Fatal Frost

by Henry James

  ‘We know that the boy has been dead since the weekend. The SOCOs put the likely time of death as Saturday, or possibly earlier,’ she continued. ‘We also know that the boy was not killed on the green – this is clear from the lack of blood on the ground. And though dead for several days, the body was not placed on the green until possibly as recently as last night – this would explain why the groundsman only discovered it this morning …’

  ‘How do we know that?’ a uniform at the back asked.

  ‘The grass underneath the body had not discoloured due to lack of sunlight,’ Clarke replied.

  Frost moved forward to take a closer look. ‘The killer’s method itself is clearly significant,’ he suggested.

  ‘Of course it’s significant!’ Mullett snapped. ‘Somebody has certainly gone to a great deal of trouble to carry out this act. It’s not every day you come across a body ripped apart from head to foot, I can tell you. I don’t want this getting out until we have some idea of what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Desk Sergeant Bill Wells timidly. ‘Sandy Lane has already been on the blower.’

  ‘Well, don’t say anything more,’ barked Mullett, sucking in his cheeks. Clarke could see he had to maintain authority, given his personal involvement.

  Frost shrugged and said, ‘I bet one of your golfing chums has already spilled the beans.’

  ‘Nevertheless, let’s manage the situation carefully. We can’t disguise the brutality of the crime, but we can cloak the details of when we suspect the murder took place. That will not have got out, and at least gives us something to deflect any lunatics claiming responsibility.’

  Clarke stepped to one side. Now that Mullett was in full flow and the usual battle of wills between himself and Frost had started, she felt surplus to requirements. She predicted that as usual the briefing would descend into a string of recriminations.

  ‘I want this case to be given top priority,’ insisted Mullett.

  ‘Along with everything else,’ Frost retorted.

  ‘But by your own admission, you’re solving cases by the minute. The Ellis case, for instance. You said you had a suspect.’

  ‘That avenue of enquiry could prove to be a dead end.’

  ‘Yesterday, you were confident of a breakthrough. My fault for listening to you, I suppose. I should have known better than to believe a case might actually be resolved, especially so soon.’

  Frost chose to ignore him. ‘DC Clarke, you say it’s possible the boy has been dead since Saturday? Samantha Ellis may have committed suicide on Saturday night.’

  ‘Oh come, come,’ Mullett sighed. ‘You really are fumbling around in the dark. The girl kills the lad, in an exceptionally brutal fashion, and then throws herself off a train that evening in a fit of remorse? Even for you that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Similar age,’ Frost said. ‘It’s possible they knew each other.’

  ‘Knowing someone doesn’t necessarily mean …’ Clarke began, her sentence trailing off after a withering look from Frost.

  ‘They attended the same school, Denton Comp,’ someone from uniform chipped in. ‘Maybe they were even in the same year?’

  ‘Check it out,’ Mullett said to Clarke, ushering her to sit down. She imagined he was keen to regain control over Frost in front of such a large contingent of uniform. ‘Right, Frost, while we’re at it, following on from your dead end on the Ellis girl, what else have you got to report? Presumably there were other people on the train on Saturday night?’

  ‘Two teenage girls. They caught a taxi to Two Bridges. Jolly hockey sticks, and all that. Both are pupils at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Tom Hardy’s sister Emily is at St Mary’s,’ Clarke said to herself as much as to anyone else, recalling the conversation yesterday with the boy’s mother.

  ‘Well, get on to it,’ said Mullett. He turned back to Frost. ‘Have you let your suspect go, now that he appears not to be a suspect?’

  ‘Not sure he has anywhere to go.’ Frost frowned. ‘His uncle’s probably disowned him, and the dry cleaner’s where he lives has just gone bust.’

  ‘He’s related to those chaps, is he?’ Mullett mused. ‘I think I might have a word with him myself, then.’

  Frost returned to his office and shut the door behind him. He needed a moment to take stock of the situation. He lit a cigarette and sat down behind the desk, fingers rubbing his temples. Where the hell was Mary? Could he put out an APB on his own wife? He could try calling her mother. Yes, he would call his mother-in-law, just as soon as he’d got to grips with what was on his desk.

  DI Allen was away until the following Monday. Mullett had saddled him and Webster with the task of computerizing CID records, hence Allen’s crash course. Huh, computers, I’d like to see them tackle this mess, Frost thought. For once he was not remotely envious of Allen, though his lengthy non-appearance had effectively left the bulk of the CID casework for Frost to juggle alone.

  Simms was fielding the burglaries, plus this new raid on the jeweller’s. There was also the corner-shop armed robbery on the Southern Housing Estate. Frost had a hunch it was kids acting up – possibly the same bunch that had attacked Clarke and Myles.

  Clarke would field the Tom Hardy case; she’d taken the original call. Myles would be her partner. They were on their way now to the parents, a task that Frost didn’t envy. Clarke, he knew, was hardly on top form. Partly it was his fault – she probably wasn’t too happy that he’d failed to turn up at her place last night – and partly it was due to the assault, which, although leaving only a superficial wound, had shaken her up. Frost realized that Mullett had ceased to mention it. Tom Hardy’s sliced-open body on the ninth hole had eclipsed all concern about a minor injury sustained by a woman officer in a car park.

  Mullett was still muttering about gypsies though, by all accounts. Frost didn’t buy it; he couldn’t see them going on a killing spree the same weekend they turned up.

  Then, of course, there was the Ellis case, his alone, which as of this morning was going nowhere fast. Finally there was Baskin and the sauna. This would have to slide for the minute; after all, he’d spent the best part of last night in the car, fruitlessly watching the flaming place (though admittedly he had dozed off at some point …). Surely even Mullett would let him off that, given there were two dead bodies on the slab.

  The phone went and Frost irritably fished it out from beneath a mound of paperwork. It was Drysdale.

  ‘Morning, Doc. I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘Frost. Two things. Firstly, the girl, Samantha Ellis. The fifteen-year-old.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘She was pregnant.’

  Frost watched a fly make its way round the rim of a Coke can. ‘I see. How far gone?’

  ‘Not long – twelve weeks.’

  It was still another life, Frost thought. ‘Thanks for that, Doc. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. It’s regarding the boy they’ve just brought in, Tom Hardy. You’d better come down here and take a look.’

  ‘I’m a bit pushed for time at the moment. Can’t you tell me now, over the phone? The suspense is killing me.’

  ‘I really think it best if you come down and see for yourself. DC Clarke is on her way with the parents, and I’d prefer they didn’t see what I have to show you, so this afternoon? Only if it’s convenient.’

  ‘Of course, Doc.’ He saw the fly enter the Coke can and dropped his cigarette-end in after it, giving it a good shake.

  ‘Jolly good. Oh, and Frost …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you give DC Simms the cat back? Your desk sergeant has been pestering me for its return. The owner’s keen to give it a proper burial.’

  Frost blinked and bit his lip as realization dawned; he’d been wondering what that pong was in the motor. He looked up to see the aforementioned Simms in the doorway, gesticulating for him to come through.

  ‘Yes, Doc.’ Frost hung up and scratched his head anxiously. The week was tur
ning chaotic, and he was starting to feel the squeeze. He missed DC Hanlon. Waters could prove to be an asset but he didn’t know Denton, and there wasn’t time to give him a proper guided tour; Frost needed people thinking on their feet. He should have encouraged Hanlon to come back sooner. Sad though the demise of Mother Hanlon was, an entire week off work was pushing it. He drained his coffee and went to see Simms next door, taking his pocket diary with him.

  ‘What you got?’ he asked.

  ‘Details on the smash and grab.’ Simms’s feet were up on a desk and he was smoking lethargically. Waters was sipping a coffee, propped up against the filing cabinet next to the fan, which whirred away softly. Frost raised his eyebrows on seeing his Hawaiian shirt.

  Simms took another drag and exhaled. ‘It happened first thing this morning, as the store was about to open. Quite clever, actually; kid comes off his BMX right under the feller’s nose as he’s laying out the gems in the window. Rides straight into a lamp post. He’s on the ground not moving, so the bloke charges out, thinking he’s badly hurt, bends over to check – and the next thing he knows, there’s a knife at his neck and two kids are cleaning out his window.’

  ‘Did he get a butcher’s at the kid’s face?’ Frost asked.

  ‘No, not a peep. He was in a tracksuit top with a hood, lying face down. The guy reaches down and touches him on the shoulder, and when the kid springs up he sees he’s wearing a balaclava.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘Nothing. An empty side street, the bloke pushed into a shop doorway, the whole thing’s over in seconds. Nobody saw a thing.’

  Frost paced the length of the grimy CID office. He snatched Waters’ coffee and took a huge gulp, nodded in appreciation and lit himself a Rothmans.

  ‘Right, here’s what we do. Simms, get back to the newsagent’s, grill the man again about the robbery there – they were wearing balaclavas too, right? And go over Clarke’s attack with her once more. These three have got to be linked. Now, where are you up to with the girls from the train?’ He looked at the pair expectantly.

  ‘We’ve talked to one yesterday, Burleigh. Ferguson, the other one, we still need to speak to,’ said Waters. ‘According to her mother, she’s in all day today; exam study leave, or something.’

  ‘OK. Well, you and me, Waters, we’ll head out to Two Bridges. Nice morning for a run out to the country.’

  ‘What about Tom Hardy?’ Simms asked.

  ‘Myles and Clarke are escorting the parents to the mortuary now, then will check in with uniform, who are combing the surrounding area where the body was found – Denton Woods principally. Drysdale just called; for some reason it’s imperative we see the body, so Waters and I will take a dekko after the parents have said their goodbyes – and after we’ve seen Ferguson.’ Frost scratched his brow. ‘It’s all getting hectic, I know. We’ll regroup here later today.’

  The two detectives nodded in agreement.

  ‘OK. Let’s get out of here before Hornrim Harry appears, full of bright ideas, as per usual.’

  Frost picked up his diary lying open on a desk, on the page bearing his mother-in-law’s phone number, and slipped it into his back pocket.

  ‘She’ll have to wait,’ he said to himself, shaking his head as he stubbed out his cigarette.

  It was around midday when Waters and Frost pulled up at the well-heeled Ferguson residence. Sarah Ferguson seemed fidgety. Waters felt sure something was up. When he and Simms had phoned from the pub last night to apologize to the Fergusons for not calling round, they’d spoken to Sarah’s mother, who had talked of being concerned about her eldest daughter. Whether the girl was edgy because she was nervous in dealing with the police – natural enough for a girl of her age – or whether she feared what her mother might have told them, he wasn’t yet sure.

  ‘So, when we spoke to your mother last night she intimated you may know, sorry, may have known, Samantha Ellis. Is that right?’ he asked the girl, as they sat at the counter of a slick modern kitchen with designer lights.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She chewed on her nails as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. She was lying.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t think so? Either you did or you didn’t,’ Frost insisted, rummaging for his notepad. ‘She said it was through some out-of-school activity. What would that be … hockey?’

  ‘I dare say I may have played against her, if she played for her school,’ Sarah Ferguson replied. The girl was attractive, like her friend Gail, but troubled by acne that no amount of foundation could hide.

  ‘Your mother was familiar with the name, which suggests to me something more than that,’ continued Waters.

  ‘It’s just a name to her – you could have said Sally James, and Mum would agree she was in my biology class.’

  ‘Listen, love,’ said Frost. ‘We’re not suggesting you pushed her off the train, for heaven’s sake, we just want to know the facts. It may seem like nothing to you, but something you know or saw could make all the difference to us. We need to establish whether you knew who she was; if you didn’t, then she could have been sitting next to you and you’d have been none the wiser. See what I mean?’

  Waters sat poised, notebook at the ready.

  The girl nodded.

  ‘So, did you know her or not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Gail Burleigh?’

  ‘I was with Gail all day Saturday.’

  ‘No, I mean, would Gail have known Samantha Ellis?’

  ‘How would I know?’ she suddenly snapped. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Returning to Saturday night,’ Frost said wearily, ‘whereabouts did you sit? Which carriage on the train?’

  ‘Can’t remember, sorry. Somewhere in the middle?’

  ‘How many people were in your carriage?’

  ‘Can’t remember, really. It wasn’t packed.’

  ‘Your memory seems a little hazy.’

  The girl ran her hands through her hair and eventually said in a whisper, ‘We’d been drinking.’

  ‘Really? What?’

  ‘Cinzano. We met these lads at the concert. They bought us a bottle.’

  ‘Cinzano?’

  ‘Yeah. The stuff Joan Collins has chucked over her on the telly.’

  ‘Of course. Well, if you do remember anything, give me a call on this number.’ Frost handed over a business card. ‘We’ll leave you in peace, then. Exams to revise for?’

  ‘They’re not until June,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ said Waters, noticing a sly sparkle in the girl’s green eyes.

  ‘She’s lying,’ Waters said as he opened the door of the Vauxhall.

  ‘Maybe,’ Frost replied, pulling out his Polaroids. ‘Going to be another scorcher, I bet.’

  He was, to Waters’ mind, dressed peculiarly, his shirt made of some sort of cheesecloth. Strangely, Waters had found working with Simms easier. Frost’s ‘forced chaperon detail’ was a distraction. He liked him, but because he liked him he couldn’t focus on the case.

  ‘Now, what would a fifteen-year-old girl with her whole life in front of her have to lie about?’ Frost asked as they pulled away.

  Waters shrugged. ‘I dunno, just a hunch.’

  ‘Hunches don’t go down too well at Eagle Lane.’

  The Londoner waited, but the older man didn’t elaborate; he was too busy fumbling for matches.

  ‘All this,’ Waters said, gesturing at the sumptuous period homes as he turned the car on to the main road, ‘it’s sort of not real.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Frost asked, winding down the window. ‘It looks real enough to me. Those motors on the driveways are certainly real.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong.’ Waters looked across to Frost. ‘I know this is your manor. I’ve been here, what, a couple of days, and the people in Denton seem pretty normal, but in this place …’

  ‘Two Bridges?’

  ‘Yeah, and the one I went to first, where the rich guys got robbed – Hartley somebo
dy or other. They all just seem so weird. It’s like they’re detached from reality. And the parents seem to have no idea what’s going on with any of their kids.’

  ‘Not sure I’m with you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m explaining it too well, but there just seems to be some sort of disconnect between the adults and their kids.’

  ‘Come on, you’ve only spoken to a couple of people. Bit of a rash judgement, don’t you think?’

  ‘I dunno, there’s this atmosphere of … coldness. It’s not what I’m used to.’

  ‘I’m guessing there’s not the same high density of mock Tudor beams and long drives in Bethnal Green?’

  ‘There certainly ain’t! No room to swing a cat in most of the houses, not to mention the high rises down near Columbia Road.’ Waters paused. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No way, son, but you seem to be saying it’s down to the money. Whoa there, you want to swing a left,’ Frost said suddenly, ‘for our appointment with Dr Death.’

  Clarke and Myles pulled into the car park of the Bird in Hand. After breaking the news to Tom Hardy’s parents they needed to take the edge off. Telling anyone about a death was bad enough; informing parents of the death of a child – let alone one ripped apart like this one – was the worst. Thank God Drysdale had been careful to conceal from the parents the full extent of the boy’s wounds. Clarke had noticed how Frost loathed these IDs and tried to wriggle out of them whenever possible, although it was fair enough this time. It wasn’t his call.

  ‘Two Bloody Marys, please, landlord,’ Myles ordered.

  The Bird in Hand, off the Rimmington Road, was a cavernous place Clarke had only been to once. Originally a coaching inn, it was now used mainly by farmhands. By the look of them, one or two had been in here since last night. Clarke rubbed her leg, which seemed to stiffen every time she got out of the car.

  They took their drinks to a nook beside a bank of mute flashing fruit machines.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to do that every day.’ Myles grimaced, pulling her blonde hair out of its ponytail and running her fingers through it.