by Danny Miller
‘Relax, Derek,’ said Waters, ‘we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Why don’t you tell Inspector Frost what you saw.’
Reece got animated, pulled his hands out of his pockets and gesticulated his way through his account. ‘Well, it must have been about three o’clock. Me and Kas drove in just as some bloke was pulling out. He was going fast, I only managed to stop because I heard the skidding on the gravel before I saw him. Just like happened to you, Inspector Frost, on the way in here.’
‘Go on, Derek,’ prompted Waters.
‘Anyway, this bloke wasn’t looking at all where he was going, and he only just missed us. I slammed on the brakes. Then he had to back up to pull out again.’
‘So you got a good look at him and his car?’ asked Frost.
Derek gave a big toothy grin that exposed a mouth of crooked teeth and said, ‘I did. I got a really good look. He was driving a red Porsche 924. I’d know that car anywhere. It’s my favourite motor of all time, I’d love one of those.’
‘Magnum,’ came a timid voice from the passenger seat.
‘Sorry, love?’ said Frost, glancing down at Karen.
She repeated, ‘Magnum. He looked like Magnum. You know, the TV show.’
Waters attempted to explain. ‘Yeah, Tom Selleck, in that Hawaiian cop show?’
Frost looked puzzled. ‘Not “Book ’em, Danno” from Hawaii Five-O? I know him.’
Karen shook her head and said solemnly, ‘No, definitely Magnum.’
Derek backed her up. ‘Yeah, he did. Dead ringer for Magnum PI. Thick brown hair and a big moustache. A proper one.’
Frost’s mind immediately and inexplicably scrolled back to Jason the estate agent, and his bum-fluffed top lip. No doubt Derek would consider that a very ‘un-proper’ moustache. Still, at least it put the young estate agent out of the frame.
‘And then what happened?’
‘I hopped out of the motor and went over to the Merc.’ Reece winced at the recollection. ‘I thought the bloke was dead – he looked terrible. Never occurred to me that he might still be alive. I said to Karen, we’ve got to ring the rozzers.’
‘Derek!’ scolded Karen.
‘I mean ring the police, sorry.’
‘Relax, son, been called a lot worse,’ assured Frost. ‘Go on.’
‘So we drove back to the Feathers pronto, and I rang from the phone box outside. Then we drove back here and waited.’
The DI surveyed the lay-by again. Seeing Forensics crawling all over the scene, Frost made a growly sound that perfectly expressed two things: he could kill for a cup of tea and bacon sarnie, and there was nothing more to be gleaned from hanging about here. He told the young couple they were to accompany Waters down to Eagle Lane, so they could make formal statements, but, more importantly, work with a police sketch artist to come up with a picture of the Porsche driver. Still caught up in the excitement, they were happy to do so.
Frost then turned to Waters and issued his next instructions in a faux American accent: ‘Right then, Serpico, get on to Control to put out an APB to all cars on Magnum!’ He then headed back to the Metro for the drive to Eagle Lane, wondering if he had time to slip in that brown-sauce-smothered bacon sarnie before events overtook him.
Friday (2)
As Billy ‘Bomber’ Harris walked along Hillside Road on the Southern Housing Estate he took a quick glance over his shoulder and spotted the black BMW 7 series purring its way behind him. It was the same one he’d seen out of his bedroom window hours ago, when the internal alarm clock of his belly grumbling got him out of bed at around midday for his full English. Old Bill, he suspected. As he quickly recounted the litany of petty larcenies and small-time dope-dealing he’d participated in lately, nothing much sprang to mind that would warrant more than a good knock on the door from one of Denton’s finest. It would probably be a call from that black copper, Waters was his name – he usually kept pretty close tabs on what was going on on the estate. Harris always thought Waters was capable; he looked like he could handle himself, and was one of the few coppers he wouldn’t get too lippy with. But as for following him in a Bimmer, well, it was all a bit over the top, wasn’t it?
Bomber usually walked around the Southern Housing Estate at a leisurely pace, knowing he didn’t have to move fast for anyone, or even be anywhere on time. He could do exactly as he pleased, when he pleased, no one would mess with him. He carried himself with a broad-shouldered swagger, looked like he had an invisible football tucked under each arm. Harris enjoyed watching people move out of his way as he went about his business, or seeing them cowering when he approached, even when he had a big smile on his face. Outside of his little gang, no one on the estate wanted Bomber Harris coming up to them, smiling or otherwise.
But not today. Today the swagger had left him and his pace had picked up, as he looked nervously about him for an escape route. All the while the thrum of the car’s engine behind him seemed to be getting louder and louder, matching him step for step. He could sprint down a side road and bolt up some stairs and disappear along one of the tower-block walkways. He knew the estate better than anyone, certainly better than these interlopers.
He made his move. But so did they. The screech of tyres as he pulled away alerted him to the fact that the chase was on. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he legged it down the road and the adrenalin kicked in. Then he heard a noise, a strange noise. It sounded like a finger flicking a crisp sheet of paper. Then came a searing pain in his right leg that alerted him to the fact that the chase was over.
Harris stopped in his tracks and quickly crumpled to the ground. He gripped his calf, bulky with hard muscle, the result of playing football for the county in his youth, and of working out thrice weekly in the gym. It was bleeding profusely, and hurt unbearably. He looked at the red hole oozing blood and still couldn’t believe what it was.
He then felt the warm tip of a just-fired gun touch his chin and guide his terrified and pained gaze upwards. It was met by the cold smiles of the two men standing over him. Harris refocused on the gun still at his chin. Its barrel protruded like a small rifle. Harris liked guns, had seen a few in his time, yet he’d never seen one like this before. Then he realized the gun had a silencer attached to it, hence the muted discharge. Was this the gun that was going to kill him? It all seemed a bit elaborate … and strangely exceptional for a toe-rag like him. Even Bomber would admit to that. It was an assassin’s gun. This is mad, he thought, looking up at the two very proficient-looking men, their poker faces giving nothing away, certainly not his fate.
One had short and thick black hair, a slab of a face and a scar running across his chin, a thin white line cutting through his five-o’clock shadow. The other had a crop of fine blond hair, which looked almost downy, like a baby’s. But there any affinity with innocence ended. His bony face held a pair of flinty eyes that looked like pulling the trigger of the gun he was holding wouldn’t even elicit a blink from them. These two really were in a different league.
Maybe they’ve got the wrong bloke? That must be it, he thought, they’ve got the wrong bloke.
‘How are you, Billy boy?’
Billy’s heart sank.
‘Inspector Frost and DC Clarke to see Mrs Price,’ announced Sue into the intercom. There was a muffled reply and the high wrought-iron gates slid sedately open.
‘Fort Knox,’ said Frost, spying the security camera positioned by the gates. ‘And a fat lot of good it’s done him.’
As the Metro crunched along the imposing gravel drive, Clarke ruminated on her resentment of chauffeuring Frost about. He’d pulled his usual trick and tossed her the keys to the Metro to drive them to the hospital from the lay-by. At Denton General they’d discovered George Price was still in emergency surgery, and the doctor told them it was too early to tell if he’d pull through.
And now they were in leafy and expensive North Denton, approaching George Price’s mock-Tudor mansion. As Clarke parked up next to another convertible (the Prices seemed to have g
one for a ‘his and hers’ in Mercs) she concluded that as much as she resented ferrying Frost about, she feared his erratic driving more. He was always complaining about other drivers, though he himself drove one-handed, with the car invariably swerving perilously across the dual carriageway as he fumbled for a stick of Juicy Fruit chewing gum in the glove compartment, then freeing it from its paper sleeve and foil wrapper with his free hand and mouth, then squeezing his eyes shut, wincing as a molar bit down on the silver paper, reminding him why he should be chewing Dentyne. And her, all the time, gripping the dashboard in front of her.
‘Can I get you something to drink? No? Not even a cup of tea?’ asked Melody Price.
‘We’re fine, thank you, Mrs Price,’ said Frost.
‘Melody. Please, call me Melody,’ she said with a warm smile, as her bejewelled hand gestured them to take a seat on the big cream-coloured sofa.
If the exterior of the house was all olde worlde traditional with its dark brick, black timber, climbing ivy and a couple of fearsome stone lions either side of the front door, the inside was in stark contrast. Everything was white or just off-white, from the modern furniture to the thick-pile carpets. A twinge of jealousy came over Sue Clarke as she sat down on the boat-like sofa. How she would love to bring her son up in a place like this, instead of her cramped little flat on the London Road. She quickly realized, however, that with little Philip now mastering walking, nothing would stay this pristinely white for long. His grubby little paw prints would be over everything.
Then there was Melody Price herself. She was in her early thirties, and was something of a stunner. Sue Clarke would concede that point. Melody had blonde-streaked hair that looked like it had just been attacked by a crack team of top hairdressers, not a lock out of place. With her pouty glossed-pink lips, long-lashed big blue eyes, and out-of-season tan, she looked like she’d stepped out of a pop video, shot in Rio, on a yacht. Clarke would have bet a month’s pay there was a sunbed lurking somewhere in the six-bedroomed house, probably had a room all of its own. And that figure, it was the kind of figure that men craved, curving in and out in all the right places. Melody was wearing a turquoise T-shirt with the words Pineapple Dance Studios emblazoned across it in sequins and a pair of matching leggings that accentuated her toned body. On the top shelf of a bookcase Clarke spied some professionally taken photos of Melody in various ‘glamour’ model poses.
Mrs Price hadn’t noticed Clarke’s sideways glances; she was too busy lavishing all her attention on Frost. She was the type of woman who was programmed to flirt with men, she just couldn’t help it – even the offer of a cup of tea had sounded like a proposition.
Clarke saw that Frost had a lascivious smirk on his face. His eyes were lit up like those of a puppy accepting a treat, and he was obviously lapping up the attention.
‘We’re very sorry about what’s happened to your husband,’ said Frost, with uncharacteristic sincerity.
‘Thank you, Inspector. I’ve just come off the phone from the hospital. There’s no more news at the moment. I’m going to go up there as soon as they say I can see him.’
‘It must have all come as a terrible shock to you,’ Clarke added, though she herself thought that Melody looked remarkably chipper, given the circumstances. ‘But you do feel up to answering some questions?’
Mrs Price nodded.
‘Do you normally go to the races with your husband?’ Frost asked.
‘Oh Mr Frost, you don’t understand, I’m not just a … what do they call them? A trophy wife? I work with George at the races. I love the racing game and the gambling world. It’s so exciting, it’s a real buzz, on a good day it’s better than … well, no, not quite, but you get my drift.’
Frost got her drift and smiled back. Clarke got it too, but didn’t smile back.
Melody Price continued, ‘I reckon I know the bookmaking business as well as any man at the track. Apart from George, that is.’
‘That is impressive,’ declared Frost. ‘I’ve always had an aversion to betting on the nags, if I’m honest. I’d rather spend my money wisely down the pub.’
She laughed and uttered conspiratorially, ‘Very wise. The bookies always win. They’ll get your money eventually.’
‘So tell me, Mrs Price—’
‘Melody, please.’
‘Melody. Your husband left Radleigh races early, before the last race. Is that normal?’
‘It is. And he usually has the day’s takings with him. I’m given a lift home by Jimmy – Jimmy Drake, he’s our clerk.’
‘Clerk?’
‘Yes, there’s usually three of us working the pitch.’
‘The pitch is where the bookies take bets from the punters?’ clarified Frost.
‘That’s right. George takes bets at eight racetracks, mainly in the south. The pitches work the same way a fruit and veg stall does at a market – except we earn more money.’
‘No kidding,’ muttered Clarke, unable to disguise the envy in her voice as her eyes did another quick sweep of the huge living room and settled on the view from the French windows: the patio leading to a kidney-shaped swimming pool, the long manicured lawn and the wooded grounds beyond. Back in the room, Clarke wondered what Frost was playing at. He was usually the first to try to ruffle an interviewee’s feathers, and as far as she was concerned, if anyone needed their feathers ruffling, it was Melody Price.
The lady of the house continued without even registering Clarke’s attempted intrusion into the conversation. ‘George has the best pitches at all the courses.’ She smiled again; it was obviously a source of some pride.
‘Is there any reason your husband leaves the races early? I’d have thought he’d want to accompany you home.’
‘My safety. A lot of bookmakers have been robbed on the way home from the races over the years. Bookies are an easy target. It’s a cash business. A bag full of money, no security as such. Some of the bookmakers carry coshes in their cars, but no one really wants to carry a gun. The thieves are at the races, watching you, probably have a bet with you, then follow you home, pull you over and … George was robbed a few years ago, he put up a fight and chased them off.’ There was a palpable quake in her voice now and she suddenly seemed visibly upset. ‘George always said he’d never let anyone take his money. That’s why he thought it safer for me … He didn’t want anything happening with me in the car.’
‘How much was in the bag?’
‘I believe there was over … over … over a thousand pounds …’
Melody Price’s head dipped and she plucked some tissues from a box on the glass-topped coffee table to dry her tears. When she emerged from the wad of tissues, she took a deep breath.
‘It’s OK, Melody,’ said Frost gently. ‘In your own time.’
Sue Clarke was losing patience. ‘What time did your husband leave the races exactly?’
Mrs Price, regaining her composure, addressed her answer to the inspector: ‘It must have been shortly before three.’
‘That’s quite a bit before the last race, isn’t it?’ Frost ventured.
‘It is. George said he was feeling tired today, so I said he should go home. And anyway, the main race of the day, the Bennington’s Bank stakes, was long over. The crowd was thinning out.’
‘I know this is hard, and at this time robbery does seem like the obvious motive for your husband’s assault, but does George have any enemies, anyone who might do this?’
Melody Price arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows, seemingly surprised by the question. ‘No. Everyone loves George.’ She sighed. ‘He has a wonderful sense of humour. He’s the funniest man in the world. Generous to a fault, he’ll help anyone out. I fell in love with him the minute I met him, that’s almost two years ago now.’ She looked down at the large diamond ring she was twisting around on her finger. ‘We’ve not been married long.’
‘How long is that exactly?’ asked Clarke.
Mrs Price looked up sharply towards the DC and snapped back, ‘Is
that really relevant?’
Clarke let it hang.
Melody eventually answered, ‘Six months. Married and honeymooned in Marbella, where we first met. It was lovely.’
Frost drew the interview to a close with a covert little wink at Clarke, who snapped her notebook shut. The inspector went through the drill of informing Melody that they would of course keep in touch as the case progressed, and if she thought of anything that might be of help, no matter how small, to call them right away. He plucked a card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her, which she accepted with a show of exaggerated delight. She then escorted them to the door.
‘Oh, one thing, you reported a break-in on … on the …’ Frost frisked himself in search of his notebook, but came up empty-handed.
Clarke came to his rescue. ‘February fifth, I believe.’
Melody Price’s perfect eyebrows dipped and flicked up again as she looked quizzical and tried to recall the event. ‘Oh, that, no, it was nothing.’
It was Frost’s turn to do some eyebrow play now. ‘Nothing?’
‘Yes, it was a mistake. The maid reported a burglary, but she made a mistake, nothing was taken, we weren’t broken into. I spoke to one of your officers about it, I forget his name. He was … fat?’
‘DC Arthur Hanlon. He still is … fat.’
‘Is it relevant? I’m surprised you’re mentioning it, with all that’s happened.’
‘When we checked your address it came up on our database. These things usually stay on there for a month or two.’
‘Oh well, you can take it off your database now.’
Melody Price opened the door. Frost received a lavish ‘thank you’ from her, Clarke barely a nod.
In the confines of the Metro, once Frost had obliterated the smell of pine from the little green tree hanging from the rear-view mirror with the first blast of his Rothmans, he announced, ‘Methinks she doth protest too much. I wouldn’t mind talking to that maid, without Mrs Price about. That said, I didn’t even see a maid. What do you reckon? Susan? What?’