Fatal Frost

by Henry James

  ‘Wells, Wells! Wake up.’ Mullett was slapping his uniform cap restlessly against his thigh. ‘Who else wants Clarke and Myles?’

  ‘Tom Hardy’s parents.’

  ‘But they were with the parents this morning. Clarke said …’

  ‘Yes, sir, but the daughter, Tom’s sister, has disappeared now.’

  ‘Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared? You’re telling me this five minutes before I go on air to report on her dead brother?’

  ‘“Disappeared” might be the wrong word. When the area car took Mrs Hardy to the school, to collect the girl at lunchtime …’

  ‘At lunchtime! It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘If you’ll let me finish, sir,’ Wells said forcefully, struggling not to be distracted by the hubbub of press swirling around. The hapless Pooley had appeared and was attempting to direct them. ‘They assumed she must have gone to a hockey match in Rimmington, so they sat it out at St Mary’s rather than cause a scene.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She wasn’t on the bus when it got back to the school.’

  ‘I see. So, if “disappeared” is the wrong word, what would you say instead?’

  ‘They thought she might be—’

  ‘Superintendent, sir?’ Pooley interrupted, clutching an umbrella. ‘Might we line you up? The press are waiting.’

  ‘I’ll deal with you later, Wells.’ Mullett glared at him before storming off, flinging on his cap as he reached the revolving door.

  As the room cleared, Wells considered the theories of the missing girl’s whereabouts. She might be with friends, or revising for exams perhaps? That was what the school had said.

  Though, on reflection, Wells very much doubted it.

  Chris Everett had waited until early evening and for the downpour to abate before leaving the house again. He’d called his Hatton Garden contact, who’d agreed to meet him in London at eight. Fiona thought he was seeing Julian, an old schoolfriend now living on the South Coast, London being a midway point between them. After meeting Ahmed, he’d sit it out in some dismal pub near Edgware Road for an appropriate length of time before skulking off home half cut to create the pretence of having had a great time.

  Yes, the rain was abating. He smiled to himself; a little over an hour ago, Everett had brazenly driven both van and sweep into Denton town centre. His own daring thrilled him – moving a corpse in broad daylight, in the corpse’s own van – but what better cover than a deluge of biblical proportions?

  The deceased’s disappearance, whether it had yet been reported, was unlikely to grab much attention, as it would simply be eclipsed by the mutilated teenager found on the golf course. Everett had caught the evening news before he departed for London. A pompous policeman, cowering beneath an umbrella, had given a garbled statement regarding the unfortunate boy, who in his words had been ‘brutally eviscerated’. Apparently this senior policeman discovered the body himself.

  He hurried down Primrose Drive and on to Rose Avenue. Dusk was still some way off but the street lights were beginning to flicker pink. Dark, ominous thunderclouds continued to clog the sky, giving the impression it was later than it was; it had only just gone six thirty. He clutched the briefcase nervously. He’d get a cab from Market Square.

  Everett recapped the last twenty-four hours as he made his way along the pavement. The sweep’s death was unfortunate, and a far cry from the original rules he’d set himself three years ago when he’d first embarked on his house-breaking career. Yes, murder was in a different league, but it prevented the boredom setting in, and boredom was the biggest crime of all. Absorbed in his reverie of self-admiration, Everett failed to see the bunch of hostile-looking teenagers lurking against a large, overgrown privet hedge, until one stepped into his path.

  ‘Gi’s yer case, mate.’ The boy’s voice was hoarse – on the cusp of breaking – and urgent. His features were obscured by a tracksuit hood.

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. Out of my way, you little tyke.’ Everett made to move but another figure stepped out to block him. As Everett swung the case at the second child’s head he felt a searing jab in his lower back. In shock he released his grip.

  The next thing he knew he was sprawled on the pavement, his case gone and his nostrils filled with dirt. He’d been stabbed, of that much he was certain. He tentatively reached behind him, feeling the dampness of blood through the pinstripe; it wasn’t deep, more of a sting. Suddenly he felt something wet tentatively sniffing at his cheek; he jerked, sending excruciating pain through his body.

  ‘Gripper, no! Jesus Christ! No!’ was the last thing he heard before the dog urinated in his ear. God, he’d prefer to be hanged than suffer this ignominy! He staggered to his feet and booted the puny Jack Russell into the shrubbery. Things had gone badly wrong, but he was damned if he’d hang around to …

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ Across the road was a lean young man in jeans and leather jacket. His appearance suggested someone low on the social scale – a window cleaner, perhaps – but the manner of his address and his bearing set alarm bells off in Everett’s muddled brain. ‘Are you all right?’

  After his interesting discussion with Father Lowe, Frost decided he wanted to check with Records and see if he could pull out anything on the sixties witchcraft incident, before visiting his mother-in-law. If Mary was there, depending on how things went, he could ask her what she recalled of the events herself. He would play that one by ear, though. To be honest, he’d be lucky if that viper of a mother-in-law let him across the threshold.

  Good timing, Frost thought, as he crossed the car park and saw the BBC van pulling out, I’ve missed the media circus and the super’s TV appearance.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello,’ he said, running into four uniform loitering in the station reception area. ‘Autograph hunters from across the county, hoping for a glimpse of the famed TV superintendent?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ one of them replied.

  ‘So what’s going on then, Bill?’ he said as the young officers made way to allow him through to the front desk.

  ‘Ah, Jack, a bit of a to-do.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – the super went on camera with his flies open?’ Frost grinned.

  ‘Not likely. No, it’s serious. Tom Hardy’s sister has gone missing.’

  ‘You’re kidding? Damn.’ Frost’s face fell. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Nothing. Mullett has just briefed uniform here.’ Wells indicated the officers, now leaving the building. ‘To cap it all, though, after escorting the Hardys to identify their son’s body, Clarke and Myles went to the boozer and had one too many, so when news came in about the sister they were nowhere to be found. Well, you can imagine the super’s reaction.’

  ‘Flamin’ hell, I can at that. He’ll be having kittens.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. They’re both in there now.’

  ‘This is not acceptable. Two women police officers,’ Mullett said, emphasizing the word that he clearly felt to be the most important in that sentence.

  DCs Clarke and Myles stood stiffly to attention as Superintendent Mullett then let fly.

  Clarke felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. She drew it in and bit down hard; she was going to hold it together even if it killed her. To rein in her emotions she focused on her dislike of the superintendent, and when that wore off, she thought about the lad she’d met in the pub with whom she’d exchanged phone numbers.

  ‘I will not have drunks on my force. Do I make myself clear?’ They both nodded vigorously. ‘You’re both bloody lucky not to have been suspended without pay, especially you, Clarke. Thanks to your leg wound we were able to explain why you stumbled into that cameraman – without it that would’ve been your lot.’

  Although it was almost dark outside the superintendent moved to adjust his venetian blinds aggressively as if they were somehow responsible for the appalling conduct of the two CID officers.

  ‘Myles, you’re dismissed,’ Mullett barked.

  They both sh
uffled off towards the office door.

  ‘Not you, Clarke, sit down.’ He paced behind the expansive desk, polishing his glasses as he did so. ‘How is your leg?’

  The concern in the question caught her off guard. Only a minute earlier he’d been biting her head off.

  ‘OK. A bit stiff. The stitches itch like hell.’ She rubbed her thigh as if a mere mention of the wound had provoked an irritation.

  ‘Good, good.’ He said distractedly. ‘Cigarette?’

  She took one. She knew they were too strong for her but Mullett had never offered her so much as a light before.

  ‘It’s really important that we apprehend those little hooligans who did this to you.’ He pivoted back and forth on the enormous leather chair. The motion struck Clarke as creepy; he reminded her of a Bond villain, minus the charisma of course, and you wouldn’t catch Blofeld in those awful hornrim spectacles. ‘I mean, we can’t have this sort of thing going on …’

  She nodded.

  ‘Tell me, I forgot to ask yesterday, did they steal anything from the car? Any personal effects? Jewellery, for instance?’

  ‘I don’t carry around much in the way of … personal effects. When at work, I mean. I think we took them by surprise; I’m sure they would have stolen something if given half the chance …’

  ‘Yes, my thoughts exactly.’ Mullett leaned forward. ‘Well, er, Susan, now the attack is behind you, and you’re feeling less distressed, maybe something will come to mind? A face, a description? Anything, eh? Well, that’s it, make yourself useful and get on down to Denton Woods before it gets dark – I’ve just had the sergeant on site moaning there’s no one from CID accompanying the search.’

  Clarke got up to leave, feeling slightly nauseous. Susan? Only her mother called her that. What a creep. As she left Mullett’s office she felt sure she was going to throw up; whether it was booze, the shock of the bollocking or the super’s saccharine smile she couldn’t be sure. She bolted for the Ladies as fast as she could.

  Wednesday (5)

  IT WAS GETTING late. The three of them, Frost, Waters and Simms, sat in the Incident Room, beneath the stark light of two naked bulbs dangling forlornly at each end of the room. Frost got up and studied the large cork board that hung on the wall.

  One half of the board was devoted to Samantha Ellis, the girl discovered by the railway track on Monday morning. The other half now contained both Hardy children, with the scene-of-crime photos of the boy spilling over on to those of Ellis. The most recent addition was Emily Hardy’s school photo. The exact time of the girl’s disappearance remained vague; the report from uniform was sketchy. In truth nobody up to now had given her a moment’s thought. All attention had been on the other two.

  Frost was beginning to feel the pressure mounting. Tension tweaked down his neck and along his shoulder muscles. The situation was growing serious; he needed a result, and quick. A girl was missing; she could be the next body. He refocused on her photo. That uniform, he’d seen it somewhere else; at the Ferguson house earlier today – school photo on the mantelpiece. So, she attended St Mary’s, the same as the two girls from the train on Saturday night. A coincidence, no doubt; there were only four secondary schools in Denton, but nevertheless he made a mental note to make further checks on those two girls.

  He moved from the board to the easel, where the various assaults and muggings were mounting up on a daily basis. The day had been topped and tailed by a jeweller’s being robbed and a man being stabbed on his way home from work. Simms was filling in the details on the latter incident.

  ‘OK,’ Frost said, ‘run that by me again. This guy, Everett, was on his way home from work and was jabbed with what, a penknife? They took his briefcase but he doesn’t want the police to take action.’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it.’ Simms yawned, rocking back on his chair. ‘He said he was embarrassed to have been done by a bunch of kids, and the briefcase had sod all in it apart from his lunch box.’

  ‘I don’t care if he had the Crown Jewels in it,’ Frost said wearily. ‘These little bastards are more than likely the ones who stabbed Sue Clarke. Not to mention done the jeweller’s and probably the newsagent’s.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Simms said, calmly lighting a cigarette. ‘He didn’t say he wouldn’t help, he just wasn’t bothered on his own account.’

  ‘Daring little geezers, aren’t they,’ said Waters, sipping a beer.

  ‘Simms, you went back to Mr Singh today. Did it open up anything new?’

  ‘I thought it might have been a disgruntled paperboy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mr Singh didn’t think so.’

  ‘Well, what does he think?’

  ‘He’s still insisting they were armed.’

  ‘But he didn’t see the gun,’ Waters put in.

  ‘He didn’t see the gun,’ Frost echoed. ‘Did they even have a gun? I doubt it. C’mon, we don’t have time to waste on this, it really is kids’ stuff. Did he say anything sensible?’ Frost was beginning to get annoyed.

  ‘He … er.’ Simms was looking at Waters. ‘He thought it might be race-related.’

  ‘Oh, cobblers!’ Frost slapped the wall, exasperated, causing the incident board to tremble. ‘Drag in Mr Singh and take him through the photos of possibles, see what Clarke and Myles have come up with … Honestly, this is a waste of everybody’s time. Right, now, on to the serious stuff. Let’s start with Samantha Ellis.’

  Frost sat down and stretched, cigarette in hand. Waters and Simms were watching him intently. What did he have to say? Initially he was convinced she must have been murdered, but enquiries had led nowhere. Perhaps, as Mullett hoped, she really had committed suicide.

  He rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Right, the Ellis girl; we have absolutely nothing to go on. Two girls, Ferguson and Burleigh, the same age as our girl and on the same train from London, who you’d think must have seen something, claim to remember nothing about the trip home because they were too drunk. Convenient, but not beyond the realms of possibility. But them aside, this train did not just stop at Denton – there were a number of stops up the line. What I don’t get is why there have been no witnesses. The posters are definitely up?’ Frost directed the question to Simms.

  ‘Up and down the line,’ Simms confirmed, ‘and all over Paddington Station.’

  ‘Somebody must have seen something!’ Frost exclaimed as Clarke appeared in the doorway looking tired and miserable. ‘If not at the station, then surely on the train itself.’

  ‘I’m not sure they would,’ Simms said. ‘I went back to British Rail to confirm a few details – the length of the train, the number of carriages – to try to corroborate where the passengers who got off at Denton had sat. I asked the guard again to confirm where the bag was found. He said it was in a smoker, yes, at the front, but not an “open” coach.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Frost huffed, rooting around for the bottle of Black Label. ‘I’m not familiar with train lingo.’

  ‘It means she was on a closed-compartment-style coach’ – Simms flicked through his notebook – ‘with just the doors on either side. All the compartments are separate, and there’s nothing in them apart from two big long seats the width of the train, seating six each, and the overhead luggage rack.’

  ‘So, if there was a struggle in one compartment, it would be quite possible that nobody saw a thing,’ Waters said.

  ‘Or she could have been alone and decided to top herself,’ Frost countered, scratching his head.

  ‘I don’t buy that,’ Waters said. ‘Why? No note. Bright future ahead of her, by all accounts. Besides, there are easier ways to go. No, those girls are hiding something. After we’d interviewed Burleigh she rushed out to tell us they’d been drinking – why? To cover something up. It was a calculated action.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Frost agreed. ‘It’s odd, I admit – but you have to be careful with minors, especially with this lot. Social Services could come down on us like a ton of bricks. The lack of wit
nesses still seems crazy, though. We’re asking if anyone saw a fifteen-year-old girl; we know there were at least three on the train, possibly another, and yet we haven’t had a single report.’

  ‘Different passengers,’ said Waters. ‘Your posters are seen by commuters – those punters wouldn’t go near a train station at the weekend. Meanwhile, the casual day-trippers are none the wiser.’

  ‘OK.’ Frost yawned. ‘We know there was nobody at Denton when the train got in, but what about the London end? Those big stations are open twenty-four hours a day. Was there a guard, a ticket inspector, anyone?’

  ‘Er, yeah, there was a ticket inspector,’ Simms said, ‘but apparently he had a couple of days off once his shift had finished.’

  ‘Well, go rouse him from his slumbers, or whatever it is British Rail employees do to recharge their batteries. Anything further on the girl’s bag?’

  ‘I’ve got it here,’ Simms said. ‘The only prints we could lift were on the Walkman, and they were hers.’ Simms tossed the bag to Frost.

  ‘What about the tape?’

  ‘I’ve dropped it off at Denton Hi-Fi,’ Simms replied. ‘Got a mate there who can hopefully make out what the gibberish on the B-side is.’

  ‘Good move.’ Frost slumped down in a chair and had a look inside the bag, pulling out a paperback. ‘Rosemary’s Baby.’ He turned it over in his hand. ‘Not the sort of thing I’d want my teenage daughter to be reading.’

  ‘The movie scared the shit out of me.’ Waters grimaced. ‘You remember it – the Polanski one about satanists? Mia Farrow gives birth to the devil. Nasty.’

  ‘Which brings us on to body number two,’ Frost said, shooting a glance at Clarke who was stifling a yawn. ‘What’s new on that?’

  ‘Forensics are furious,’ she answered. ‘The grass could have told them a lot.’

  ‘The grass?’ Simms snorted.