by James, Henry
Simms sidled up to Sue. ‘Here you go – sorry about the plastic cup. Vodka and Coke. Doesn’t look like a large one but it is. Sure this lager is watered down, tastes like piss …’
‘Derek, shh, look!’ She tugged his sleeve. Suddenly all the lights in the hall went out, and they were momentarily in darkness before the stage was lit up in a spectrum of red, blue and pink.
‘What?’ he said irritably, but was distracted by movement on the stage. ‘Christ, look at that lot!’ Amidst a maze of stacked keyboards and mike stands the support act drifted on. Clarke had lost Marie Roberts as the crowd surged forward in the dark and involuntarily she found herself moving with it.
‘Derek, listen … the woman who was raped this morning is here – with a fella.’ Clarke distinctly remembered her saying she was single. And would she really be in the mood for a gig, after what had happened? ‘Derek—’ she persisted.
‘So what, Sue. She probably wants to take her mind off it. Now we’ve got the night off, so relax, will you? I’m at the morgue tomorrow morning …’ Simms drank deeply from the plastic cup, and edged forward for a better view of the band. ‘Bet that geezer’s trousers are PVC …’
But synthesized chords bursting heavily into life drowned out Simms’s mocking of the frontman’s attire. Sue Clarke thought him cute, in any case.
Frost unlocked the door.
As he crossed the threshold, he was struck by the almost damp chill within the empty house. He’d not been home since Wednesday, and prior to that he’d been generally too drunk or hung-over to register the state of his own home. Now, tired but sober, the stale air and feel of abandon hit him forcefully. It was nearly ten o’clock. He flicked on the hall light and picked up the post.
A glance in the lounge revealed a chessboard mid-game on the coffee table, flanked by an array of empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays. Must hoover, he thought with a grimace. Continuing through to the kitchen, he dumped his takeaway bag – oil seeping through the brown paper – on the worktop and hunted for a clean plate, but it seemed that most of the crockery was stacked in the overflowing kitchen sink, still bearing traces of previous takeaways. With a fingernail he chipped a dried cornflake out of a breakfast bowl left on the kitchen table, poured in his prawn vindaloo, topped it off with pilau rice and stirred it all together. Delicious.
He opened the fridge to grab a beer but stared in dismay at the barren shelves. Half a pint of silver-top and a leftover sausage were all it contained. He certainly couldn’t be fagged to go to the off-licence now, and in any case, it might even have shut at ten, so he sat at the kitchen table with a dejected sigh.
He tried to focus on the case of Baskin and the badly wounded boy, Cecil Rhodes. It was a far easier subject to contemplate than the prospect of fathering Sue Clarke’s child. Try as he might, niggling thoughts about this unwelcome state of affairs kept creeping in, so he reminded himself it was only a slim possibility – he’d slept with her only the once in the last six months, at the end of September. It happened when Mary became very ill. Afterwards Frost had thought Clarke had felt sorry for him and he vowed never to let it happen again. Anyway she wouldn’t have hung around, a pretty girl like her. He sniffed resolutely and reached for the salt. Next to the condiments was the pile of unopened post to which he’d just added more. That morning’s Denton Echo caught his eye.
He unfolded the paper and glanced at the lead story: CLUB OWNER SHOT. Underneath was a grainy photograph of Baskin, wearing a bow-tie and standing with a pair of equally portly middle-aged men. Frost read the caption: From the 1981 Gala Dinner for Local Commerce Initiative; l–r Harold Baskin, Michael Hudson, Martin Palmer. ‘What a trio!’ Frost snorted. Again he reflected on the likelihood of debt as the cause of the shooting, but somehow it just didn’t tally. He studied the glassy-eyed portrait of Michael Hudson, the bank manager, gurning up at him from the rag’s front page. Well, my fat-cheeked friend, thought Frost, it may be worth a call on you tomorrow …
Something suddenly occurred to him: bet you’re all apronwearers too, he thought, and he found himself laughing softly in the silent kitchen over Mullett’s desperate bid to join the Masons. Hanlon had regaled him with the story earlier that evening in the Eagle. What a hoot – he could just imagine Hornrim Harry fuming at being lorded over by the hapless Hanlon.
The telephone rang, interrupting his mirth. He groaned. It could only be Eagle Lane. Frost picked up the receiver in the hall with a sigh, expecting to hear Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson, but instead heard another familiar voice.
‘Beryl!’ Frost exclaimed, surprised.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day, William.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry. I …’ He’d clean forgotten to call back.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not ringing to berate you for your disgraceful behaviour yesterday.’ Frost’s mother-in-law sounded distant, not just the few miles away in neighbouring Rimmington. ‘No, the less said about that the better, though assaulting your brother-in-law proved useful in dispersing the guests … No, it’s regarding another matter – we appear to have been burgled.’
‘I got the message … the painting. That is terrible. I’m very sorry. Anything else missing? Any details, any clues whatsoever?’
‘Just the painting.’
‘Painful though it must be, you’d best let me have the guest list tomorrow. We’ll run through the mourners with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘Why? It would hardly be a guest!’ Beryl Simpson was clearly shocked at the idea. ‘I think it might have happened in the early hours of the morning, long after the last guest had left.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I heard a noise about four o’clock this morning that sounded like the back door. Didn’t think anything of it at the time – thought I was just hearing things.’
Frost winced with embarrassment as he realized it was him she’d heard entering the house that morning.
‘Who could imagine one’s own home would be burgled just after burying one’s daughter? The likelihood seems so improbable.’ She sighed. ‘I went back to sleep and didn’t wake until gone nine. We discovered the painting was gone, and the back door was unlocked, at nine thirty this morning. Your very sweet desk sergeant, having failed to locate you, dispatched a few of your people who were padding around the house all afternoon.’
‘Good, good,’ Frost blustered, relieved Wells had jumped on the case.
‘It’s worth a tidy sum. I wouldn’t say it’s priceless, not now we’ve lost Mary – that puts things in perspective. But try and get it back, will you, William?’
Saturday (1)
A baby.
A baby. Derek Simms lay staring at the Artex ceiling, the ugly stippled surface slowly gaining definition with the early morning light. Sue Clarke, lying beside him, stirred in her sleep. After the gig he’d walked her back home for a coffee and nightcap. He should have guessed something was up when she insisted they stop at the off-licence and pick up a bottle of vodka, although something being ‘up’ did not really do justice to the news she imparted. They’d indulged in some energetic lovemaking, and then Clarke had finally dropped her bombshell at about 1 a.m. They’d gone on to talk until past three.
The post-lovemaking buzz and the fact he’d been tanked up on adrenalin and booze had helped deaden the shock, and he’d even felt a vague thrill at the thought of a family with Sue. However, after less than four hours’ sleep his feelings this morning were not quite so warm. In fact, the more the events of the early hours resurfaced in his mind the more he felt a growing sense of alarm, bordering on panic. Never had the phrase ‘the cold light of day’ sounded so crushingly appropriate.
He slipped out of the bed, gingerly scouring the carpet for his maroon Y-fronts but unable to see them anywhere. Balls, he’d go without them – he daren’t risk waking Sue. She was knackered after all that surveillance; it wasn’t good for someone in her condition to miss out on sleep – that’s what he told himself anyway,
but deep down he knew the real reason: he was terrified she would quiz him on the promise he had made last night. The red digits of the digital alarm clock blinked seven o’clock. He didn’t have to meet Drysdale at the lab until ten, but he didn’t want to hang around. And he was starving; he’d nip down to the café and ponder the situation over a bacon sarnie.
He crept silently through the modest flat, past the chrome-and-glass table and chairs; she had good taste in some things, he thought, although he wasn’t sure about the lava lamp that had been left glowing on the sideboard, illuminating a sultry black and white poster of OMD’s Andy McCluskey, complete with oiled ringlets. Dodgy. But what did he, twenty-four-year-old Derek Simms, have to offer? Along with Waters, he was still living in police accommodation on Fenwick Street, although Waters would soon be off to bunk up with Kim Myles, leaving Simms with PC Miller and his extensive soft-porn collection. God, what was he going to do if the baby really was his? Move in with Sue? What would his mother say?
Such were the thoughts that troubled the young detective as he headed off along the quiet street, pushing complex CID matters firmly into second place.
Mullett stared in disbelief at such unbelievable rudeness.
‘What in heaven’s name do you mean, it’s “duff”?’ he blustered at the newsagent, unable to prevent himself from mimicking his West Country accent.
‘It’s no good. Funny money. A fake.’
‘Now you look here, my good man.’ Mullett leaned forward across the counter. ‘I withdrew this money just this morning from Bennington’s Bank on Market Square.’
‘I don’t care whether you were presented it from the Bank of bloomin’ England isself, it’s no good and you owe me eighty pence for the week’s papers, and twelve pence for that there birthday card.’
Mullett was aware of a queue forming behind him and could sense a bustle of impatience. ‘But how do you know?’ he hissed, trying not to raise his voice.
‘Young lad dropped this one off t’other day, from Scotland Yard. Can’t trust nobody these days,’ he said in a low voice to a woman in curlers who was next in the queue. She smirked in agreement and Mullett felt his colour rise.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he said through gritted teeth.
The newsagent remained unmoved. ‘Aye, I know who y’us are.’
‘Me an’ all. Seen you on the telly,’ the woman behind chipped in.
‘Ahem.’ Mullett cleared his throat. ‘The young chap who left this other note with you, was he in uniform? What did he look like?’
‘Not in uniform, no. Tall lad, leather jacket, moonish face, hair all swept back like Bryan Ferry. Were in asking after dead lad at bottom of One Tree Hill.’
Mullett nodded politely. What the blazes was Derek Simms doing handing out fake five-pound notes to a newsagent on London Street, his newsagent, no less? Why on earth didn’t he know about it? There was Scotland Yard involvement, too. Surely he should’ve been briefed by County – how could he have been so blatantly bypassed?
‘Excuse me, if you’ve not the necessary funds, mind stepping aside?’ huffed the pompous woman behind him.
Mullett smiled tightly. ‘Not at all, madam.’ He needed to use the phone, but decided against asking for the shopkeeper’s cooperation and opted instead for the call box outside. Someone would pay for this humiliation, he promised himself as he stomped out, passing a queue of disapproving eyes.
‘Hello, son, what’s the name of that snooker place in Rimmington – the Filthy Something or Other …?’
‘The Dirty Penguin, guv – opposite the train station,’ replied young PC Ridley on Control.
‘That’s the one, cheers.’ Frost hung up. The Dirty Penguin: he remembered Baskin referring to it snarkily. When Martin Palmer had opened up his snooker club Baskin had been envious. The idea was inspired: buy up a warehouse, fill it with snooker tables, and with unemployment rising you had a ready crop of idle young blokes between seventeen and twenty-four content to waste their days locked into endless games of snooker. With expensive club-price booze and low running costs – the place was almost always in darkness save for the table lights which came on only when a game was in progress – the Dirty Penguin turned a good profit for very little effort.
He went through to the kitchen, the tiles chilling his bare feet, and put the kettle on the hob. He felt grotty. A night off the beer had led to fitful sleep, and he’d not gone properly under until almost dawn. Now with the best part of the morning gone, it was too late to call in at Bennington’s to probe into Harry’s financial affairs. The bank liked to make it as inconvenient as possible for its customers to get at their hard-earned cash by giving them only a three-hour window on Saturdays. He’d have to try and pin down Hudson at home this afternoon; at least inconveniencing the podgy banker would give him quiet satisfaction. But first, he decided, he would venture to Palmer’s club. As a mate of Baskin’s, or maybe rival was more exact, with business dealings that tended towards the shadier end of the spectrum, Palmer seemed a good place to continue his enquiries.
The kettle boiled, and as he padded across the freezing floor towards the stove he remembered he had no clean socks. No clean anything, in fact. He had some shirts at the dry-cleaner’s, but that was no good to him here and now. He’d have to do some washing. The laundry basket was overflowing with clothes, and the washing machine had not seen action in what? Months? Not since Mary … He’d put a load on, and then what? A bath maybe? Well, why not, it was the weekend after all. If he kept it short he could still be in Rimmington by 12.30; the club was open all day, being Saturday.
He was halfway up the stairs when the phone went. He chose to ignore it, assuming it would be well-wishers offering condolences, which he could do without. Or worse, the mother-in-law again about the Simpsons’ missing heirloom – the horse painting by Stubbs. That was a puzzle. What kind of thief steals nothing but a painting? One who knows its value. Forensics had dusted the wall the picture was hanging on for prints, that much he knew – but that was not worth reporting to Beryl. Of course, it could be the station on the phone, although he’d only just spoken to Ridley …
Frost turned and went back down the stairs and into the lounge, stepping over empty beer cans to reach the stereo. He took off the Count Basie 78 that rested on the turntable, placing it delicately on the armchair, and then slid out King Oliver’s ‘Canal Street Blues’. He turned the volume up sufficiently to drown out any further callers who might attempt to trouble him.
A few minutes later Frost returned to the kitchen clutching the entire laundry basket, which he plonked in the middle of the floor. He crammed as much of the contents as possible into the washing machine and then took a step back. The machine’s array of knobs and symbols appeared to him like a series of hieroglyphics.
‘Knickers!’ he said to the machine. With a resigned air he shuffled down the hall and opened the front door, to be greeted by a chilly wind blasting up through the folds of his dressing gown. Unperturbed, and without bothering with shoes, he tramped across the overgrown flower bed and over the foot-high ornamental wall that divided the Frost residence from the adjacent property. He rapped on the lurid stained-glass front door of his neighbour.
A woman in her mid-thirties opened the door. ‘Mr Frost!’ she said with surprise.
‘Hello, love. Couldn’t give me a hand working the washing machine, could you?’
‘As you can see, the break would indicate the head snapping back thus.’ Drysdale used his forearms to push back against Simms’s Adam’s apple, causing him to gag.
‘I get the picture,’ Simms said, loosening himself from the pathologist’s grip and stepping up to the light box. Intriguing though this was, his mind was not on it. Thoughts about babies and nappies kept flashing up instead. He tried to focus on the X-ray of the fracture, which, he saw, indicated that the break was clean. Drysdale had suggested it was caused by something akin to extreme whiplash from a car accident. ‘So, was this the result of the kid coming off his bi
ke or not?’
‘I’d say so, but …’
Drysdale paused and scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. Simms found the snooty pathologist annoying. He had a patronizing air that implied everyone was an imbecile aside from himself and Superintendent Mullett. Simms, who lacked Waters’ confidence and was unlikely to adopt Frost’s couldn’t-care-less attitude, struggled to overcome this. He knew he had to sharpen up if he was ever to earn his stripes.
‘There is some slight grazing to the face, which is consistent with a gravel surface such as a tarmac road.’ Drysdale rolled the boy’s pale head from side to side.
Simms did wish Drysdale wasn’t so difficult to deal with. ‘You said “but”?’
Drysdale pulled the sheet over the boy. ‘But it’s more a question of how he landed on the road, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yeah, I figured that out,’ Simms agreed crossly, rubbing his stubbled chin. Drysdale was being as obtuse as that dickhead in uniform at the scene. Why was everybody being so difficult when he had so much on his mind?
Saturday (2)
Sue Clarke stretched and rolled over in her bed to find the other side empty. ‘Derek?’ she croaked, slowly coming to. Her head felt heavy from a mixture of too much sleep and too many vodka-and-Cokes. For a moment she couldn’t comprehend Simms’s absence, but then she dimly recalled his mention of Drysdale and the lab. Yawning, she pulled herself up in bed and ran her fingers through her hair, but before she could move any further she was hit by a wave of nausea. Jesus, morning sickness again. How long would she have to put up with this? She reached for a glass of water and drank thirstily, then sat perfectly still for a minute. She was going to be OK.
As she pulled on an oversized Duran Duran T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms she played back the night’s events in her mind. At first, when the gig was over, they had argued; she’d wanted to hang back and confront Marie Roberts, the rape victim, along with her bloke. Derek Simms was having none of it. His evening had largely been spent fighting his way to and from the bar – the band with their ‘airy-fairy synth nonsense’, as he’d put it, had proved decidedly not to his taste – and no way was he hanging around in the cold to ruin some poor cow’s evening. In the end they had compromised: Simms would call in on the victim today, dropping the surprising sighting into the conversation, and Clarke, in exchange, had agreed to a coffee and nightcap round at hers.