by Danny Miller
Wilkins stopped pleading and made a rasping sound that emanated from the back of his throat. He’d just located the front tooth the men had knocked out earlier, and he now elected to spit it out rather than swallow it. The upside-down Wilkins tried to propel the tooth from his mouth but it didn’t get very far, as his swollen nose immediately broke its fall. The two men laughed, and then remarked that the view from their angle was bloody disgusting, what with the bloodied tooth resting on Tommy’s bloodied septum.
‘Jaysus, maybe we should just drop you now, Tommy, and be done with it,’ said one of the men in a voice shot through with repulsion. ‘Because you’re making us feel sick, so you are.’
Wilkins felt their grip weaken and his legs slide from knees to ankles through their hands.
‘No! Please, no!’ His eyes widened and focused in the growing twilight on the faces of the two men leaning over the parapet. One was tall and wiry with a scar on his chin; the other was squat and muscly. But both had cold grey and pitiless eyes. They seemed unstoppable. They’d been following him for a couple of days now. At first he’d thought they were with Bomber Harris, his only real competition on the estate, and whose ugly sister he was … Well, this was no time to open that can of worms. But he soon realized these two were the real deal. Even with their heavy Irish brogue, they were easy to understand and had made it very clear what they wanted.
This latest jolt did the trick, and the broken tooth slid from the ledge of his upturned nose and plummeted away to the ground. If Wilkins had been in any doubt about his likely fate, now he knew. And as attached to the tooth as he was, or had been, he had no desire to join it. Then came the final humiliation as Tommy Wilkins felt a warm sensation creeping its way towards his mouth. He realized he’d wet himself.
‘P … p … please … I’ll do anything … anything you want!’
‘We know you will, Tommy.’
‘Evening,’ greeted Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson as Frost entered Eagle Lane station.
‘Just got on?’
Johnson, immersed in the back pages of the Sun, didn’t look up. ‘About twenty minutes ago. You had a message, from one Jason Kingly.’
‘Who?’
Johnson folded the newspaper and put it under the counter, then looked at the notepad in front of him. ‘He said it’s about a flat, wants to know if you’ve made up your mind, or want to look at some more.’ Johnson tapped a stubby forefinger on the notepad. ‘You moving on, Jack?’
‘I am, but never far enough away for my liking. Is our beloved leader about?’
‘He’s at his monthly meeting of the supers. Won’t be back this evening.’
Frost rolled his eyes at this. ‘Otherwise known as a very long booze-up spoilt by a very short game of golf.’
On that note, Frost made his way through to the main incident room of CID. The strip lighting hummed, the phones still rang, and calls of ‘goodnight’ and ‘see you in the morning’ were being bandied about.
DC Sue Clarke was at her desk, looking through a thick file. She could have been busy, or she could have been doing what Frost had done on more than one occasion: buried his head in paperwork and counted down the minutes until the end of a shift so he could wrap his laughing-gear around a nice cold pint, all the time hoping there wasn’t an inconvenient call to investigate something that someone might have seen somewhere.
‘Busy?’
Clarke looked up. ‘How’s George Price?’
‘Stable. That’s the best we can say. He had a visitor when I was there – one Harold Baskin.’
She closed the file, sat back in her swivel chair and laced her hands together in front of her. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Me neither. They were old muckers from the East End, apparently. Probably knocking around with the Kray twins, Jack the Ripper and Dick Van Dyke from Mary Poppins. But it does open up a whole new world of potential inquiries with Harry in the frame.’
‘Is he?’
‘In the frame? Gut feeling, no. Funnily enough, I think he’s rather fond of George Price. You know what he’s like, got more front and bluster than Great Yarmouth, but this time he seemed genuinely upset.’ Frost pulled up a chair and sat opposite Clarke. ‘How about you?’
Sue Clarke gave a triumphant smile. On leaving the Prices’ mini-mansion, Clarke had dropped Frost off at the hospital and then gone back to Eagle Lane to collect copies of the police artist’s sketch that the witnesses, Derek and Karen, had helped create. On seeing the image, Clarke thought the Magnum PI reference had influenced the starry-eyed young couple a little too much. The only thing missing was the red Hawaiian shirt.
She then went to see Jimmy Drake, George Price’s clerk. Drake ID’d the man immediately, said he’d known him well for years, and his late father. He even went out to his garden shed where he kept his photo albums and provided a picture. Sue Clarke reached into another file open on her desk and handed Frost the photo Drake had given her.
Frost’s brow furrowed. ‘If he’s Magnum, me and you are Starsky and Hutch!’
‘I should be grateful, at least we’re not in McMillan and Wife.’
Frost dropped the photo back in the file. ‘Who is he, then?’
‘His name’s Terry Langdon, thirty-five years of age, and a bookmaker who has pitches next to George Price at the races. And he drives a red Porsche 924. He may not be the spit of Tom Selleck, but if you’re a betting man, who would you put your money on? And according to Jimmy Drake, he has a motive. Or, at least, a burning hatred of George Price. Terry Langdon believes that George was responsible for his father’s death.’
‘Go on,’ urged Frost.
‘George and Bert Langdon, Terry’s father, went into business together, opening betting shops in the area. George believed that Bert Langdon was ripping him off. They got into a fight, an actual fistfight, and George got the better of him. Bert Langdon walked away from the business. Four years later he died, brain haemorrhage. Langdon believed the haemorrhage was a result of the beating he took from George Price. Not quite the picture Melody Price painted, of big friendly George.’
‘Then again, she did say that he’d rather die than let anyone take his money. Which looks like he did.’ He paused. ‘Is any of this on file, anyone press any charges? Did you check with Records?’
‘I did. No. And to be honest, Jimmy seemed reluctant to tell me much.’
‘Probably hedging his bets, waiting to see if George Price comes out of his coma. Doesn’t want to talk out of turn about his boss. Well, let’s find Terry first. We have an address?’
‘Langdon lives near Parkview Woods, at the Billings Stables,’ Clarke read off her notebook.
‘The riding school?’
‘That’s the one. I sent PC Mills and Drayton round there, no one in. No red Porsche. Langdon’s divorced, his ex-wife lives in Kent with her new husband. We’ve faxed all the info and his ID over to Transport. And we’ll get a search warrant first thing tomorrow.’
Frost gave a nod of approval for all the procedural, and scratched an imaginary itch on his chin as he pondered, ‘Jimmy Drake, he’s been working with George Price for how long?’
‘Over thirty years, he said.’
‘He must know him better than anyone?’
‘You’d think so. But if he does, he was staying tight-lipped about it. Don’t get me wrong, he was helpful, answered all the questions I put to him, just a bit cagey. When I mentioned Melody Price’s assertions that her husband was the happiest man in the world and everyone loved him, Jimmy just nodded in agreement. But I could tell he didn’t believe it.’
‘Harry Baskin says George has plenty of enemies. It’s the nature of the business he’s in. And let’s face it, everyone has enemies and no one is that happy.’
‘Cynical.’
‘Realistic. Not even with the delightful Melody Price’s ample charms to cushion the blows that life throws at you.’
Clarke narrowed her eyes and shook a disapproving head.
&n
bsp; Frost ignored her and carried on. ‘You won’t get much from Jimmy Drake, he’s a betting man and he’s playing the odds. I’m sure he knows all about George Price, the secrets, where the bodies are buried, as they say. But George isn’t dead, yet. So he’s not going to give them away.’
‘So what you’re saying is, we’d be better off if George Price was dead?’
‘What I’m saying is—’
‘Here we go, guv, Doreen Trafford’s statement,’ called out Arthur Hanlon as he came over with a file in his hand.
‘Who the hell is Doreen?’
‘The Prices’ cleaner,’ Clarke reminded him.
‘Go on then, Arthur, give us the “skinny”, as they say in America.’
Clarke suppressed a laugh as Frost patted Hanlon’s belly.
Undeterred, the DC made some unsavoury throat-clearing noises and proceeded to read solemnly from the file. ‘On February fifth 1984, at precisely ten thirty-five a.m., I was called to number 24 Gable Close in North Denton on a suspected break-in of the property. There I was met by Mrs Doreen Trafford, forty-eight years of age, profession: cleaning lady. I ascertained it was the home of Mr and Mrs Price at—’
‘Oh, stop tarting around, Arthur, and just give us the bloody facts!’
Sue Clarke laughed openly this time.
Arthur Hanlon dumped the file on the desk and stopped talking like an automaton. ‘OK, guv. Doreen said she came into work that morning and thought someone had been in the house – there were items out of place, nothing much, just details a cleaning woman would pick up on. She said she had a forensic eye for these things, everything correctly in its place. But she did see that some tapes were missing and—’
‘Tapes?’
‘Videotapes. The Prices had a shelf full of them. Both films and blank ones for recording. They were all gone, she said, about twenty of them. Funny thing was, if it was a burglary, they didn’t take the hardware. You know – the video player or the cameras.’
‘What cameras?’
‘She showed me, there were some video cameras in the bedroom. Very expensive-looking kit it was, very professional. Makes you wonder,’ said Hanlon, delivered with enough of a wink and a nudge-nudge to elicit groans from Clarke – and pique Frost’s interest.
‘Does indeed.’
‘With your mucky little minds it does,’ added Clarke.
‘And the Prices denied it all?’
Hanlon gave a solid nod to this. ‘I followed it up a week later, because the Prices were on holiday at the time of the so-called break-in. But Doreen used to come in every day and air the place, feed the fish, keep an eye on it. She swore blind someone had broken in.’
‘So, if some tapes were stolen, what was on them?’
‘Some real salacious X-rated goings-on at the Price household, if you ask me.’
‘All right, Arthur, we know, I was just thinking out loud. But it does make you wonder, though.’
‘Wonder what?’ asked Clarke.
Frost sprang up from his chair and rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Get your jackets on, I’ll tell you over a pint.’
‘Frank Trafford,’ said Arthur Hanlon, ‘Doreen Trafford’s husband. I nicked him about a year or so ago, pub fight, that dump on the Wilton Road. He’s quite a handful when he gets a drink in him. Ex-army.’
‘Tell us all about it over a pint.’
Clarke lifted her jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it over her shoulders. ‘Did I tell you about Michael Price – George Price’s son from his first marriage?’
‘Tell us over a pint.’
Sue Clarke made that at least three pints already – it was going to be a long night. Thank goodness her mother was staying with her and would put Philip to bed.
He clocked them for what they were the minute the trio walked into the pub. No matter how much they tried to blend in. There was one who was on the lardy side. He went straight up to the bar and helped himself to a pickled egg and a handful of nuts. The other bloke had sandy-coloured hair, looked like it needed a cut badly, and stubble. Stubble seemed to be popular these days, although this one looked like he just couldn’t be bothered to shave. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket, grey Farah trousers and a red Slazenger V-neck jumper with a grubby-looking white polo shirt underneath. The bird looked good, in her smart black jacket cinched in at the waist and black boots. She had a short Lady Di-style haircut and was pretty, but not in a flashy way like Melody. They looked like a normal couple, but he could tell they were coppers. What on earth was his name again … Fred … Fred … Fred Flintstone?
He laughed. It was loud enough for the couple next to him to glance nervously around, probably curious as to what the man stood at the bar on his own, with his half-drained pint of strong German lager and whisky chaser, could possibly be laughing about. He threw the couple a look that quickly made them turn round and mind their own naffing business. He had that aura of danger about him. He’d inherited his father’s height and heft, and the ability to intimidate people, to go from smiling joker to grimacing menace in a heartbeat. But he’d always known that though he had the bark, he lacked his father’s bite. He laughed again. The couple collected their drinks off the bar and moved further away from him. It wasn’t Fred … it was Jack, Jack Frost. He knew it was something stupid.
Were they looking for him? There was a good chance they were, he thought. He downed his lager in two noisy gulps, then knocked back the chaser without it even touching the sides. But as the whisky hit the spot, he felt that warm glow in the pit of his stomach; a welcome respite from the fear that had been residing there for the last few days. But he also knew that the booze just wasn’t cutting it these days. He needed something more, always something more.
He pulled up the collar of his jacket and made his way out of the saloon bar, keeping his head down to ensure that Frost and the woman wouldn’t see him. There was a phone box opposite the pub – he could make a call, see if he could get his hands on what he was after, and what he knew he’d soon be needing. It was after nine, it shouldn’t be a problem.
As he made his way across the road a black car pulled up sharply in front of him. The back door opened, if not by magic, then certainly with a practised and fluid stealth. He recognized the man driving, the white scar standing out on his black-bristled chin, like lightning cutting through the night sky.
And when the man offered in that lilting but commanding voice, ‘We’ll give you a lift home, Michael. We don’t want anything to happen to you now, do we?’, Michael Price knew better than to argue the point, and folded his large frame into the back seat of the black car.
Saturday (1)
Frost and Clarke were admiring the view from Billings Stables. It was a wonderfully picturesque spot. It was hard to believe that they were only five miles outside of Denton. There was a swirling morning mist around the trees and wild spring foliage, and the undulating green fields stretched as far as you could see, with no unsightly modern buildings that made up the ‘New Town’ to blight the vista.
‘I think I’d like to bring Philip up here when he’s old enough to appreciate it,’ Clarke said as they got out of the car.
‘I’ll pay for the little nipper’s riding lessons, when the time comes, if that’s what he wants,’ offered Frost, inhaling a Rothmans and the clean country air at the same time.
‘Really?’
‘Well, don’t look so bloody surprised. Least I can do, after all the nights I spent on your sofa.’
‘Thanks, Jack, I don’t know what to say. That’s very generous of you.’
Frost pulled a wicked grin. ‘I don’t think your mum will ever get over the fright I gave her that night, the poor mare.’
Thankfully, any further reminiscing about that unfortunate incident was cut short by the appearance of Peter Billings, who walked over from an outbuilding to greet them.
Billings was a thickset man with a ruddy weathered face. In his battered blue cords tucked into green wellingtons, and with h
is reddish curly hair topped off with a tweed flat cap, he looked every inch the country sportsman.
After an exchange of pleasantries about the beautiful setting of the stables, Clarke showed Billings the photograph they’d brought with them.
‘That’s Terry all right,’ the stable owner confirmed. ‘But he’s not around – I tried him just after you called. There was no answer. I don’t think I’ve seen him since yesterday morning. But let me show you the way.’
As he walked Frost and Clarke towards the bungalow that he rented out to Terry Langdon, Billings explained that he and Terry went back a long way. They’d bonded over their shared love of all things equine. Billings had taken over his father’s stables, and Terry had taken over his father’s bookmaking business; stepping into their fathers’ shoes was something else they had in common. When Terry’s wife left him, Peter was happy to let him rent the small bungalow he had on his property.
‘Do you know George Price too?’ asked Frost.
‘I don’t have much truck with the bookies at the races – more the owners and the jockeys. But Terry was an old schoolfriend. We were at a very minor public school together, both academic dunces, but as I say, both loved horses. He was a lot different at school. He was quiet, a shy boy as I remember.’
‘Oh, and how would you describe him now?’
‘Well, you know, drives a red Porsche, bit of a Jack the lad. I suppose he was trying to fit in with the image of a bookie, to emulate his father. If so, it didn’t work out.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Terry’s just gone bust. I think last week was his final race meeting. Held on for as long as he could, but he just couldn’t make a go of it.’
‘So he had financial troubles?’
Billings shook his head in a gesture of pity for his old friend. ‘He never went into detail, but with the horse racing and gambling you need a fair dollop of luck on your side, even the bookies. And it seems Terry never had that. I was never sure he was cut out for it anyway. All the big bookmakers have something of the buccaneering spirit about them, like the top City traders. Men like George Price have it, and so did Terry’s dad. But not Terry, I’m afraid.’