Morning Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘Jesus H!’ Waters exclaimed softly to himself as he lowered the binoculars.

  Two marksmen stepped out from the bushes and moved towards Nicholson who’d slumped back against the Merc, hands held above his head.

  Frost turned round, lighting a cigarette, and shrugged at Waters as the girl careened past him screaming hysterically. Waters jogged up to his pal standing on his own in the middle of the road.

  ‘What did you say to that maniac to change his mind?’

  Frost shrugged again. ‘Not much. I told him everyone thought he was going to kill his girlfriend anyway; we knew he beat her up and didn’t give a toss about her.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Then I said, she was going to do a runner, so he may as well shoot her. That just got him mad.’

  Waters watched the girl, handcuffed and with mascarasmeared cheeks, bowing into the back of an Allegro panda car. ‘So I saw,’ he said.

  ‘He then said he could kill me. I said, be my guest.’

  Waters looked at Frost hard, and saw in his eyes that he meant it. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, thank fuck he didn’t.’ He clasped his friend by the shoulder, and walked him back to the Vauxhall.

  Tuesday (6)

  Mullett’s brow creased in consternation. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said, tugging a shirt cuff free from underneath his tunic. ‘Run the robbery by me one more time.’

  Frost’s face was smudged with soot, but he appeared perfectly calm after what had been a harrowing day. ‘Nicholson was seething that Palmer had tipped Daley off to the payroll job, so much so that he vented his spleen to girlfriend Rayner about how ridiculous it was to share such an easy, lucrative job with Daley.’

  ‘Why did Palmer do that, anyway?’ Mullett asked, getting up from behind his desk; the portrait of Margaret Thatcher had gone askew on the opposite wall.

  ‘It was an easy job – but risky,’ Frost continued, ‘and Daley reckons that if she’d got caught Palmer could easily have distanced himself from her as she was already wanted for armed robbery.’

  ‘And the Rayner girl?’ He adjusted the Prime Minister to his satisfaction.

  ‘Was desperate to get away from Nicholson; this job would have given her a wedge of cash with which to do a bunk. Unfortunately for her, events escalated too fast for her to make a move.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s her?’

  ‘The heavy make-up fits and we’re having the gun checked now.’

  ‘And this Game character? How does an accountant from Rimmington wind up at the bottom of Denton reservoir? Surely not for cheating at snooker?’

  ‘The crooked snooker matches were how it all started; Game was a good player, a keen amateur, but apparently suffered badly from nerves. Pumpy realized this so nobbled a couple of opponents to allow Game to climb the ladder, which he duly did. Nicholson knew about this too, of course, but was also wise to Game’s day job – a senior accountant at Rumbelows on the outskirts of town; to be more precise, Game looked after stock control. Nicholson leaned on him to nick stuff.’

  ‘I see.’ Mullett sniffed. ‘And Game lost his nerve?’

  ‘Exactly; as Nicholson upped the orders, Game panicked – he was terrified he’d lose his job; his nervous disposition didn’t suit swindling his employers.’

  ‘But to kill him – seems a bit extreme, even for a violent thug like Nicholson?’

  ‘Nicholson thought Game had ratted on him to us – and indirectly he had: that warehouse Sue Clarke was watching was where Nicholson stored his stolen gear.’ Frost paused. ‘Nicholson must have clocked Clarke’s surveillance, explaining why she saw bugger all. Nicholson immediately thought Game had dobbed him in.’

  Mullett felt satisfied. There was a rap on the door. ‘Come!’ he pronounced regally. Things really were looking up. A young uniformed officer entered the office. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A pair of meat cleavers have been found in North Denton, sir.’

  Mullett looked at Frost expectantly. ‘Who found them?’

  ‘An old tramp, rooting around in a bin.’

  ‘Tramp?’ Frost broke in.

  ‘Yes, Inspector: Reeves.’

  ‘God, don’t let him touch them.’

  ‘You know this character?’ Mullett asked.

  ‘Nicky “the Weasel” Reeves.’ Frost nodded with disdain. ‘Always flashing his willy at the ladies, sir.’

  Mullett fidgeted uncomfortably in the leather chair.

  ‘You’re right to look appalled, sir, I’ve said to him before just because it’s big doesn’t mean you have to show—’

  ‘All right, Constable, that will be all,’ Mullett snapped. Frost was clearly saying this deliberately – he knew Mullett couldn’t abide smut. ‘Well, you’d better get over there, Frost – the murder weapon is vital. Do we have any clue as to the motive behind Palmer’s murder?’

  ‘Blackmail,’ Frost said confidently.

  ‘Blackmail? Are you sure? Over what?’

  ‘Palmer was a fairy.’ Frost reached for the heavy ornamental desk lighter.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know: bats for the other side.’ He winked.

  Mullett winced with distaste. ‘I see.’ Though he didn’t really; homosexuality was on the very fringes of his ken; something seen at a safe distance on the television set, or experienced at public school (so he was led to believe) – certainly as far away from Her Majesty’s Constabulary as it was possible to imagine. ‘Are there others involved?’ He felt it appropriate to ask, despite having absolutely no desire to know.

  ‘But is there anyone else involved?’ Waters pressed Frost as he sat, sipping his tea contentedly. They were in the incident room, alone apart from the tall blonde WPC who was clearing the board and walls of the events of the last seven days. A telephone rang, obstinately ignored by all.

  ‘Possibly.’ He raised a wry eyebrow. The WPC finally moved towards the telephone. ‘Leave it,’ Frost said. ‘It’ll only be the press fishing for a comment – always is after Hornrim Harry does a TV stint. Someone should tell him Opportunity Knocks ain’t on any more.’

  Waters recognized the ring to be an internal call, but continued to ignore it. ‘Don’t be such a tart. You know more than you’re letting on.’

  Frost smiled a broad bearded grin. ‘Superintendent Kelsey at Rimmington.’

  ‘What? He knows?’

  ‘For certain, I reckon.’

  Frost was being obtuse, and his attention was on the WPC, who wasn’t remotely interested in the looks she was getting from the frazzled inspector. ‘You’re having me on.’ Waters shook his head. ‘Explain?’

  ‘Nicholson knew, and had a squeeze on him and Pumpy – you know you asked me about his nickname, well, it seems it wasn’t only referring to the guns. He went to great lengths to project some sort of Lothario image, but it was all a front. He was horrified by the thought of it being made public. We have his oily manservant in – if that’s the right word – and he’s confirmed it.’

  ‘But Kelsey?’

  ‘Yep. You remember he called me last week? What I didn’t tell you was that he said Winslow was bent.’

  ‘Him too? I had no idea it was so prevalent in the force.’

  ‘Winslow’s not gay. Kelsey was feeding us a half-truth. Remember the call Clarke got from someone at Rimmington – possibly the duty sergeant – about the body in the reservoir? That a non-existent wife had reported her husband missing? Well, it’s the same there: misinformation. Somebody was in the frame – only this time himself. His very words were: “It’s difficult to be gay in the police force.” He meant it. You got off lightly, just being black.’

  Waters rolled his eyes. ‘Why, thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘The other thing I wonder now is if it really was Winslow who Miller saw outside the Pink Toothbrush in May.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember there were reports of soliciting from the flats that back on to Baskin’s sauna? Hornrim Harry insisted we stake the place out, so we did, and the
only thing we saw was the ACC leaving in the small hours. Well, at a distance Kelsey could easily be mistaken for Winslow.’ Frost shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. ‘Couldn’t confuse them on the blower, though, chalk and cheese …’

  ‘But, Jack, you’re moving off the point – what does it mean? Why would he let you know his sexual inclinations – other than to make a pass at you, and who wouldn’t – and what has it to do with Nicholson?’

  ‘I said Nicholson knew that both men were homosexual. He had leverage over Palmer and pushed him to bump off Harry – poor old Pumpy wouldn’t have done it otherwise. All he was guilty of was underestimating his sidekick’s ambition and taking a bung to fix a snooker match. Take Paul Game the snooker player, for example: Palmer had helped him up the snooker ladder—’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Frost rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Readies. And if not, then some opponents might suddenly find themselves not match fit; yes, by all accounts fingers sometimes got broken.

  ‘Anyway, Palmer gave Game a leg-up, for whatever reason. Shortly afterwards Nicholson squeezed Game into stealing electricals from his day job. You can bet Palmer knew nothing of this – Harry Baskin confirmed as much, when Game came to him for help. Harry tipped me off, and we had the place under surveillance – Nicholson must have clocked this, twigged Game had grassed and killed him.’ Frost scratched his beard thoughtfully.

  ‘And Harry himself getting shot – how does that fit in?’

  ‘Don’t know for sure, but remember Rachel Rayner works for Harry, she’d have seen Game with Harry. I haven’t spoken to Ms Rayner yet, but I figure that although she loathed her old man, she’d slip him the odd nugget like this – that Game had run to Harry – to keep him occupied, thus proving her loyalty, but all the while keeping him off the scent that she would ever plan to do a runner. He did confide in her after all, told her about the payroll job.’

  ‘And Kelsey?’

  ‘Nicholson was becoming too much – taking too many risks; Kelsey had to act before he found himself trapped. He had to bring Nicholson down without implicating himself. If another division, like Denton, was involved, Nicholson couldn’t blame Kelsey, and at the same time Kelsey couldn’t help Nicholson, should he get arrested. Kelsey would not be compromised.’

  ‘Bugger me.’

  ‘Well, quite. Now then, where are those French chappies?’

  ‘We’ve put a national alert out for the car, a white Citroën – I got the details from the shop manager. Reckon they’ll do a bunk to France.’

  ‘We’ll have them if they do.’

  The phone’s persistence, which had resumed after a pause, had managed to penetrate Frost’s disregard for it and he stretched across the desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Yep.’ Frost’s face broadened in surprise. ‘What? Downstairs! How bad?’ He threw the phone back in the cradle and shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Not another punch-up in the cells?’ Waters asked. ‘Who – it’s not that busy?’

  ‘Sue Clarke has just kicked the crap out of Daley.’ Frost raced out along the corridor. Waters on his heel was impressed at the older man’s pace as they hammered down the stairs.

  They stopped dead in their tracks on reaching the cells; at the far end Clarke was breathing heavily, back against the wall, head bowed. In front of her was the divisional superintendent, bearing down only inches from her face. Waters turned to Frost; the DI looked distraught. Mullett would crucify her if she’d given Daley so much as a whisker of a chance to slip off the hook. This wasn’t the same as two football hooligans thumping each other whilst drying out. Waters’ heart went out to Frost; they both suddenly realized that the duty officer, who now passed them meekly in the corridor, had tried to circumvent the super getting involved – but they’d not answered the phone.

  ‘You can’t breathe for one minute in this job,’ Frost muttered grimly, as Clarke and Mullett marched past them both without pause, though the words ‘Careful, Inspector’ echoed in the stairwell.

  Waters followed Frost slowly down to Daley’s cell. They could hear laughter. Frost stopped short, turning away. ‘I can’t look.’

  Waters stepped up to the door and slid back the hatch.

  ‘Boyfriend, was he?’ Daley smiled at the door through bloodied teeth, knowing she was being watched.

  ‘It’s not that bad. Superficial,’ Waters told Frost by way of comfort, though he wasn’t so sure – if she didn’t clean up all right for the magistrate’s hearing tomorrow there’d be hell to pay.

  ‘Sue! Sue!’ Frost was wheezing like a man twice his years, and he’d only jogged round the corner to the car park at the rear of Eagle Lane. ‘Wait!’ he stuttered as his foot slid on an icy puddle. Flaming heck, he thought, you could freeze your knackers off on a night like tonight – wouldn’t want to drive far. He caught her getting into the Escort. He bent double, hands on knees trying to catch his breath. ‘Wells said … Wells said …’ Frost gasped; the day had finally taken its toll on him, and he broke out into a cough of a dire brutality.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jack,’ Clarke said with distaste, her breath tinged with cold. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘But I’m getting a new washing machine – I’ll be a clean mess.’ He stood up. ‘With a dryer.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled, hand on the car door. ‘I didn’t mean that, though; I meant the state of you – hacking away there.’

  ‘Running after you; that’s twice in one day I’ve legged it after you.’

  ‘And too late in both cases,’ she said in a tone that reminded him of his wife’s mother – or did he mean his wife?

  ‘Bill Wells said you quit.’

  ‘I did,’ she said, without emotion.

  ‘Don’t worry about Hornrim Harry; Daley will survive – I’m sure—’

  ‘Stuff Mullett and stuff Daley … and …’ She paused. ‘Look, Jack, I’d better go.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ But she was already inside the car. He rapped on the glass. Once the engine started she wound down the window.

  ‘Essex. To my parents’.’ She glanced up at him in the cold autumn night, looking very tired. ‘Bye, Jack.’ The car started to reverse. Frost stepped back, engulfed in exhaust fumes. The car moved forward, then halted abruptly. Frost ran to the window.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked expectantly.

  ‘Look out for David Simms. I know he’s in uniform, but all the same. Try, eh?’

  Frost followed her tail-lights to the front of the building then watched them disappear into the dark, wet autumn night. A tall silhouette appeared at the police-station entrance.

  ‘Jack,’ Waters called out. ‘Got something interesting.’

  Frost ambled over wearily to the front steps. ‘Interesting, you say? Think I’ve had my fill of interesting for today – tell me something boring instead.’

  ‘Err … your mother-in-law has been on the phone again about her painting – boring enough for you?’ Waters clasped him around the shoulder.

  ‘Flaming knickers. Blasted nag is probably in Calais by now.’ Frost lit a cigarette. ‘Go on, then, I’m all ears.’

  ‘Remember that paperboy found at the bottom of One Tree Hill? A lot of arsing around about whether the kid’s death was suspicious or a straightforward hit-and-run?’

  ‘Vaguely – Simms was looking into it.’

  ‘That’s the one – well, it transpires the incident was thoroughly investigated and Simms’s kid brother has been tying up the pieces as part of some computer synergy bollocks, which I won’t trouble your tired brain with. But he’s come up with some interesting stuff, and you’ll never guess who’s in the frame for a hit-and-run …’

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Sarah Neal, Elisabeth Merriman, Rachel Rayner, Kate Samano, Bill Scott-Kerr, Sarah Castleton, John Worland, Phil Patterson, Martin Palmer, Krystyna Green, Rob Nichols, Julian Brazier, Steve Moore.

  About the Author

  James Henry is the pen name for Jame
s Gurbutt, who has long been a fan of the original R. D. Wingfield Frost books and the subsequent TV series. He works in publishing, and enjoys windsurfing and long lunches.

  After a successful career writing for radio, R. D. Wingfield turned his attention to fiction, creating the character of Jack Frost. The series has been adapted for television as the perennially popular A Touch of Frost, starring David Jason. R. D. Wingfield died in 2007.

  Also by James Henry

  First Frost

  Fatal Frost

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  First published in Great Britain

  in 2013 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Written for the Estate of R. D. Wingfield by James Gurbutt

  Copyright © the Estate of R. D. Wingfield 2013

  James Gurbutt has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448153466

  ISBNs 9780593071007 (hb)

  9780593071014 (tpb)

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