by Henry James
The phone rang again. ‘Flamin’ hell, anyone would think we’ve got nothing better to do than answer the phone. Yes?’ he snapped.
‘Jack, it’s Mrs Ellis …’
‘Tell her I’ll call her back.’ No doubt she was terribly upset at the Denton Echo headlines – claiming her daughter’s death was suicide – and rightly so. He should have called round first.
‘She says she called you yesterday too—’
‘I’ll ring back tonight, I promise,’ he said, nudging his coffee mug across the blotter and underlining the word ‘Ellis’ that he’d written the previous evening.
Thursday (8)
EVERETT SAT IN the lobby of Denton police station. It occurred to him that he’d never actually been in a police station before. He had no preconceived ideas of how one should be, but somehow the magnolia emulsion struck him as peculiar.
Next to him on the bench was an Asian gentleman, softly mumbling to himself. Overhead the wall clock ticked steadily. He flinched as something touched his neck; one corner of a warning poster – something to do with beetles – had lost its fixing on the noticeboard behind them.
The revolving door spun and a middle-aged man walked up to the front desk. He was asked to join Everett and the Asian man on the bench.
The door went again and in came a gaunt officer in uniform, immediately followed by the man whose portrait Everett had seen all over the Wessex Crescent property this afternoon, the moustachioed policeman off the TV. He was in the middle of berating the younger fellow, something to do with a skip and a damaged wall, but after laying eyes on three men seated beneath the noticeboard, he stopped in his tracks. Everett was alarmed to see him standing there, one hand on hip, the other stroking his moustache. His glare was menacing. But it was over in an instant and he marched off yelling, ‘Wells!’, giving the man behind the front desk a start. Everett guessed he was the next unlucky victim of the angry fellow’s wrath.
The young detective in denims who’d found Everett in the street had appeared before them. ‘Sorry to keep you, if you’d all like to come this way.’
They looked at one another, realizing for the first time that they were all victims. Everett felt decidedly uneasy. He followed the CID man down the corridor, just wanting to get this risky situation over with. Suddenly, through a swing door came the scruffy guy he’d seen at the train station. By the looks of him he hadn’t shaved since Everett had almost bashed him with his briefcase on Monday. Everett looked away far too obviously, which triggered from the man a cursory glance of suspicion.
‘Right, Bill.’ Frost banged his fist on the desk, causing Desk Sergeant Bill Wells to jump again. Before him were DS Frost and DS Waters. ‘Where’s this teenage girl, then? Not under there, is she, giving your shoes a polish?’ Frost rapped his knuckles on the desk surface.
‘Don’t do that, Jack. The super’s been doing my pieces all afternoon,’ Wells said, rubbing his forehead. ‘The skip-hire people have taken the wall off the garage next door. The girl and her father are in Interview Room 2. DC Simms has number 1.’
‘Yes, with his robbery victims. A motley-looking trio, they are,’ Frost mused. ‘The shifty-looking blond chap – he definitely looked familiar.’
‘Everyone looks familiar to you, Jack,’ Wells said. ‘It doesn’t mean they’ve done anything. You’re too suspicious for your own good.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Bill. Everyone’s done something wrong at some point – even you. Isn’t that so, Johnny boy?’
‘Reckon so. Life’d be dull otherwise.’
‘Looks like it’s not been dull for John just lately. Nice shiner you got there,’ Wells said, noticing Waters’ black eye. ‘Would have to have been a big lad brave enough to have a crack at you.’
‘Big or not, we’ll have them. What are you still doing here anyway, Waters? Where’s that little blonde strumpet?’ Frost joked.
‘Powdering her nose,’ Waters replied.
‘I bet she is, and the rest. Try not to get beaten up this time – at least not until you’ve finished your house calls.’
Wells shook his head despairingly and answered the phone which had been ringing throughout the exchange. Its shrill jangle had been almost constant throughout the day – in fact, it had reached the stage where he was more aware of it when it wasn’t ringing.
‘Denton Police.’ A voice announced itself to be from Denton Council. Heavens, thought Wells, it’ll be about that infernal skip.
Waters was surprised by Frost’s remark to Bill Wells about catching the people who had given him a beating after walking Kim Myles home from the pub the previous evening. Frost had not commented on the incident apart from an aside in the car that morning. Also, it was strange the way he’d casually revealed his knowledge that Waters had been out with Myles. How did he know? Frost was a difficult guy to fathom; his mind might seem to be elsewhere, but he was taking things in all the time, and would let them slip out when you’d least expect it.
Myles emerged from the Ladies. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ she bubbled. ‘Jesus, what the hell happened to you?’ She reached out to touch his face but he instinctively pulled back. He’d not had a chance to talk to her and explain, and now she was here, he really didn’t feel like doing so.
‘Hey, I’m fine, let’s get out of here.’ He ushered her towards the door and out into the last of the sun. ‘Someone’s made a mess of that wall,’ he remarked, pointing at a pile of bricks at the edge of the car park.
‘And someone’s made quite a mess of your face,’ Myles said. ‘So when did it happen?’
‘After I dropped you off. Two guys.’
‘Bastards. Bet it was those pigs from the pub.’
‘I don’t know about that. There are lots of muggings around here, it seems. Couldn’t say for sure who it was.’ As he said it, Waters tried not to think about the pungent smell of Brut which he’d detected just now in the corridor of Eagle Lane, as a group of other officers walked by.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t a bunch of kids on BMXs that jumped you, was it? The Eagle is a coppers’ pub. You know who it was; why cover up for them? We must’ve been followed.’
‘I don’t think we were followed,’ he said seriously. ‘Denton’s hardly a crowded metropolis – the streets were empty. We would have noticed if someone had left the pub and followed us. Maybe they were lying in wait? But then they’d have to know where you live.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ she snapped.
‘I’m not suggesting anything! Just leave it. Are you OK to drive?’
‘I’d prefer to go in yours. Far better than a beat-up Escort.’
‘It’s in the garage.’
‘What d’you mean?’
He shrugged.
‘Shit, no, don’t tell me they’ve done your car as well. Why didn’t you say? It’s obviously not just some opportunist loser from the pub. Have you told Frost?’
‘The chance hasn’t presented itself.’
‘Well, present it, then. Get in.’
* * *
Simms left the three men to page through the mugshots of youth offenders. He’d not removed the snaps of those already convicted and holed up in borstals, just to see how reliable they turned out to be as witnesses.
The jeweller, the estate agent and the newsagent sat carefully studying the assortment of absconding schoolboys and minor teenage felons in silence; he’d told them not to confer.
Simms sat on the corner of the desk, lit a cigarette and pulled the marker from the Yellow Pages. He studied the four phone numbers he’d scribbled down that morning. It was gone six thirty – they’d probably be home by now. With a sigh he picked up the phone and dialled the first number. ‘Hello, Mrs Tindell? Denton Girl Guides? Hi, this is Detective Constable Simms of Denton CID.’
‘Good evening, Gail, Mr Burleigh.’ Frost nodded, as the duty constable opened the door to Interview Room 2. ‘Thank you for coming in, though there really was no need. A misunderstanding on my co
lleague’s part. We have a missing girl who—’
Burleigh got to his feet, seething with fury. ‘This is an outrage!’
‘Sit down!’ Frost shouted. ‘Now! Or the constable here will take you down to the cells.’
The man was instantly silenced. The constable shut the door and stood against the back wall, and Frost winked at him in assurance that everything was under control.
‘I have two dead teenagers on my hands and another missing. What I don’t need is a load of verbal aggro from you, thank you very much. Now, if you can just see your way clear to answering a few questions?’ Frost paused, turning to address Gail. ‘Presumably you are mildly concerned about your friend Emily Hardy?’
‘Yes, of course,’ answered Burleigh senior.
‘Please, sir, let your daughter answer.’
The father glanced uncertainly at Gail, who until now had said nothing. She lifted her precocious dark brown eyes and fixed her gaze squarely on Frost. ‘Of course, I’m very worried. But I don’t see why it’s me who’s singled out.’
‘Well, funnily enough, it has something to do with Emily spending most Wednesday evenings at yours, so on the day she disappeared some people thought she was with you,’ he said testily, knowing this not to be the case.
‘But she wasn’t.’ The girl smiled. ‘I rang her parents.’
‘Tell me,’ Frost said, lighting a cigarette. ‘What did you two girls usually get up to of an evening – you know, now you’re growing up. It used to be the Girl Guides, according to your headmistress.’
‘Is that relevant?’ Burleigh snapped.
‘Ever the lawyer,’ Frost said. ‘You know, if I’m to have any chance of finding this missing girl, I need to know as much about her as possible, presumably by talking to someone who knows her well.’
‘Why not try the parents?’ Burleigh huffed.
‘Oh, believe me, we do. But as children reach a certain age’ – Frost regarded the girl in heavy make-up before him – ‘it often transpires that the parents are the last to know what the kids are up to.’
The father looked expectantly at his daughter, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. Frost repeated his question to Gail.
‘We play records and stuff. We’re quite into our music.’
‘Of course you are. I understand that on Saturday night you went up to the Smoke with your mates.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Burleigh interjected. ‘We’ve been over all that with your colleague, the dark chap.’
‘Sergeant Waters?’ Frost replied, almost tempted to say something further to antagonize the buttoned-up lawyer, but thinking better of it. ‘OK, Gail, when was the last time you saw Emily?’
‘Lunchtime at school.’
‘And? Did she intend to come home with you that evening?’
It was like getting blood out of a stone. She sat there chewing gum; he had to forcibly stop himself reaching across and …
‘Yeah, she was coming over. But she had to meet someone first. She said she’d meet me after hockey.’
‘Any idea who?’
The girl shook her head.
‘What state of mind was she in?’ Frost pressed. ‘You know, happy? Sad?’
‘She was, you know, all right. Happy, I guess.’
‘And at this stage neither of you had heard about her brother’s fate?’
The girl shook her head. Frost got up and stretched. He was none the wiser; he still had no clue as to how the missing girl had reacted to her brother’s death. Was she frightened? Scared? Had she even known that he was dead?
‘Did you know Emily’s brother, Tom?’ Frost asked.
The girl considered the question before answering, ‘No, not really. Only by sight.’
‘Did you ever go to the Hardys’ house?’
There was a rap on the door. A face appeared at the small, rectangular window – it was Simms. Now what?
Frost stepped outside, pulling the door to. ‘Yes?’
‘We might have found the Hardy boy’s clothes,’ Simms said excitedly. ‘And …’
Frost stepped back into the interview room. ‘OK, you can go. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch very soon. Gail, please try and think a little more about the last time you saw Emily Hardy …’ The pair looked surprised to be released so abruptly but weren’t about to argue. ‘Constable, show the gentleman and his daughter out.’
Frost waited until they were out of earshot down the corridor.
‘Well, where?’ he asked Simms.
‘Municipal dump. Clarke took the call.’
Thursday (9)
THE CLEAR SKIES brought a chill to the evening air when the sun disappeared behind the old mill across the canal. Clarke pulled a crumpled raincoat from the boot of the Escort, slipped it on with a shiver and picked up the torch.
The slowly rotating blue light of the area car advertised the presence of two uniformed officers, who were accompanied by a council worker. The municipal dump was brilliantly lit with huge arc lamps reminiscent of a sports arena, except all there was to see was garbage.
The officers nodded as Clarke approached. The council worker, dressed in a woollen hat and a tatty denim jerkin, regarded her disdainfully. He was in full flow, explaining the complexities of rubbish collection. A woman, was what his expression said.
‘… because of the bank holiday there’s always some confusion, you see. There’s those that read the flyers with all the revised collection dates on them, and those that don’t.’
One of the PCs turned to Clarke in order to elucidate the topic at hand. ‘What the gentleman is saying is that it’s difficult to ascertain when the—’
‘Whoa …’ Clarke protested, looking over her shoulder as an unmarked black van pulled up. She had asked for an initial on-site forensic analysis, thinking it best before moving the clothes to the lab. ‘Let’s take this in reverse order. So, start with when the discovery was made.’
‘It was the rats.’
‘Rats?’ Clarke looked to the PC, who shrugged.
‘Yep, rats. You’d think this being a refuse site we’d be used to seeing ’em all the time. Well, to a degree that’s true. But when there’s so much to choose from’ – the man made a sweeping gesture – ‘they get fussy. You only see a real frenzy when there’s fresh meat to be had. By fresh I don’t mean literally fresh, just uncooked.’
Clarke felt suddenly colder. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but what does this have to do with the clothes?’
‘It’s what the clothes contained,’ the man said with a grave look.
He didn’t need to say any more. The organs and entrails of that poor, eviscerated boy, she thought, that’s what the rats had been feasting on. She fought back a wave of nausea and was barely aware of the conversation between the dustman and Forensics men as to where the objects had been found.
Clarke recovered her poise and followed the others into the landfill area.
The dustman continued his story: ‘So, come this evening, we tramp across the mound, just to see if there’s anything worth having – you’d be surprised.’
Clarke was more intent on watching her footing as they clambered across the landscape of rubbish.
‘Here you are,’ he said, bending down to cast aside a large hessian sack. ‘I put this over it to stop the rats from ’aving it away.’
Clarke flashed the torch over a supermarket carrier bag. What looked like a heavily blood-stained sleeve of a white tracksuit lay poking out of the top.
‘As soon as I saw the blood I called the police.’
‘That’s about it, thank God,’ said DC Kim Myles. ‘My feet are so sore. We’ve covered every street and cul-de-sac on this blinkin’ estate. And a fat lot of good it’s done us. We’ve basically retrodden uniform’s path.’
‘Apart from that row of shops.’ Waters pointed towards a parade of half a dozen shops all in darkness except for one, on the corner of a modern housing estate and the Wells Road.
‘Let’s grab a few cans at the offy,�
� Myles suggested.
Waters nodded. He felt deflated and fancied a drink; it had been a long day and it seemed to him that the investigation was going badly. They should have questioned Emily immediately upon discovering her brother’s body. It stood to reason that she was in all probability the last one to see the boy alive, the pair being alone in the house. OK, Denton division were chronically understaffed, but Mullett’s preoccupation with the press and keeping up appearances did nothing to help.
He pulled open the door of Unwins and allowed Myles in first; he liked her all the more for respecting his preference not to discuss the caning he’d received last night. She’d not mentioned it again since they’d left the station.
As he paid for the beers, Waters raised the subject of the boy and his missing sister. The off-licence owner had yet to be questioned; he’d been closed when the initial sweep by was made on Wednesday morning.
‘Yes, I know both of them,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘They’ve been coming in with their parents since they were knee-high. The boy would come in from time to time on his own, for crisps and so on. And he tried to buy a bottle of cider only the other week. I refused him, of course. Terrible tragedy.’
‘When exactly? Can you remember? It might be important.’
‘Possibly at the weekend. Let me see.’ The man tugged thoughtfully at an earlobe. Waters realized immediately that the shopkeeper might have been the last one to see the boy alive, a fact he’d be unaware of since it had still not been reported in the press that Tom had been dead for several days before the discovery of his body. ‘Yes, it was a Friday; he asked me about bus times.’
‘Bus times?’ Myles repeated anxiously.
‘Yes, whether they ran to the same schedule in the evening as during the day. The timetable at the bus stop on the Wells Road had been defaced.’
‘Where was he heading?’
‘Other side of town. He wanted a number 4, which runs up the Bath Road out west, past Denton Woods.’