Morning Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘I didn’t do it, you know,’ Daley said in a controlled voice behind him as he made to go. He stopped at the door and looked back. ‘The armed robbery of the payroll, where the minder died. I know you think I did, but I didn’t. I heard all about it while waiting for you and your friend to collect me this afternoon.’

  Frost turned and pulled back the chair. ‘And the hit at the Coconut Grove – Baskin and the boy?’

  ‘They’ll both live, right?’ Her cool green eyes met his.

  ‘It was touch and go with the lad for a while, but yes, they’ll both pull through.’

  ‘Maybe we can make a deal?’

  ‘What say you tell me exactly where you’ve been the last week – everything, down to where you’ve been for a wee – then I might listen to you.’

  Frost closed the door of Daley’s cell lost in thought. She was hoping that by confessing to shooting Baskin he’d cut her a deal. But he wasn’t ready to play ball; he expected he would soon have enough evidence from the ballistics analysis to charge her, and the shoe might help. When questioned on her motive for the shooting she was taciturn; she vaguely alluded to a long-standing beef with Harry, but Frost didn’t buy this; he reckoned she’d never grass and was prepared to take the fall.

  He had questioned her long and hard about her movements on Saturday night; she claimed to have had a night of passion with a local businessman, a Frenchman whom she’d met at Palmer’s that evening. If it all stacked up she’d have an alibi for Simms’s murder, and they’d need solid evidence to get her.

  He paused in the corridor. But the payroll robbery? She said not … and maybe that was true. The artist’s impression looked nothing like her. And where was the cash? If she was making to skip town, surely she’d have the payroll cash on her? Doubts were beginning to cloud his mind as to whether Daley had pulled the Gregory heist, but he couldn’t countenance the alternative: another bird running around Denton with a shooter? Flamin’ heck, this was giving him a thumping headache.

  ‘Oh! You made me jump, sir. That’s the second time you’ve caught me unawares down here.’

  Mullett frowned disparagingly. ‘So, is this young lady responsible for the mayhem that’s been wreaked over the last four or five days?’

  ‘The young lady, one Louise Daley, twenty-five years old, formerly of Carson Road, Denton, wanted in connection with a spate of bank robberies that struck the region about this time last year.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know all that. But last week’s disturbances – you have her for Baskin already, anything else we can pin on her?’ he asked keenly.

  Frost raised his eyebrows and said in a condescending tone, ‘Well, she is an armed robber, and an automatic pistol was found in her car, so there’s every chance she may have had something to do with the Gregory Leather snatch on Friday. Though she says not.’ Frost was being truthful to some degree here, and thought it best to let the super think Daley guilty of the robbery until he had an alternative explanation. The DS lit a cigarette, and offered one to Mullett, who refused. Frost shrugged and was silent for a second before muttering, ‘I’m sure I saw her mincing about in Denton in May, when we had that heatwave.’

  Mullett tapped his toe in a familiar way indicating an increasing loss of patience. ‘What about Simms?’

  ‘I would think so, yes. Though there’s no proof,’ Frost said matter-of-factly. And this he did honestly believe. ‘We still haven’t found the weapon.’

  ‘OK, well, take your time, Frost. Assess the facts and present your evidence – let’s not balls it up at the last hurdle, eh?’ And with that he moved off to address the duty sergeant who was nattering to the PC on cell watch.

  ‘Take your time?’ Frost muttered to himself. ‘Never heard that one.’ He moved to the spyhole, and viewed the prisoner. Louise Daley was supine on the bed, arms folded and eyes shut, like an Egyptian princess lying in state, perfectly calm. ‘You are a beauty …’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frost said into the phone, giving the thumbs up to Waters on the other side of the desk. Forensics had confirmed that the bullets found in Baskin’s nephew matched Daley’s Beretta left in the Triumph at the filling station. ‘And the payroll robbery on Friday – don’t suppose the bullets have materialized?’

  ‘No. Only the shell cases. Which are indeed from a nine-millimetre pistol. Without the lead it’s impossible to say—’ the Forensics officer started to explain.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Only the shell cases had been found on Simms’s body – and that was what Frost had returned to the lab for a match.

  ‘I only have what you returned. The hospital haven’t as yet found the bullets extracted from the Gregory Leather employee, and the bullet from the vehicle door is, as you know, unaccounted for. All evidence from both cases was signed for by Detective Simms.’

  ‘But Detective Simms is dead,’ Frost said, exasperated.

  ‘I know that, Sergeant. He’s here at the lab.’

  Frost’s grip tightened on the phone, and on the artist’s impression of Friday’s armed robber which he held in the other hand. It didn’t look like Daley, no matter how hard he stared at it – a fact he was even more aware of after seeing her in the flesh. ‘Can’t you tell from your records?’

  ‘No, we need the lead itself to match the striation marks with the barrel. You see—’

  ‘I know what striation marks are, thank you.’ Frost hung up and sighed.

  ‘No good?’ asked Waters.

  ‘Flaming knickers. We can’t match Daley’s gun to the armed robbery. The bullets are missing. He waved the artist’s impression at Waters, annoyed. ‘Not that she looks anything like this anyway.’

  ‘Where are they, then?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? If I did, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with that rubber johnny, would I?’

  Frost stretched his arms across the desk, his wrists resting on the computer keyboard, prompting a whirr and ping from the enormous grey box.

  ‘Useless piece of junk,’ he tutted. ‘Where are those bleedin’ bullets!’ He banged the desk angrily, scattering cigarette ash and paper everywhere. He wanted them badly to prove his gut instinct right … but if he was right, where else to look? Palmer? ‘In the meantime, let’s get a line-up together. Get the payroll clerk to give Daley a once-over, but I’m not hopeful. Judging from this.’ He tossed the sketch to one side.

  Waters looked across at Frost and noticed how bloodshot his eyes were. The man was stressed and not making a great deal of sense. Waters stretched over and levelled a tottering pile of paperwork. Frost, he was fast beginning to think, couldn’t see the wood for the trees. Waters wasn’t into psychiatry, but had begun to wonder whether Frost had suppressed his grief for his wife by obsessing over this very dangerous woman.

  ‘Jack, keep things in perspective – we have Daley for Baskin, and more than likely for Simms’s murder. Focus on that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he conceded, scrabbling for his cigarettes on the chaotic desk.

  ‘Now, tell me what you know of Daley’s movements – what has she told you?’

  Frost slumped back in the chair and repeated the interview, pausing every now and then to check himself, and in doing so calmed down. Daley’s Saturday evening as Frost told it seemed so implausible that it might well be true.

  ‘Hell, man, that’s some alibi,’ Waters said after Frost had finished. ‘Is there a chance that if she’s mates with Palmer, he put her up to murdering Baskin?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Frost shrugged. ‘But if so, why offer him as an alibi, if not to hide some greater crime?’

  Waters could see the logic – throw in Baskin to save her skin on something bigger. ‘And the French geezer? In Denton?’

  ‘He exists, all right.’ Frost exhaled, wearily. ‘He was at Mary’s send-off on Thursday with my … err … brother-in-law, as was. Who, as I said, was also at the dinner on Saturday night.’ Frost reached beneath the desk and pulled up a bottle. He seemed calmer now, having talked events through.

&nb
sp; ‘Christ, man, close to home.’

  ‘And therefore easy to check.’ Frost gestured at himself. ‘I shall pay a visit to my dear brother-in-law very soon, get him to corroborate the dinner party.’

  ‘Don’t forget to ask how his nose is.’

  ‘You can talk. And take that plaster off – you look like Adam Ant in reverse.’

  ‘That so? Well, that sorry excuse for a beard doesn’t make you Serpico.’

  Frost clawed at his jaw. ‘Really? I was hoping the girls might go for it. Well, I might have to settle for Pumpy Palmer.’ Frost got up, wincing as he did so. ‘Right, let’s see what Pumpy has to say for himself; Daley claims to be staying at a property owned by him, so that’s harbouring a known criminal for a start.’

  ‘She really is hanging him out to dry.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ Frost coughed.

  Waters realized it had occurred to the DS all along; it was impossible to make out the man’s thought processes at times.

  ‘We could squeeze him a bit. He’s a tricky one, though – don’t be fooled by his size, he’s as slippery as an eel. Not easy on the eye, but very clever.’

  ‘Why’s he called Pumpy?’

  ‘Two reasons: the most popular – with him, that is – is due to his fondness for weaponry, in particular pump-action shotguns.’

  ‘Nice … And the other?’

  ‘Please, not on an empty stomach!’ He smirked. ‘We’ll go via the Bath Road, check in with Brazier at his car lot, then shoot off to the Southern Housing Estate and sniff around, see if Ms Daley has left anything for us apart from a Frenchman’s pubes …’

  ‘What an appealing prospect.’

  ‘Not enough glamour for you?’ Frost raised a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘You’re all the glamour I need in my life, buddy.’

  Waters picked up his denim jacket and Frost grabbed his mac, spinning round into DC Hanlon, who had sheepishly ambled in looking green around the gills, his shirt open at the neck. Waters couldn’t ever remember seeing Hanlon without a tie.

  ‘Arthur, you old trooper, I thought you were poorly?’ Frost ferreted in his mac for his cigarettes, offering one to Waters, who declined. Frost was chain-smoking, which he found too much.

  ‘Mr Mullett called.’

  ‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately; is there something you’d like to share with us?’ Frost grinned knowingly.

  Hanlon raised his eyebrows wearily. ‘Bugger’s disappeared – press conference has been cancelled, or something.’

  ‘That was hours ago. But seeing as you’re here, you might as well do something useful.’

  ‘Aw, Jack, I’m really not well.’ Hanlon rubbed his prodigious belly. ‘Been throwing up all morning.’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby. We’re short-staffed as well you know – even worse than usual since the weekend … Here.’ Frost tore off a page from his notebook. ‘Go and brave this French gentleman – you’ll recognize him from when we buried the missus on Thursday.’

  ‘Don’t remember any Frenchman …’ Hanlon scratched at his unshaven jowls, glancing questioningly at Waters, who had also been at Mary Frost’s funeral, albeit briefly.

  ‘Yes, you do – you were winding him up about some football match, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah, foppy-looking fellow in a cravat.’ Hanlon waved a limp wrist in distaste.

  ‘That’s him. Well, this is the address we have for him and his shop – Avalon Antiques.’ Antiques? It registered for the first time. The shop was an antiques shop. The in-laws’ painting sprung to mind; might it be as simple as two plus two equals …? Fingerprints had been found on the hall wall. Frost tapped the side of his head, as if the act itself would encourage storage of the information. One thing at a time, though. ‘Ask him politely to confirm whether or not he’s acquainted with the bodily delights of one Miss Louise Daley. Probe gently – she reckons they spent Saturday night at it, so be vague and see what he comes up with … and get someone from uniform to drive if you can’t manage the motor. And’ – Frost pointed his lit cigarette at his sickly colleague, causing the other to step back – ‘try not to throw up on him. They’re funny about their clothes, these Continentals.’ Frost shook his head in disbelief and strode out of the room.

  Clarke was not happy. Simms’s death weighed heavily on her mind, and coming here, to where she knew his body lay, upset her deeply.

  She had followed the Forensics people back from the reservoir to the lab. She disliked Drysdale at the best of times, so to be here on her own this late in the day was particularly irksome. The lab was always a good few degrees colder than outside, even at this time of year.

  ‘Blue chalk dust.’ the pathologist sniffed. A lab technician with a trolley trundled past noisily.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she quizzed, not wishing to step any closer.

  ‘That’s what the analysis results say, my dear. Pool-cue chalk, to be precise.’

  ‘Can you be so precise? Teachers use chalk on blackboards in all colours – white, blue, you name it.’ Clarke’s thoughts were of the putative rape case involving school staff.

  Drysdale peered over his pince-nez with the haughty arrogance she’d come to resent; why he thought it reasonable to behave in such a manner she could never understand – it was his job to know such things and share the knowledge readily, after all.

  ‘It’s in the composition. Chalk in general is silicone-based, but the type that is applied to pool or snooker cues has a mix of adhesive, so that it sticks to the cue tip.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Modern science for you.’

  Clarke looked at the array of limbs before her, displayed in an assortment of trays. ‘But … are they all the same man?’

  ‘Yes, we can assume so – although the body parts are at various stages of putrefaction, due to some being above and some below water. And this is the fellow you are looking for,’ Drysdale said, lifting a cloth from the nearest tray. The stench made Clarke gag. ‘The fish have had a nibble here and there, but—’

  ‘A “nibble”? They’ve had more than a nibble.’ Clarke looked at the hollow eye sockets, where all that remained could only be described as matter – be it brains or reservoir mud – oozing within.

  ‘Well, you can tell he had blond hair.’ Drysdale prodded with a scalpel beneath what was left of the nose. ‘And wore a decentsized moustache.’

  Frost stood with Waters at the Dirty Penguin snooker-club reception desk. It had just gone 6 p.m. and it had only just opened. He felt they were being deliberately ignored. The pair behind the desk, a kid and an attractive blonde, could probably smell police and were accordingly disdainful. They would be familiar with the Rimmington plod, he guessed. Brazier had confirmed that Daley was at Palmer’s farmhouse on Saturday, as was he, but could offer little more in the way of information; as he put it, he was with the wife so he paid the skirt no attention. He couldn’t say whether Pierrejean knew Daley already; in fact he could barely recall the conversation, and crucially he didn’t know what time she left. Pissed no doubt, Frost thought. Though he did manage to recall they had arrived separately; the girl was there before any of the other guests arrived.

  ‘Mr Palmer about?’ Frost enquired when the acne-ridden desk boy finally drifted over.

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘Can I have a word with who’s in charge?’ Frost addressed his question to the strapping blonde in a tuxedo dishing out snooker cues to a pair of likely Herberts in their Sunday best.

  ‘That’s me,’ the youth replied; he couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

  ‘And who might you be then, Spotty?’ Frost snapped.

  ‘I’m Mr Palmer’s deputy manager,’ the boy said unconvincingly.

  ‘Is that so? How come I’ve not come across you before?’

  The kid shrugged and said, ‘You wouldn’t pass our dress code here.’

  Frost turned to Waters. ‘Cheeky sod. I’m sure I’ve seen this one nicking sweets from Woolies.’ Althou
gh he was jovial, Frost thought it a little strange that Palmer would leave his snooker palace in the hands of a boy. ‘Where’s Pumpy’s sidekick, the tall, bald bloke?’

  ‘Mr Nicholson is also out.’

  ‘Where did you say they’d gone again?’ Waters asked.

  ‘I didn’t.’ He sniffed.

  Frost wandered back to the entrance and looked out across the Dirty Penguin’s car park. It was starting to rain, the sort of drizzle that hung in the air for days at a time. Palmer drove a Mercedes. There was a black Mercedes nearby.

  ‘Isn’t that Palmer’s motor out there?’

  The boy, remaining at his station, bit his bottom lip in a sneer. ‘That’s Mr Nicholson’s.’

  ‘Well, where are they, then? I’ve not got all day.’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  ‘When are they back?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  ‘If you’re Pumpy’s staff, you’ll know this lady.’ Frost flashed the snap of Daley, and winked at the blonde as she bustled past. ‘It’s her we’re here about … she might be in danger. We know Mr Palmer will be concerned.’

  The lad shook his head. If Louise Daley had walked through the foyer naked he’d still swear blind he’d not seen her. Frost was impressed by the loyalty: Pumpy had his crew well trained, he had to admit.

  ‘Maybe we’ll have a poke around,’ Waters suggested.

  The blonde in the tuxedo presented herself. ‘We can’t stop you, but try not to frighten the punters. I’ll manage the desk, Des, if you like.’

  ‘Fancy a game?’ Frost asked Waters.

  ‘Only if you’re quicker than when you play chess, otherwise we’ll be here all night.’

  The foyer was shiny and smart; for something that was done on the cheap it managed to avoid being too tacky. Frost caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirrored wall and was surprised to see that he really did have a beard – how did that happen?

  Away from the desk the lad assumed a new demeanour; he was courteous, as if showing around prospective members, highlighting the facilities and number of tables. They entered Palmer’s office. There seemed to be little trace of recent activity – the place was neat and clean, as if the occupant had gone away on holiday.