Fatal Frost

by Henry James

  ‘Mrs Ellis,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you could help us. It hadn’t really occurred to us that your daughter could be linked to Tom Hardy’s death, but we’ve uncovered certain information that suggests a connection.’

  ‘Really? And what’s that?’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain. As yet the lines aren’t entirely clear. But we’re very keen to know who Samantha’s closest friends were, and the sort of things she and her friends got up to. For instance, we understand that she used to be a Girl Guide.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. She was particularly close to a few of those girls – there’s Sarah and Gail out at Two Bridges, and Emily, Tom’s sister. She’s known them all for years.’

  ‘Mrs Ellis, when we interviewed those girls they denied knowing your daughter. Would you have any clue as to why that might be?’

  The mother’s pleasant face morphed into a haggard mask of anger. ‘Because,’ she said, trying to regain composure and hold back the tears, ‘since my husband’s death, those snooty bitches and their parents considered themselves too good for my girl.’

  Frost looked at the woman intently. Class snobbery was something he met all the time and yet still found hard to comprehend. Considering himself ‘classless’ he struggled to understand those who acted from such motives. Burleigh was a lawyer; surely he must know the implications of lying to the police? Did he seriously consider his class prejudice to be more important than that?

  ‘Fucking snobs,’ sniffed Mrs Ellis.

  ‘Anyone else?’ Clarke asked. Frost had all but forgotten she was there. ‘Anyone else she was close to?’

  ‘Her cousin Nicola. She lives at Forest View.’

  ‘Her cousin?’ Frost exclaimed. ‘What, the Hartley-Joneses have a daughter?’

  Mrs Ellis nodded. Frost pulled out the list Simms had given him and ran his finger down it, although he knew he would have spotted a name like Hartley-Jones. ‘Nicola not a Guide, then?’

  ‘Well, she was.’ Mrs Ellis peered over to see what Frost was looking at.

  ‘It’s a list of all the Girl Guides in Denton,’ he said, passing it over.

  ‘There she is – Parke. Nicola Parke. She’s more often than not the ringleader. Very pretty and very full of herself. Captain of the hockey team at St Mary’s, no less.’

  ‘Parke?’ Frost’s mind raced. The name Parke had appeared in the Records file Mullett handed him yesterday. It was one of the names of the original Five Bells.

  ‘Her mother’s maiden name. She doesn’t get on with her stepfather – my late husband’s brother.’

  ‘But you’re Ellis?’

  ‘I told you, he’s dead. I reverted to my maiden name. Sam started using it as well. I’m not sorry to be no longer part of that family. Those men were spoilt brats, the pair of them,’ she said bitterly, lighting a second cigarette.

  Frost scratched his head. So, Mrs Hartley-Jones had a daughter. Where on earth was she last weekend? Evidently not at home, otherwise the niece wouldn’t have been drafted in to feed the cat. ‘And this Nicola, where was she last weekend?’

  ‘With her natural father, I’d guess. He doesn’t live round here. The girls had a bit of a falling-out, so that’s probably why she decided to go there.’

  ‘Any clue as to why they’d fallen out?’ Clarke asked.

  Mrs Ellis shot her a glance. ‘Girls can be very cruel to one another,’ she said. ‘Especially when it comes to boys, don’t you find?’

  ‘At a certain age, yes, I suppose so,’ Clarke answered diffidently. ‘Was it because Sam had a boyfriend, then?’

  ‘Not especially.’ Mrs Ellis sighed. ‘They’re evil to each other for no apparent reason.’

  Frost glanced at Clarke. He couldn’t fathom where this was leading. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘and I appreciate this must be painful for you; when Gail Burleigh and Sarah Ferguson were interviewed about your daughter’s death they denied they ever knew her. They must have known there was a huge risk of us finding out the truth, and yet they felt the risk was worth it. Can you think of any reason why?’

  Mrs Ellis looked unmoved. ‘No idea, but they could lie for England, that lot. And make no mistake, they’re not stupid, not by any stretch.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Mrs Ellis. Very helpful,’ Frost said.

  Clarke met his eye.

  They had found their fifth Bell.

  ‘What’s your take on this Two Bridges lot?’ Frost asked, perplexed, as he and Clarke stood on the street outside the supermarket. ‘If they’re that clever, why would they blatantly lie to the police?’

  ‘Like she says, they would have lied for a purpose.’

  ‘But what purpose?’

  Clarke shrugged. Frost sparked up a Rothmans, noticing as he did so the estate agent’s over the road, and in particular the fair-haired young gent he’d seen yesterday with Simms at Eagle Lane, visible through the plate-glass window.

  ‘Maybe Mrs Ellis was right first time, it’s simply the snob in them not wanting to be associated with the riff-raff. Anyway, let’s pop over there for a second.’ He moved to cross the road but suddenly spotted a traffic warden eyeing the Cortina, which was parked half-on half-off the kerb. He knew full well that the High Street was a double-yellow zone and that the supermarket had a car park, but if you couldn’t break the rules when on a murder investigation …

  ‘Oh, for the love of … Oi, you! That’s a police vehicle!’

  ‘I am well aware of that, sir,’ said the warden who, buttoned up tightly in his pristine uniform, resembled a youthful Mullett. ‘You left your windows down and the radio has been—’

  Frost reached inside and snatched up the handset. It was Bill Wells. Frost had left Martin Wakely stewing in Interview Room 1. He’d clean forgotten.

  ‘Blast!’ Frost said. ‘Just lock him up.’

  ‘What for?’ came the crackled response. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Oh yeah, Jack, we’ve got some leads on the chimney sweep; a couple of calls have come in following the Echo splash …’

  ‘Get Simms on it. I’m tied up in town and about to nut a traffic warden. As for Wakely, wave a Receiving Stolen Goods or a Possession of a Fire Arm charge under his nose; the smell of that should bring him round.’ He chucked the handset on the passenger seat. The traffic warden had gone, but had left his hateful yellow calling card under the windscreen wiper. Frost swore and made to cross the road.

  My God, he’s coming here! thought Chris Everett in panic. The policeman in sunglasses, whom he recognized from the station, was heading his way across the road, along with his attractive sidekick. What on earth did they want? He’d done what had been asked of him. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

  Trying to remain calm, Everett adopted a welcoming pose as the two CID officers entered the office.

  ‘Good afternoon, may I help you? I’m Chris Everett, the regional manager.’ He proffered his hand.

  ‘Getting muggy out there,’ said the scruffy detective, ignoring the handshake gesture.

  Everett speculated that he was only in his late thirties but he looked worn, and what was that smell on him?

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if the weather broke again later,’ Frost persisted. He was smiling disarmingly, presumably expecting Everett to respond.

  ‘Er … yes,’ he said, wishing they’d get to the point of why they were there.

  The female detective moved around the office and began to chat to the girls.

  The policeman glanced cursorily at the For Sale board. ‘Business good this time of year? Or is it too hot for punters to go traipsing around houses?’

  Did he presume Everett knew who he was? He’d not introduced himself. Was this some sort of trick? ‘I’m sorry,’ he pre-empted, ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure …?’

  ‘DS Frost, Denton CID, and my colleague’ – he waved at the young woman, who now seemed to be genuinely studying the To Let board – ‘DC Clarke.’

  ‘Ah yes, I thought you looked familiar. I think I saw you yesterday,�
� the estate agent said hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, you may well have done,’ the detective said casually. ‘Tell me, Mr Everett, did you notice earlier today three youths on bikes matching a similar description to the ones who mugged you loitering across the road, outside Bejam’s supermarket?’

  How on earth did he know that? Everett glanced nervously at the office girls, who were looking intently at him; he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t here. Could he even lie and say he’d not seen them? He felt perspiration break out on his top lip. ‘Er … no,’ he forced out. ‘When was this, exactly?’

  ‘This morning, at about ten. Think hard, Mr Everett.’

  The woman detective moved away from the window. Everett was having trouble keeping his eye on both of them at the same time.

  She spoke up: ‘They were there for at least half an hour. It would be surprising if you hadn’t seen something, given the proximity of the supermarket across the way.’ Her look was inscrutable.

  He knew he daren’t admit to seeing them, or they’d be questioning why he didn’t report it. ‘I just don’t recall,’ he said. ‘My office is at the back …’ He gestured vaguely behind him. Would the girls give him away? Would they remember him peering nervously through the window at the boys in question?

  ‘Ladies,’ the detective said, addressing Vicky and Claire. ‘Did either of you notice anything? A bunch of kids loitering, pulling wheelies over the road?’ They both looked nervously at Everett before shaking their heads in unison.

  The door chimed and a woman entered with a brown and white spaniel at her heels. Clarke made to fuss over the animal but Claire was quickly on her feet.

  ‘No animals allowed, madam,’ she said, pointing to a notice on the door. ‘Mr Everett is allergic to them.’

  ‘Is he?’ Frost said, giving Everett a look that sent his blood cold. ‘Well, he’s not alone there.’ The moment passed and the detective smiled thinly. ‘We’ll leave you in peace now, but keep a look-out. It’s possible that whoever attacked you may come back for more. Anything untoward happens, you let me know.’ Frost handed him a card. ‘Well, good day, sir.’

  Untoward? What on earth did he mean? Everett watched from the window as the pair returned to their unmarked vehicle. The detective pulled a parking ticket from beneath the wiper and made a show of ripping it up. Everett didn’t know what to think. Perhaps the police were merely concerned for his safety, but did he misread the penetrating look the detective gave him regarding the dog? Was he beyond suspicion? He felt a tingle of adrenalin. If only he could think of a way to deal with those little thugs …

  ‘So, Mrs Hartley-Jones, can we run through this one more time? All the …’ Simms began but then paused as a tall, slim, dark-haired man in his late fifties appeared in the doorway of the front room. The man was clearly dressed for golf, in an argyle sweater and plus-fours. The husband, Simms thought, and the pain-in-the-arse mate of Mullett’s who kept pestering them to nail the jewel thief, and who complained about Frost’s screw-up over the Ellis girl’s supposed suicide.

  Waters got to his feet and approached him with his hand outstretched, whereas Simms elected to ignore him and continue to push his scatty cow of a wife to get her facts straight.

  ‘To recap.’ He cleared his throat. ‘All the beds were made and there was no evidence of people sleeping here. Of, shall we say, teenage activity. And the rubbish bin was clear, exactly as you’d left it on the Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Correct. When Nicola has been left alone before – only for a night, mind’ – the woman looked shifty, clearly unsure of whether at sixteen her daughter could legally be left alone, and Simms saw no reason to put her mind at ease – ‘there is usually a trace of something or other. Cigarette ends, cider bottles, takeaway wrappers – you know the sort of stuff.’

  He did; he was more than familiar with that sort of debris at his Fenwick Street police digs.

  ‘I still find it odd that you didn’t mention you had a daughter when we called on Monday,’ Simms probed.

  ‘You didn’t ask. And why would I need to mention it when she wasn’t here?’ The woman looked indignant. ‘She went to stay with her father for the weekend, which is why her cousin was feeding the cat. I’m still not entirely sure what this is about. Are you suggesting that there was some sort of a wild party held here while we were away, and that unfortunate boy was here before being murdered on the golf course?’

  ‘It’s a possibility we have to acknowledge, yes,’ he said, and added, addressing them both, ‘There was carpet fibre found on the boy’s sock.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ the tall man exploded, causing Waters to step back into the room. ‘Do you think we’re the only people in Denton with a new carpet! Vera, you’re not to talk to these people any more. I shall call Superintendent Mullett this instant!’

  Simms reached down and pulled a few strands from the recently laid carpet before making to leave. The woman looked flustered by her husband’s outburst, and stood up from the sofa, unsure what to do next. Hartley-Jones stepped aside to allow them out.

  As he passed him, Simms couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘Sir, it is highly likely that Tom Hardy was in your house on Friday evening to see your niece. Both children are now dead. It would be useful if you assisted us with our enquiries rather than turfing us out on to the street.’

  ‘Wait. Excuse me,’ Waters said suddenly as they reached the porch. ‘Last time we were here I remember stepping over a pile of large candles. They were here where the wellingtons are.’

  ‘We do have electricity out here, just like you do in London,’ snapped Hartley-Jones.

  ‘Mrs Hartley-Jones, do you remember, you asked me to mind my step?’ Waters persisted.

  Simms noted the expression on her face: anxiety and confusion. He tapped Waters on the elbow to go. The woman was frightened – there was no point pushing her now.

  * * *

  At five past four Frost was on the verge of opening the Basildon Bond envelope that had been glaring at him accusingly all week from the untidy desk. The detective in him read the sharp capitals and understroke as signs of a missive written in anger. He toyed with the edge of the envelope, recalling that she’d said not to read it.

  ‘Sergeant Frost.’

  ‘Ah, PC Miller, come in.’ Frost jolted upright in his chair, sliding the unopened letter to one side and reaching for his cigarettes.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ The police constable looked hot and bothered, like everyone else in Eagle Lane, but his sweaty sneer and the way the standard-issue black tie had been tugged casually to the side gave him the air of a malevolent school bully.

  ‘How are you finding your new housemate?’

  ‘Beg pardon, guv?’

  ‘You live, do you not, in police accommodation at Fenwick Street?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Miller stammered.

  ‘Well. How are you coping with your guest? DS Waters, the black officer?’ Frost waited for the PC to open his mouth, then snapped, ‘Or had you not noticed? I won’t beat around the bush, Miller. I have your personnel file in front of me …’

  ‘You’ve no—’

  ‘No what? Right? I think I’ll be the judge of who has the right to do what, Constable.’ Frost paused for a drag on his cigarette. ‘I also have your duty roster here. You’ve done ten days straight – without a day off, including the bank holiday. For the overtime, no doubt.’

  Miller nodded reluctantly.

  ‘And you’ve the next three days off according to this, finishing today at the end of an early shift.’ Frost flicked a buff folder on to the desk.

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Wrong, guv,’ Frost stated. ‘You’re on a stake-out tonight. And tomorrow night, and probably into the small hours of Sunday.’

  Miller’s face fell and he opened his mouth guppy-like in protest.

  ‘You’ll be on duty outside the Pink Toothbrush with your accomplice from eight o’clock this evening. Understood?’

  The chubby PC wasn�
�t as stupid as he looked, Frost thought. He knew that by ‘accomplice’ he was referring to whoever else had jumped DS Waters on Wednesday. Frost had no authority over uniform, but Miller was not about to question Frost’s request – he’d got off lightly, and they both knew it. Through formal channels Frost would probably get nowhere – racism polluted the ranks of the force from top to bottom – but this way the message might just get through. He could have gone to Mullett; Mullett would in principle have supported him, but then be too afraid to upset the apple cart to act. Life was too short. Frost had put his marker down.

  ‘Good,’ Frost concluded. ‘There’s a big do at the golf club tonight – lot of bigwigs who may well fancy a rub-down after a hard day’s strolling around the greens. You’re not to make an arrest. Observe only; watch the comings and goings, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘I’m glad we understand each other. And if DS Waters so much as breaks out in a sweat, I’ll have your balls in a kebab.’ The constable made to go. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ Frost added, ‘you’ll pay for the damage to Sergeant Waters’ Vauxhall, too. Dismissed.’

  Friday (6)

  FROST HAD ACTED, and Clarke felt for him.

  It had just gone six, and the four of them were sitting in the main CID office, all eyes on Frost sipping lukewarm Harp lager.

  She could tell he was unsure of his decision; that it was only his instinct that told him it was the right move. But instinct had let him down previously.

  First, he brought in both the girls from Two Bridges. He wanted to nail them for the murder of Tom Hardy, but couldn’t press charges yet as he had no actual evidence. All he had on them so far was a charge of giving false information, and indeed, they’d lied so boldly that he was sure they were guilty of something. He hoped that with cross-examination they might unwittingly give one another away.

  Second, an even bolder move, he’d sealed off the Hartley-Joneses’ place at Forest View.