by Henry James
‘Maybe it’s best you remain in the field for now,’ Mullett conceded, but waving a manicured finger he added, ‘Think on, though – for the future.’
‘If that’s all, sir, I must dash, if I may. Need the loo.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mullett waved him off dismissively. On second thoughts, it would clearly be unwise to unleash Frost on the press. He’d only say something uncouth, or at best incomprehensible. He, Superintendent Mullett, was the one most suited to dealing with the media. He should stop feeling so uncomfortable about this case. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d murdered the boy himself.
Chris Everett had slept like a baby on Tuesday night, and this afternoon he felt he could take on the world. He’d covered his tracks so well that Fiona had not suspected a thing. The unfortunate sweep had conveniently laid out his own shroud, making it easy for Everett to bundle the body swiftly into the back of his own van before Fiona and kids made it back from ballet. He’d backed the MG out of the garage and just about squeezed the van in its place.
Originally he had intended to get shot of the van and body at dawn, but had surprised himself by oversleeping. This presented him with a problem, as the longer the van stayed in the garage, the more likely Fiona was to stumble upon it. Nevertheless, he kept calm. He’d taken the kids to school and then dropped her off for a coffee morning, after which she had a hair appointment. He had time. He’d left the Regal office on the pretext of a valuation and had come home to dispose of the evidence. He would, of course, have preferred not to do it in daylight as witnesses could be a risk, but fortunately the well-to-do neighbours were all out at work, the women included; Fiona was the only idler. So he figured he was safe there. The big question was, where? The woods? Too exposed in the daytime, and how would he get back? Come to think of it, how would he get back from anywhere? Sipping his coffee, he looked out of the window at the darkening sky. The weather was about to break in a major way. What he needed was somehow to lose himself in a crowd …
Frost hurried out, heading for the Gents. Mullett must think I was born yesterday, he thought; mind you, I don’t blame him – facing the press will be pretty gruelling after such a discovery. Frost rubbed his hands gleefully, imagining Sandy Lane’s probing questions: And what exactly was the superintendent of Denton Police doing on a golf course first thing in the morning in the middle of the week when there’s a host of unsolved crimes?
His thoughts were interrupted by Waters, walking briskly behind him. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I needed a wee – what’s to get?’ Frost said, agitated.
‘No – all the stuff about remains? We’ve just come from the lab …’
‘I had to say something, didn’t I – otherwise he’d have had me in front of the cameras, and we don’t want that, do we?’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘No, indeed. And by the way, we need to let Mark Fong go; no need for Myles to check his records. Lad claimed he was born at Denton General, which I very much doubt. You can sign the release.’
‘Shall I run some stuff through the Police National Computer?’ Waters said. ‘Check him out?’
Frost grimaced. ‘Computer checks? On the what? Don’t start using that sort of language with me!’ He paused. ‘It’s like you’ve caught Mullett’s progress bug just by being in his lair. No, just let the boy go.’
‘Without checking any ID?’
‘Doubt he’s got any. Here illegally, I expect. Life’s grim enough for him without us making it any tougher. Harry Baskin probably keeps him locked in a cellar with a bunch of false promises for company … Anyway, must dash.’
‘Where?’
‘For a wee. I told you!’ Frost dived into the Gents, but poked his head back out of the door with an afterthought. ‘When you’ve let Fong go, give young Derek Simms a hand, and I’ll be back to hold yours as per the super’s instructions in an hour or so – all right?’ And then he was gone.
Bill Wells sidled up to Frost in the urinal stalls.
‘Afternoon, Jack.’
‘Bill.’
‘What gives?’
‘Mr Mullett has come over all camera-shy’ – Frost coughed – ‘about a press conference for the murdered boy.’
‘Not like him.’
‘Not like him at all,’ agreed Frost. ‘Reckons he doesn’t want all the limelight.’
Bill Wells shook himself, musing, ‘Maybe he’s feeling a bit off colour?’
‘He was born off colour. Righto, I’ll be off, then. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’
‘Who would anyone be, Jack?’ Wells asked, washing his hands.
‘Anyone. DC Clarke for one, and Hornrim Harry for another.’
‘Right you are, mate. And should it matter you’ll be …?’
‘Seeking a bit of help from the Almighty,’ Frost said, which was half true. He checked himself in the mirror – something he seldom did – and flattened his sandy-brown hair. The mother-in-law had a dim view of him at the best of times; he may as well look presentable.
Waters was bemused by the set-up at Eagle Lane. Superintendent Mullett and DS Jack Frost did not strike him as an ideal pairing, though he assumed they must work things through, or they’d presumably already have parted company. Mullett, he knew, was relatively new to Denton and had inherited the likes of Frost, but as Divisional Superintendent he wielded a great deal of power. Though Waters was unfamiliar with County politics, it appeared that Assistant Chief Constable Winslow left Denton to manage itself.
He wondered what a stickler like Mullett would think of Frost’s nonchalance about Fong. Admittedly the Met’s approach to illegal immigrants was flexible; it depended on the individual’s value as, say, a key to the criminal underworld, and was tempered by the prevailing political climate. Frost, on the other hand, genuinely seemed to have the boy’s interests at heart. Or perhaps he couldn’t face the paperwork; judging from the state of his office, that could well be the case.
Waters signed the release for Fong and headed for the lobby.
‘Sergeant Wells,’ he addressed the likeable desk sergeant, ‘I need to get hold of Simms – could you patch him through for me, please?’
‘One second. I’ll see if Control can locate him.’
Waters thanked him. He leaned back against the front desk and took in the lobby decor for the first time. The walls were magnolia, and the highly polished floor was flanked with a variety of house plants. If it wasn’t for the noticeboard, it could well have been the foyer of a rest home.
‘Simms is en route to Milk Street to interview the Asian newsagent.’
‘Still? He left ages ago. No matter … I may as well wait for my chaperon to reappear. Any idea where he’s gone? Left without a word.’
‘Jack? He’s gone to church for an hour or so.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Waters made for the door, thinking that he may as well get some air. ‘He certainly struck me as the religious type.’
‘Oh, Sergeant!’ Wells called out. ‘I almost forgot. A young lady left this for you.’ He passed him a small blue envelope.
Wednesday (4)
DEREK SIMMS SAT inside the unmarked Cortina, waiting for the deluge to relent before he made a dash for the newsagent’s over the road. His senses heightened by a frisky half-hour with Lisa Smith – Mullett had no idea what was under his very nose – he played the cassette from Samantha Ellis’s Walkman one more time, but the hammering of the rain on the roof of the car made it practically impossible to hear. In any case, it seemed to be nothing but gibberish; was it singing? He ejected it and studied it – a standard Maxwell C90. Ordinary enough. There was no indication of what was on it. He tried the other side. Pop music blared out and he hastily turned the volume down. The song was ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ by that talentless Irish band. It had come out a couple of years ago, and he remembered a fuss because some kid in the States had topped themselves, allegedly because of the song. Not surprising, it sounded awful; the bloke coul
dn’t sing for toffee. Perhaps Samantha Ellis felt she’d had enough of him as well? He’d mention it to Frost. But if the song played OK it must mean the cassette wasn’t faulty, so someone must be able to decipher the nonsense on the other side.
He ejected it and slipped it back inside the girl’s bag lying on the passenger seat, next to the Walkman and the paperback.
The rain wasn’t going to ease up; he’d have to make a dash for it. Curse this bloody newsagent! Why should he care about a poxy paper shop anyway? Nearly running that paperboy over this morning had clearly been a bad omen.
He was suddenly struck by a thought. The boys who had robbed the jeweller’s were on BMXs too – perhaps a paperboy, or boys, were responsible? According to the owner they were wearing hooded tops, much like the lad this morning. It couldn’t have been the same one doing the robbery of course, the timing was out. But perhaps there was a gang of them? Maybe some of them worked for this character, Mr Singh, or used to; maybe he’d upset one or two of them and they’d decided to rob him in revenge, and then perhaps got a taste for it?
He decided there and then that he and Waters should take it upon themselves to tour the local newsagents and enquire after disgruntled ex-employees. And Singh’s was the perfect place to start, given that he’d been held up himself. He reached over for his leather jacket and opened the car door.
Frost pulled the long chain on the vicarage bell. A dog yapped in response. It was a while since he’d been out here. He mulled over when the last time might have been. Bert Williams’s funeral perhaps, last October? Father Lowe was a good man. He’d been in Denton donkey’s years. Married him and Mary, way back when.
‘William?’ The octogenarian man of the cloth appeared in the doorway. ‘Come in, quickly, out of the rain.’
‘Afternoon, Father.’ Frost nodded, wincing at the use of his Christian name. ‘Might I have a word?’
The reverend stepped back, allowing Frost into the musty cottage that smelt of dogs and old books. ‘Tea, perhaps?’
‘I don’t think I’ll be troubling you that long, Father Lowe,’ Frost said, perching on the chintz sofa. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the background. It could be 1882 and nobody’d tell the difference, Frost thought.
‘Always in a hurry, William. Now the church roof …’ The old man smiled kindly in the stern way old people did, betraying their anxiety.
‘Ah yes. The roof.’ Frost forced a smile in response. ‘All sorted. We have the naughty man already.’
‘I don’t care about the rascal who did it. The bloody roof is leaking.’ He reached for a pack of Woodbines on a small pile of books, itself precariously balanced on a small round wooden table. ‘A rain shower at a funeral often helps to add to the solemnity of the occasion’ – Lowe puffed whimsically on the cigarette – ‘however, the bereaved expect the experience at the graveside, as their beloved is lowered into the ground … not in the actual church, hammering down nineteen to the dozen on the bloody casket.’
‘Yes, Reverend, I agree. Most … disturbing.’ Frost had forgotten how spirited the old fellow was. ‘But we’re on it, and the felon who nicked your lead will be putting it back.’
‘Will he?’ Lowe’s grey brow concertinaed. ‘I do hope so. These carryings-on in the South Atlantic have boosted the congregation numbers. The Church should be a place of comfort …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Frost sighed. ‘A good war does seem to boost the Lord’s takings.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Father Lowe countered, ‘we can’t have it raining on holy communion.’
‘Quite,’ Frost said. ‘Now, important as the church roof is, that’s not what brings me here. I need to talk to you about another matter. Do you remember a couple of years back, there was … graffiti in the churchyard?’
‘Desecration,’ Lowe said gravely.
‘Desecration, that’s what I mean,’ Frost said, apologetically. ‘It turned out to be an escaped patient from the loony bin outside Rimmington, but before he was caught, you mentioned something to me about occult happenings in Denton …’
‘I remember – yes.’ Lowe scratched his silver head thoughtfully. ‘Years and years ago, in the early sixties. Why do you ask?’
‘There’s been a brutal murder. A young lad ripped open, organs removed. Very nasty business. We’re working on the theory that there could be an occult connection. The manner in which the body was found …’
But the Father waved him quiet before he could continue. ‘No, no, that was just a bunch of silly schoolgirls playing pranks. Teenagers pretending to be witches, that sort of thing. Hardly heretical. Nothing of this nature. How awful. I heard it reported on the wireless. What is the world coming to?’ Father Lowe shook his head woefully, stood up and reached for the sherry decanter. ‘What does Mary have to say about it?’
Frost took the proffered schooner, full to the brim. ‘Mary? My wife? What do you mean?’
‘Yes, your wife, Mary, she was one of the girls involved – before you arrived on the scene, I would hazard.’ Lowe moved a small dog that Frost hadn’t noticed off a deep-green armchair, sinking into it. ‘She would have been only fifteen or sixteen at the time.’
‘Well, that accounts for a lot. Perhaps she cast a spell on me to get me up the aisle,’ Frost said to himself, plonking himself down into the other free armchair. ‘No, Father, she’s never mentioned it. What happened?’
‘As I said, not much. A concerned mother – one of my parishioners – discovered her daughter trying to tattoo herself with a pair of compasses and a bottle of Quink.’
‘Painful.’
‘Yes. Seems it was some sort of pagan symbol. She dragged the child to the hospital, brand-new as it was then, fearing blood poisoning. The sight of the star on her wrist sparked gossip that she was a witch. Of course, people wouldn’t bat an eyelid today, but back then Denton was different from how it is now … people were very superstitious.’
Frost got out his notebook. ‘I don’t suppose you remember her name?’
‘It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.’ Lowe shook his head solemnly.
‘What, you mean … Did the blood poisoning get her?’ Frost reached for the decanter and topped them both up.
‘Hanged herself in Denton Woods. Couldn’t handle the stigma. Her parents weren’t much help.’ He got up and downed the refill. ‘Young girls are difficult to deal with at that age. Hormones all over the place, I gather …’
‘I’ll bear that in mind next time I ask one if she’s a witch. Anyway, in my experience, they don’t get any easier as they get older.’ Frost allowed a silence to envelop them, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. He thought again about what Lowe had just told him. It was puzzling. ‘Surely a tattoo is just a tattoo – no matter what it represents. And to hang oneself? Did she have a troubled background?’
Lowe scratched his head. ‘The girl was a pupil at St Mary’s, which was strict in those days, and she’d already been caught up in some to-do at the school involving local boys. There were rumours that the girls involved had formed, for want of a better word, a coven, to exact revenge for the punishment they received. Seemed a bit far-fetched to me. As I say, talk to Mary.’
‘I will, Father.’
‘What was it called?’ Father Lowe muttered to himself.
‘I’m sorry, Father?’
‘It had a name … this coven,’ he said abstractedly. ‘There was some connection to St Jude’s …’
‘What, here? The church?’
‘My memory’s not what it was, I’m afraid. Talk to Mary,’ he repeated.
Eventually Father Lowe rose from his chair. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have evensong to prepare for.’
‘Of course. Thank you for your time.’ Frost almost reached over to help the old man up, so weak did he seem. ‘It may not be schoolgirls I’m after, but as you say, people were much more superstitious once, and we’re only talking twenty years ago – hardly the Middle Ages. You’ve been a big he
lp, Father, thank you. I know this isn’t really your field …’
Father Lowe moved to the bookcase and scanned the crowded shelves until he found what he was after. ‘Here,’ he said, passing Frost a shabby hardback.
‘A Brief History of the Pagan Calendar by Professor Leo Hollis. Unusual choice of book for a man in your position to have on his shelves.’ Frost blew the dust off the slender volume. ‘Do you keep it to swot up occasionally? Know thine enemy, that sort of thing?’
‘Nothing so mysterious, or exciting,’ Lowe said. ‘Leo was a theology student at Cambridge with me.’
‘Thanks. Mind if I take a look?’
‘Not at all – keep it. Hope it’s of some use – or perhaps not. Let’s pray you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Quite.’
Frost made his way down the hallway and shivered involuntarily. Something about the vicarage unsettled him. It was the place itself, as opposed to the good Father, who was a kind, trustworthy man. Lowe opened the door. The small dog fussed around his feet like a hairy rat. Frost held out his hand and Lowe took it firmly in both of his, saying, ‘Look after Mary, William.’ His pale-grey eyes let on more than was said. Frost nodded, shook hands and made his way down the rambling garden path, wondering what on earth his wife had been up to twenty years ago.
* * *
‘Where are Myles and Clarke, for goodness’ sake?’ Mullett demanded.
‘You’re not the only one wanting to know that,’ Bill Wells replied.
A camera crew struggled through the door en route to the Incident Room.
‘Outside!’ Mullett barked. ‘The press conference will be held outside, in front of the station.’ He followed up with an ingratiating smile. ‘If you please.’
He turned angrily to Wells. ‘I distinctly told that buffoon Pooley to keep them outside the building. There’s a big enough mess as it is in here without that media rabble trampling about. It’s only a drop of rain, not a plague of locusts.’
Mullett straightened his tie. Wells knew that for all the super’s whingeing he loved the camera. And regardless of what Frost had said, Mullett could never pass up an opportunity to appear on the box, even where events as delicate as these were involved. The conference was at four o’clock; in ten minutes’ time.