together?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t think they’re our girls. Weren’t they all drunk?’
‘The taxi driver said the girls from Two Bridges were pissed, but Samantha Ellis’s toxicology tests found no trace of alcohol.’
‘Well, he thought they all looked pretty sober.’ Myles opened the door, ready to step back inside. ‘He seems to understand more if you talk to him slowly,’ she whispered.
‘It seems odd that his English is worse than his uncle’s who was an immigrant,’ muttered Frost. Then suddenly it dawned on him. ‘Mark’ hadn’t been born here, as Frost had assumed. He was here illegally, without a passport or visa. No wonder he did a runner on coming face to face with CID.
Frost re-entered the interview room. ‘Mr Fong, can I see some identification, please?’
Panic spread across the boy’s face.
‘All right. Where were you born?’
‘Denton!’ Fong replied too quickly, and then realized his mistake.
‘We can soon check that out.’ Frost turned to Myles and said, ‘Kim, be a darling and check with Denton General for Mr Fong’s records.’
The boy started gibbering wildly.
‘Relax, son. Kim, stay put.’ Frost waited for calm, then proceeded. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s whether or not you’re here legally … All I care about is what you saw on that last train out of London on Saturday night. Did you see this girl get on the train at Paddington?’ Frost slid Samantha Ellis’s school photo across the desk.
‘Three girls.’ Fong held up three fingers, in case there should be any doubt.
‘Yes, but did you see this one?’ Fong shook his head. Frost felt a pang of frustration. ‘Well, can you give me a description of the ones you did see?’ Fong looked at him blankly. ‘What did they look like?’ Frost said patiently.
‘Back only.’
‘Eh?’
‘You were behind them on the platform?’ Myles interjected. ‘You didn’t see their faces, yes?’
Fong nodded vigorously.
‘Were these girls swaying … you know, drunk?’
The boy frowned until Frost got up and staggered for effect.
He shook his head. ‘No. Straight.’
‘Did you see any other girls board the train, you know, teenagers?’
‘Lots.’
‘Hmm,’ Frost mused. ‘I’m not sure he’s really seen anything at all. He’s just saying what he thinks we want to hear.’
Just then a uniform appeared around the corner of the door. It was Pooley, lo
oking even paler than usual.
‘Yes, son, what is it?’
‘Mr Mullett would like everybody in the briefing room. It’s urgent.’
‘Urgent? Of course it is. Any more details than that?’ Frost sighed, blowing out a match in a cloud of smoke.
‘The super found something nasty on the golf course.’ The thin constable grinned.
‘Did he, indeed? Underclasses invading the fairway, are they?’ Frost quipped. ‘Get a WPC stationed in here. I don’t want this lad going anywhere.’
Wednesday (2)
DC SUE CLARKE waited for the chatter in the briefing room to die down and the remaining officers to be seated. Having taken the Missing Person call yesterday, she now found herself centre stage, with a visibly shaken Superintendent Mullett to her left. He looked all the more out of place, dressed as he still was in his golfing outfit.
The station was buzzing over the discovery. For 11 a.m. on a midweek morning, there seemed to be an awful lot of uniform present and few CID. Simms and Waters were out on a robbery call, a smash and grab at Sparklers, the jeweller’s on Merchant Street.
Clarke took a deep breath before addressing the room. ‘We believe the boy is Tom Hardy. His mother filed a Missing Person report on Tuesday morning.’ She pointed to a school photograph. ‘His parents have been notified, and I’ll be on my way to collect them for formal identification, as soon as we’re finished here.’ She paused. ‘Angela Hardy, the mother, last saw her son alive on Friday morning.’
Clarke kept her attention on her colleagues as PC Jordan pinned the scene-of-crime photos to the incident board. Gasps of horror filled the room.
‘Why wait until Tuesday, for heaven’s sake?’ Mullett enquired of Clarke, pulling tensely at his moustache.
‘They’d been away for a long weekend,’ Clarke replied. ‘They got back Monday night, and didn’t think anything of it until Tuesday.’
‘What sort of person would do this?’ Mullett thundered. Clarke almost felt he was angry at her for taking the call yesterday, as though this outcome could have been foreseen at that stage. She saw him wince at the sight of the grisly photographs pinned to the board. ‘This is most extraordinary …’