by Danny Miller
Clarke waited until the Metro was out of the gates before she delivered her fulsome opinion on Melody Price’s obvious flirting with him, and how, rendered useless, he had sat there on the cream-coloured couch like a schoolboy with a crush.
Frost set out his defence. ‘I saw your claws were out so I just played to our strengths. No point both of us going in strong. You know as well as I do, she’s the type of woman who likes men. You won’t get anything out of her. You’re the competition, me, I’m the—’
‘Infatuated copper who doesn’t get anything out of her? There could still be a lot more to this robbery than meets the eye.’ She paused before adding, ‘You didn’t even mention Magnum.’
Frost looked blank.
‘The bloke the couple ID’d coming out of the lay-by in the red Porsche.’
‘No, I didn’t. And here’s why: you sit there giving a verbal description of a suspect, and it just gives them plenty of time to say “No”. I want to wait until we get the sketch of him and shove it right under her nose. See what her reaction is.’
Clarke conceded the point. ‘So, outside of her Page Three charms, what do you reckon on her?’
‘Page Three? I thought I recognized her—’
‘Unbelievable, Jack—’
‘All right, don’t get narked, and don’t get sarky either, even though it suits you. I’m the first to admit I’m not immune to her … her ample attributes, shall we say, but I won’t let it cloud my judgement. My first thought is, I think George Price provides her with a very nice lifestyle, one she looks like she wouldn’t want to jeopardize.’
‘Younger woman, older man. I bet there’s a big fat insurance claim to be had.’
‘I’m sure there is. But not every attractive blonde is Barbara Stanwyck.’
‘Who?’
‘She was in a film about a woman who has her husband bumped off to claim the insur—’
‘I get it.’
‘What’s your problem with her? Don’t tell me, outside of her husband getting one in the head, she looks like she hasn’t got a problem in the world: big house, big diamonds, big shoulder pads, big hair.’
Clarke let out a sigh. ‘Sorry. That obvious, is it?’
‘Don’t let it cloud your judgement. And for all you know, Melody Price might like nothing more than a toddler crawling about the place. The grass is always greener, and all that.’
Frost didn’t have to be a mind reader, or even that astute, it was written all over her face. Even with her mum helping out, raising a child on her own while putting in her full quota of shifts, and overtime when she could, it was all taking its toll – and it showed.
‘I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, what with the nipper. Maybe one night, if you need, need a … Ah, nothing.’
Clarke, hardly believing what she was hearing, had no intention of letting him off the hook. ‘If I need what, Jack? Go on, you were about to say something?’
‘If you need any help with the nipper one night, or something, I’m around. All I ask for is some of your shepherd’s pie.’
‘Is that a euphemism?’
‘I’ve been on the Kung Po the last three months solid. Much as I love it, it’s losing its exotic oriental charm. I’d kill for some decent homemade grub. I’d even babysit an ankle-biter. That’s how bloody desperate I am!’
Friday (3)
George Price had just come out of surgery, but the bullet was still lodged in his head. It had entered at an angle and travelled to just above his temple and settled there. What had stopped it killing him was the fact that George Price had moved a fraction just in time, so it hadn’t penetrated his skull. At this stage it was deemed too dangerous to remove the bullet. Price was on a ventilator and had not regained consciousness. The next forty-eight hours were going to prove critical for the big bookmaker.
Frost had stationed PC David Simms at Denton General to watch over Price. Not that the inspector thought that Price was in any immediate danger – currently there was no reason to believe the robber or robbers would return to finish the job off. Frost had also had Dr Maltby examine the comatose Price to see if there were any markings on his body to indicate a struggle with his assailant, but there were none.
Simms was instructed to contact Frost immediately should anyone of interest turn up. And someone did.
‘Hello, Harry.’
Harry Baskin, holding a bunch of grapes and a tin of Quality Street, spun round sharply, or as sharply as a man of his heft could, to see Frost approaching.
‘Well, well, well. As I live and breathe, Inspector Frost of Eagle Lane,’ replied Baskin, deadpan and as dry as you like.
The owner of Denton’s pre-eminent nightclub, strip club, and scene of many dodgy dealings, the Coconut Grove, was stood in the corridor and had been peering through the window of Intensive Care, where he himself had been less than two years ago, also with a bullet wound.
‘Must bring back painful memories for you, Harry.’
Harry Baskin shrugged: water off a duck’s back. ‘George is a fighter like me. I got through it, I’m sure he will too. Pity he can’t have no visitors yet.’
Frost nodded in agreement, then gestured for Harry Baskin to sit with him on one of the orange plastic chairs that lined the corridor. The two men then proceeded to lay waste to George Price’s grapes. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, Harry, that you know George Price, but how well?’
‘We grew up together, Stepney, East London. When I moved out to this neck of the woods, George followed. It was nice to get out of the Big Smoke, all that crime and violence.’
Frost checked Baskin for irony, but saw only sincerity. ‘Well, at least you won’t get homesick, since you seem to have brought it with you.’
Baskin ignored Frost’s barb and busied himself with opening the tin of Quality Street, which he then offered to the detective and asked, ‘Any clues as to who might have done it?’
Frost took a green triangle. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
Baskin took an orange cream and then a strawberry cream. ‘Dunno.’
‘Well, it looks like robbery. The bag with his day’s takings was gone. He was found parked up in a lay-by, about half a mile down from the Feathers pub.’
‘I know the one. A well-known beauty spot for young lovers to get better acquainted, shall we say?’
‘And two of them found George.’
‘Yeah?’
Frost picked a toffee cup this time, but kept an eye on Baskin’s reaction as he said, ‘They gave us a very good description of a fella leaving the scene. I’ll show you the picture when we get it.’
Baskin dipped his meaty hand into the tin again and grabbed two toffee fingers, an almond octagon and some blue ones that always seemed to be the last to go. ‘I’ll stick it up in the club, see if any of the punters recognize him.’
‘Unless Melody Price decides to offer a significant reward for information, with all those topless birds dancing around in your establishment, Harry, I doubt anyone will bother looking at it.’
‘Dunno. We could put her on the poster too. She could take up her old profession and get out those lovely big—’
‘Harry! That’s no way to talk about your mate’s missus.’
‘What he can’t hear won’t hurt him. Anyway, you don’t marry a bird like Melody without expecting the occasional ogle, know what I mean?’
Frost knew what he meant, but wasn’t interested. ‘What concerns me is what was he doing parked up in a lay-by so near home. Any ideas?’
Baskin shrugged. ‘Stopped off for a leak?’
‘Like you said, a meeting spot for young lovers, maybe it was for a bit of how’s-your-father – he got a secret girlfriend on the go, a bit on the side?’
Harry Baskin almost choked on his toffee fingers. ‘Jesus! Do me a favour! I know he has a penchant for Angie Dickinson and Raquel Welch, but this is Denton. No, with a woman like Melody waiting for you at home, you don’t need a bit on the side – you need a day off! She’
s got it covered, front, back and every side imaginable. And anyway, take it from me, he was in love with her. Do anything for her, anything.’
‘But robbery aside, does George have any enemies?’
Baskin screwed up his face so it resembled the toffee he was chewing. It was patently the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. ‘Enemies? Are you kidding me? I can attest to the fact that George Price has more enemies than you could shake several sticks at, he has thousands of them!’ Frost was surprised at Baskin’s candour. ‘In the gambling world,’ continued the club-owner, ‘the bookmakers are the enemy. They’re the ones you have to beat. Everyone lost money to George, that makes for a lot of enemies.’
‘How about you, Harry?’
‘How about me what?’
‘Are you one of them?’
Baskin’s cheery façade melted away and a dark and serious cast took its place. ‘No. Not me. And I take offence at the insinuation. He’s a dear, dear pal of mine. It pains me to see anything happen to him.’
Frost saw that for all his bluster, Harry Baskin was indeed very fond of his dear pal George Price.
Baskin then pulled a face, as if he’d bitten into a Quality Street he particularly disliked, and said, ‘We’ve got a timeshare business in Tenerife on the go, and without George, I stand to lose a bloody fortune.’
The tender moment was over and normal business in Harry Baskin’s world had resumed. Frost spotted DS Waters at the end of the corridor looking intently at the drinks dispenser. He told Baskin he’d be in touch and then made his way over to the DS, who was now punching the machine.
‘I’ve dealt with this bandit before – you’ve got to finesse it.’
Frost took over, put the money in the slot, carefully pressed the requisite buttons and procured them a coffee and a hot chocolate.
Waters explained why he was at the hospital: ‘Billy “Bomber” Harris, they’ve just pulled a bullet out of his right peg. Still, at least it’s not in the head like George Price.’
‘Bomber would be all right with one in the head, odds-on it would still miss his brain by a country mile.’
They laughed, and sipped from the wobbly plastic cups that the piping-hot water had practically melted. Luckily the machine was right next to Accident and Emergency, to deal with all those scalded lips.
‘So what’s Bomber got to say about playing target practice for someone?’
‘He’s not saying a word,’ said Waters, blowing on his coffee.
‘Have you put the fear of God up him? Proper jail time for …’
‘What? For getting shot?’
Frost conceded the point.
‘I’ve told him it’s serious. He’s had a beef with Tommy Wilkins for a couple of years now. They both fancy themselves as the number-one boy on the Southern Housing Estate. You know, strictly petty stuff. Collecting their dole whilst dealing some hash, nicking car stereos, robbing telephone boxes and fighting at football.’
‘What did these two captains of industry fall out over?’
‘Billy was having it off with Wilkins’ sister, who was also having it off with—’
‘Spare me the details, John, it sounds like meet the cast of Deliverance.’
Waters laughed. ‘You’re not wrong. The thing is, if Wilkins did somehow manage to get his hands on a gun, and then work out how to use it, Harris would be the first one to grass him up.’
Frost shook his head at the ineptitude. ‘The code of omertà’s not reached the Southern Housing Estate yet, then?’
‘This lot grass each other up with abandon. That’s what half the feud is about. But Harris isn’t saying a word this time.’ Waters looked over to the ward they had taken Harris into. ‘All joking aside, he’s genuinely scared.’
‘Inspector Frost?’
They both turned to see a smiling young blonde nurse holding up a thick A4 Jiffy bag. ‘Doctor Gillard told me to give you these, Mr Price’s possessions.’
‘Ah, yes, thank you.’
‘I know who you are, Inspector, but he said I needed to see some ID.’
‘Very wise.’ Frost showed her his warrant card. The nurse handed over the envelope and ambled off. Frost opened it. The first thing he pulled out was a gold Rolex Day-Date watch with a diamond-encrusted bezel. Waters whistled in recognition of the dazzling timepiece.
‘So, if it was robbery, they only got the day’s takings, about a thousand pounds, according to his missus. They didn’t get what was on his wrist, and this Rollie’s got to be worth over five grand,’ said Frost, dropping it back in the bag and next pulling out a heavy engine-turned gold money clip that was holding together a thick wad of notes of high denomination. ‘And they didn’t ask him to empty his pockets. There’s about five hundred here, plus the gold money clip, the scrap value on that’s about the same again.’
Waters weighed up the possible scenarios and suggested, ‘Maybe they did ask him for the watch and what was inside his pockets, but hot-headed George Price told them to go fuck themselves, so they shot him?’
It was a compelling theory, but somehow Frost wasn’t convinced. And he’d already dipped back into the Jiffy bag and was pulling a big grin that suggested he’d got lucky. It was a little black notebook. Frost opened up the leatherette cover and saw it was crammed full of potential information. ‘These always make interesting reading.’
Stanley Mullett eased himself into the button-backed Chesterfield chair. It had been an unsatisfactory afternoon so far. The four county divisional superintendents had arranged to meet up once a month at the Denton and Rimmington Golf Club, for what they’d designated as a ‘working lunch’. It was to involve a short round of golf, seven holes, preceded by said lunch, then retiring to the bar for a round (or four) of drinks. All under the ruse of building closer relationships between the county’s stations, pooling information and brainstorming strategies to lower crime in the area.
Mullett felt good that he had been chosen to chair the event. But to his mind it was only befitting a man of his stature. After all, it was he who’d suggested the monthly meet-ups. And it was he who had offered the hospitality of the Denton golf club. After the resignation of the previous incumbent over the misappropriation of club funds, the board had decided to elect Mullett as their new chairman. Despite the debacle of the previous year when he’d missed out on the top spot, Mullett didn’t let pride get in the way and gleefully accepted the post. Because if ever there was an opportunity for social advancement in the district, being the chairman of the golf club was it. Mullett knew that membership of the Masons was only a nod and funny handshake away; and maybe even the mayoral mace and chain further down the road. Mullett’s ambition was unbounded.
So it always rankled when one of the three other supers was late for the event, or had to cut his visit short, or worse, didn’t turn up at all. Mullett had never been late or cancelled, and he felt it a personal slight when one of the others did. It somehow undermined his authority, even though they were all of the same rank; at his golf club Mullett always felt like a first amongst equals.
‘Sorry I was late earlier on, Stanley, Roger,’ said Peter Kelsey, setting down three brimming tumblers of Johnnie Walker Red Label on the table. ‘Still no sign of Martin?’
Roger Bradley shook his head. ‘Looks like he’s not going to make it, after all. He’s appearing on County Radio. Recent spate of counterfeit goods – perfumes, designer clothing, videos and the like – hitting the area, what to look out for and what not.’
Mullett nodded in recognition. ‘Indeed, got a memo about that this morning. Some expert from London’s West End Central is briefing us tomorrow. Lot of it coming from around here, apparently. Must say, we haven’t noticed, or even heard of any complaints.’
Roger Bradley said, ‘Public won’t complain, they’re more concerned with having their video players stolen, rather than buying cheap cassettes for them.’
Mullett agreed. ‘Buying cheap tat off a market stall is a national pastime, isn’t it?’
They all laughed. Peter Kelsey said, ‘Martin does have a face for radio.’
‘Pity about his speaking voice, bit of a stutter, hasn’t he?’ ventured Mullett.
‘Only when he’s drunk,’ said Kelsey.
‘Like I said, he stutters most of the time.’
The supers laughed some more. Mullett re-appraised the afternoon; it wasn’t turning out so badly after all. It looked like they might be settling in for a convivial evening. He picked up his tumbler, held it aloft and inspected the volume. ‘Good heavens, Peter, what are these?’
‘They’re very large ones, by way of apology,’ said Kelsey, easing himself further into the Chesterfield armchair.
Mullett beamed. ‘Very kind of you, Peter, all is forgiven.’
Superintendent Roger Bradley did the same. ‘Indeed. Taxis home, I fear.’
‘Or, alternatively, turn up the siren, put your foot down and hope for the best!’ said Mullett, supremely satisfied as the laughter rebounded around the table.
He raised his glass to his cohorts, dressed in their Pringle golfing finery, and true to form, he and Bradley were in various shades of conservative blue. By contrast, the younger man, Kelsey, looked particularly flashy, sporting a bright-pink polo shirt, a multicoloured argyle jumper and garish plaid trousers. Despite their attire, they hadn’t actually ventured on to the greens at all.
The three supers didn’t seem to mind the lack of exercise. They were perfectly content to drink deeply, laugh loudly and watch the day slip by.
Friday (4)
The world looked different from up here, and from this angle. He could have said it looked rosy, but that was due to the blood from his mouth and nose seeping into his eyes and giving everything a hazy red glaze. Tommy Wilkins would have shouted out for help once more, but every time he’d done so, the two men holding his legs loosened their grip and threatened to let go of him altogether and let gravity take its course. That would entail a ten-storey drop on to the pavement from the roof of Wilshaw House, a high-rise block on the Southern Housing Estate.
‘Please … please …’