Morning Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘Well, fat lot of good that will do – stop me if I’m wrong, but I doubt he’s got “Tricky Whiskers” painted the length of his articulated, has he? I mean, how the flaming hell will we find him? This is urgent. He has no idea who he has on board.’

  ‘Do we?’ Waters asked.

  ‘Yes. We do.’ He reached inside his mac and produced a portrait photo, which he spun over to the opposite desk.

  ‘A real cutie,’ Waters said, repeating the truck driver’s phrase with raised eyebrows. ‘Who?’

  ‘That is Miss Louise Daley.’ Frost stood up. ‘The traffic cops at the garage ID’d her.’

  ‘Are you sure it was her, Jack?’ Clarke said.

  Frost detected disbelief in her voice. ‘They are sure,’ he said pointedly. ‘It’s not me who saw her, remember?’ He wanted it to be Daley, a point not lost on Clarke, but uniform’s corroboration removed the suggestion of obsession on Frost’s part. The escape of the last member of the gang that had caused the demise of Bert Williams had been haunting him for the best part of a year. He suspected now it was likely to have been her who had stabbed Simms, thinking it was him – but he said nothing of that to Clarke. ‘And you can bet your arse it was her that held up the payroll on Friday. And we are not going to let her get away again.’

  ‘OK, give me that,’ Clarke said, snatching the photo. ‘We’ll get on to National and set up patrol cars between here and the South Coast – we’ll get her this time, Jack.’

  ‘I pray we do, but she’s slippery as hell.’ Clarke ran out of the office while Frost frowned at the map. ‘Where are you? Where are you?’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do now, pal,’ Waters said, ‘but fortunately we have Mullett’s briefing on the computer system at eleven to take our mind off things.’

  ‘Yes, John.’ Frost sighed, poking a cigarette between his teeth. ‘Thank goodness you reminded me. Where would we be without the super’s new toy?’

  ‘Out solving crimes, maybe?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Frost mused, ‘but you know, I’m not sleeping much at the moment. The super’s soporific tone might just do the trick – I could catch forty winks while he drones on about the Incident Reporting Whatchyacallit …’

  ‘Have we gone “live”?’ Clarke re-entered the room, breathless.

  ‘Not you too?’ Frost said, exasperated. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘All in hand,’ she assured him. ‘Uniform are on the case – we will get her.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘In the meantime, take a trip to Denton Comp and pick up that teacher – let’s see if her memory’s still on the blink.’

  Charles sat in the attic room above Avalon Antiques on Gentlemen’s Walk. Rain had started to patter on the skylight. Slumped in the old rocking chair, he was considering what he should do next, and whether they were in any real danger. Gaston’s pacing in the dusty, cluttered room was not helping him focus his thoughts. Charles had just told him he’d given Louise Daley counterfeit notes. After she telephoned from what sounded like the middle of a main road, Charles realized he might have put them in a spot of trouble, so he’d come clean to Gaston (though withholding the nature of the transaction itself). Before arriving in the UK the pair had manufactured high-quality forgeries and had slowly been drip-feeding them into circulation. As their antiques business started to flounder, so they had upped the usage of fake money to maintain a respectable lifestyle while all around them were gripped by the recession.

  ‘Gaston, please. That floor is several centuries old, but your incessant pacing is seriously reducing its chances of making it into the next one—’

  ‘Ha! The next century! Eighteen years’ time! By then this country may just be considering letting us out of gaol!’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate – we’ve taken liberties with the English currency, not kidnapped its queen. I’m sure the worst that can happen is we’ll get deported …’

  ‘Deported, then prison.’ The little man paused in his pacing and frowned.

  Charles was deeply fond of Gaston, and hated to see him fret so. ‘Pah, I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Your namesake in Brussels will recommend clemency – sterling work on behalf of the Common Market.’

  ‘Charles, this is no laughing matter … and what about the painting? It will be seized for sure if the police start sniffing around here – we have nowhere to hide it.’

  ‘Hmm, this is true. The situation, I admit, is not a good one,’ Pierrejean conceded. He covetously eyed the Stubbs on an ancient easel before them.

  ‘Tell me again – what is it this woman said to you?’ Gaston persisted.

  ‘She said she may call upon me for help. “You will not be incriminated,” she said.’ And a long line of expletives that he didn’t feel required repeating. Louise had not accused him directly, but it was clearly implied in her tone.

  Gaston sighed. Charles felt for him; he did not have the mettle for such risks. ‘But that means nothing! Why, oh why, did you give her the money – when we’d agreed no more?’

  ‘She was supposed to be leaving Denton last night. I thought the risk minimal.’ She had told him she was leaving that very night, driving to Wales initially, although yesterday evening vague promises had been made for a romantic rendezvous in Paris. She seemed genuinely to like him and took the money out of necessity – although her tune may well have changed since; the last thing he’d expected was her getting caught with the fake money at a service station not two kilometres from this very shop!

  Any other girl would have simply gone along to the police station, made up some spurious story about receiving the money in some shop, feigned innocence and walked away. Charles in rather cavalier fashion had palmed off the forgeries on a woman who clearly had issues with the police. Why was he now surprised it had backfired? Instinctively he knew her to be trouble, so involving her covertly in their shady dealings had been a foolish risk; he cursed himself. His libido had got the better of him once again. He tried to placate Gaston. ‘She did not suspect – she is a high-class call girl, that’s all I know. I didn’t think she’d run from the police for being in possession of a fake note.’

  ‘Mon dieu, I cannot believe this. Because she is wanted by the police!’ he shouted furiously. ‘Most men in our present position would run a hundred kilometres from such a woman – but no, not you; she flashes her … her bits at you, and off you go!’

  ‘It’s not quite like that …’

  Though he knew very well it was, and that he was very much in the wrong. They should have hopped it once they knew the police were on to the forged notes. He hated England, the weather, the culture, the men; why he found the women so alluring he had no idea. ‘I only gave her a hundred pounds.’

  ‘One hundred!’ Gaston tutted; the poor fellow was on the verge of questioning how and why, but realizing it was pointless said, ‘Charles, you have no reason to believe her word; we cannot risk hanging around here a moment longer. We should return to France immediately. Burn the money.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Charles rose from the chair, and walked towards his friend and embraced him. ‘We shall burn the rest of the money immediately. The painting, though – what shall we do with the painting? It is too valuable to risk leaving behind.’

  ‘Painting? What painting?’ A tall bald man in a dark suit emerged before them from the attic stairs.

  Monday (3)

  Charles was uncertain what to do. There could be no doubt that he was in more trouble now than an hour ago when he’d put down the telephone on Louise. When the unexpected visitor who now ushered them into the back of a black Mercedes had asked that they come immediately to see Palmer on a matter most urgent, Charles knew a refusal would not be tolerated.

  The man smiled a closed, menacing smile; his very presence was threatening. There was something inherently sinister about tall, quiet men in dark overcoats and black gloves. It was the gloves that did it. Charles slid into the back of the car with Gaston, the door shutting after them with a confident G
erman clunk.

  It was too late to do anything now, but what would he have done anyway? Screamed for help as they were marched out of the antiques shop? And what would have happened then? The man was carrying a gun; of that he was sure – how else would that deathly cool be sustained? It couldn’t just be his height, although he was several centimetres taller than Charles himself. Still, if they were really in serious trouble, wouldn’t Palmer’s men have grabbed the painting? As it was, the valuable Stubbs remained where they’d left it, on the easel.

  Gaston shifted uncomfortably next to him.

  All they knew was that Mr Palmer wanted to see them urgently. Which in itself should be nothing to worry about, except that ‘urgently’ did mean literally this minute, and there was no explanation as to why. Charles knew it could be only one thing. As they left Denton and powered up the Rimmington Road he felt slightly queasy at the prospect of seeing Palmer – since it was more than likely that he too had had a call from Louise Daley.

  ‘Good morning, everybody.’ Mullett stood at his groomed finest before a full briefing room. ‘Today, as you are all aware, is IRIS day. Yes, the computer age has finally arrived in Denton. The Incident Resource and Information System is now fully operational. Uniform went live on Friday, and this week CID …’

  Frost yawned loudly. However annoying Mullett was, he was nothing if not professional. Frost knew the super was just back from visiting Simms’s parents, a task Frost himself would not relish, but there was Hornrim Harry up at the front, immaculate and unruffled. Mullett looked to the man in the lab coat standing next to him to corroborate his last pronouncement. The technician, who’d spent most of the last week scuttling around the building looking stressed, nodded apprehensively. Frost thought that this poor unlucky sod, to whom the majority of CID had been rude since his arrival a week ago – in particular himself – looked decidedly uncertain.

  ‘… this means that from this day forth, the old incident board is obsolete, and going forward it is the responsibility of each individual to log his activity electronically. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary procedures.’ Frost could see the super’s beady eye sparkle as it focused in on him. Pathetic, Frost thought, he’s doing this solely to annoy me. He lit a cigarette and ruminated on Louise Daley. How those clots in uniform could lose that girl at a filling station was beyond him. He stared at the creased photograph he’d carried on him for the past year. She was a stunner, all right. His conscience, in his tired bedraggled state, had no qualms in allowing him idle fantasies about her. The fact she’d more than likely murdered his colleague was temporarily shelved in his mind.

  At the front of the room the superintendent’s voice rose an octave. There was something sadistic in Mullett’s obstinacy in refusing to move this blasted computer meeting; he knew Frost was bursting to get out after her. There was a good chance she was responsible for the mayhem in Denton this last week – did Mullet not see that? He ran his grubby thumb along the contour of Louise Daley’s cheek.

  Shaking himself abruptly, he ground out the cigarette on the meeting-room floor, something Mullett hated, and pocketed the photo. What on earth was the super burbling on about now? Back-up routines and whatnot? This was getting his back up, all right. Procedure, procedure. But Frost was resolved not to be beaten – he would use the interlude to marshal his thoughts; compose himself rather than fly off the handle. He lit another cigarette and nodded sagely at the introduction of something called a Central Processing Unit.

  Mullett pivoted himself round in his executive chair and glared out at the car park expectantly. Winslow, the Assistant Chief Constable, was due any minute from County HQ; according to Miss Smith he’d be here at twelve. The Denton super was unsettled by his visit to the Simms family home in Lexton. He lit a Senior Service and chose not to dwell on the encounter, but rather to focus on the here and now and the incoming ACC. He might have bothered to show up for the presentation on the IRIS system, thought Mullett. After all, the odious little man had turned up for the Rimmington ‘go live’; indeed Mullett himself had been summoned to attend Superintendent Kelsey’s tedious display at Winslow’s insistence. Mullett was baffled by the ACC’s preferential treatment of the bluff, uncouth Rimmington commander; maybe it was because Kelsey was as small and bald as he was. They were as eerily similar in looks as they were disparate in deportment.

  He sighed loudly. Though he was pleased to see the modernization of Eagle Lane station, he wasn’t convinced that a computer system would have prevented the chaos that in the last week had reigned over Denton. The collation and sharing of information was one thing, but would it replace men pounding the streets catching criminals? He doubted it, but he could already see the fiscal implications – the cost must be staggering; they wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of improving the station’s manpower now.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ he muttered, spying between the blinds Winslow’s Jaguar cruising into the car park. He was quite prepared for the ACC now – let him try and browbeat Stanley Mullett – for the superintendent had been toying with letting slip what the surveillance operation outside the Pink Toothbrush sauna in May had surprisingly revealed.

  He drummed his fingers on the highly polished desk. But the ACC should have no quarrel with Denton today. Louise Daley, a wanted felon, had been spotted just outside the town this morning. There was a good chance she was responsible for much of the recent crime wave.

  Still, Winslow’s sponsorship of Frost was a constant irritation. He buzzed Miss Smith for coffee. Loathe Winslow as he did, you had to respect someone who could make ACC when still the right side of fifty. He pondered again whether Winslow might be a Mason and whether it had been wise of him to dismiss Hanlon out of hand like that …

  ‘Ahh, good morning, Nigel,’ Mullett said, rising from his chair as Miss Smith showed in the ACC.

  ‘Stanley,’ he rejoined, removing his uniform cap and running his hand needlessly over his bald dome. ‘All go off OK, with the computers and whatnot?’

  ‘Tip top, sir. The whole of Eagle Lane is live and functioning. Uniform went live last Friday and CID today. It’s a shame you missed it.’

  ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ he said, making himself comfortable.

  Mullett was instantly rankled by Winslow’s lack of interest. Was an apology too much to ask for? But the ACC clearly didn’t feel compelled to expand on the reason for his no-show.

  ‘Yes, it’s a shame – I was rather hoping you might have made it, to impress upon the men the importance of this system. I mean’ – he paused as Miss Smith entered with the coffee – ‘it will be a disciplinary offence not to log incidents in the prescribed fashion.’

  Winslow sipped his coffee daintily, and smiled at Miss Smith. ‘Of course, CID might be a problem – I can see that’ – Mullett beamed at this response – ‘however, there’s all manner of viciousness going on out there, so don’t come down on them like a ton of bricks straight away, eh, there’s a good chap. Now, what have you to report? I know extra men were drafted in yesterday following the young detective getting murdered.’

  ‘We have a lead, sir. A wanted felon was spotted this morning,’ Mullett said proudly. ‘The suspect has a history of violent crime and we are confident she’s responsible for the havoc wreaked last week, including the murder of DC Derek Simms.’

  ‘Jolly good, Stanley.’ The ACC smiled a weak smile. ‘You say “spotted”?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve yet to catch her. But we will.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear. This division could do with a result.’

  ‘The woman aside’ – Mullett fiddled with his Windsor knot self-consciously – ‘we’re exploring all possibilities and the extra men will be usefully deployed fact-finding on the Baskin shooting. If there’s the remotest chance of a gang war we need to stamp on it immediately, show them who’s boss.’

  ‘Well, quite. What did you have in mind?’ Winslow arched a single eyebrow.

  ‘We need to look at the comings a
nd goings at both of Baskin’s establishments. Just because he was shot at the Coconut Grove, doesn’t mean we should rule out the Pink Toothbrush – that’s the sauna in the centre of town,’ Mullet said pointedly. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of it, sir? About six months ago we held the place under surveillance following complaints of seedy goings-on …’ He left the remark hanging there.

  The ACC didn’t take the bait. The fact that he might be compromised, having been witnessed leaving the premises, appeared not to stir him at all. Instead he said, ‘I wouldn’t waste too much time on Baskin – if it transpires it’s some feud between lowlifes you can bet there’ll be no charges brought to bear. Prioritize, Stanley.’

  ‘But this is all part of the investigation into Simms’s murder,’ Mullett said, crestfallen. ‘Louise Daley consorts with the criminal underworld; who knows where this might lead—’

  ‘No, your priority is the rapist, Superintendent, as I’ve told you before; I’m assuming you don’t have this woman fingered for the rapes?’

  God, I really do hate you, Mullett thought to himself as he stared into the small, mole-like eyes of his superior officer.

  ‘The public, think of the public,’ Winslow continued. ‘The people need to feel safe. Nobody cares if some overweight club owner gets blasted, or for that matter if a policeman gets stabbed, but rape is bad. That and theft – the armed robbery in broad daylight – that in the eyes of the general public is borderline anarchy. And on the panic scale, a payroll is about as bad as it can get.’

  ‘Quite,’ Mullett concurred grudgingly. ‘The minder did just die of a heart attack—’

  ‘That’s immaterial – stealing a payroll is the weekly wage packet gone: tantamount to taking food from children’s mouths.’ Mullett looked perplexed. ‘If it’s a bank job,’ Winslow continued regardless, ‘that’s fine – it’s the bank’s money. It’s not in reality, of course, but that’s what the good citizens of Denton think. But I don’t really need to tell you that, do I?’