by Danny Miller
‘Did George know about it, or suspect anything?’
‘No, and I made sure George didn’t. George would have killed him if he’d found out – not literally, you understand, but he’d have given him a thump …’ Melody looked like a fresh and frightening idea had struck her. ‘Something Terry said, I didn’t give it much thought because he’d said so many stupid things. He said he was sure that without George around, things would be different.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I didn’t take any notice of it – like I said, he said lots of things. I certainly didn’t encourage it. To be honest, Jack, men drooling over you like that is never very appealing. Trust me, it’s not an attractive look.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Melody Price straightened her back and pursed her lips again. Frost realized they were the most animated part of her. She then executed a look of intense contemplation. ‘But now I think about it, I do remember feeling sorry for him. He’d left his wife, or she’d left him?’
‘For a gas fitter, apparently.’
‘Sort of says it all.’
‘Does it?’
‘Well, I don’t recall an episode of Magnum where he’s given the heave-ho for a bloke in a boiler suit with a spanner hanging out of his back pocket, do you?’
‘I’ve never watched it, so I couldn’t say, but it doesn’t sound likely to me, no. So, the reality of Terry’s life didn’t quite match up to the fantasy of it, or how he saw himself?’
Melody made a low humming sound that signified she was impressed by his deduction. ‘Very good, Jack. You have a real insight into the human condition.’
‘Most blokes walk through life thinking they’re Richard Gere, until a reflective surface tells them otherwise.’
She laughed. ‘The male ego is a fragile thing, and Terry’s was more fragile than most, I reckon. I could tell that deep down he wasn’t happy. He was lonely, seemed sort of sad, really. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, to possibly send him over the edge. I remember I said something like … maybe another time, in another life, without George around. So he said something like, let’s run away together, get away from it all, go wherever we want. Spain, maybe. I told him I wasn’t running anywhere. Maybe he thought …’
‘George should go? Get rid of him, and then it would be different between you two?’
Melody’s eyes widened around this thought, and she shook her head in disbelief. ‘It was a throwaway comment, but now I come to think about it … he had been acting so weird lately.’
‘How so?’
‘Like I said, Terry always used to flirt and say silly things when it was safe and George wasn’t around, of course, but the last few times I’ve seen him he’d stopped. He seemed more serious. Resolute. Determined. Now I know why. I reckon he’d made up his mind to do something about it. Do you know where he is?’
‘If we did, we might be having a different conversation,’ said Frost. ‘How about you, could you throw any light on where he might be?’
‘Why would I know?’
‘He wanted to take you to Spain, you said – does he have contacts there?’
Mrs Price insisted she didn’t know, then got nervous about her own safety. She asked if she needed twenty-four-hour police protection. Frost joked there would be no shortage of volunteers amongst the male members of the force for that job, but assured her she was safe as there was a full alert out for Langdon. He told her that if Terry did make contact, she should call him immediately.
As they left the tent and she was beginning to relax, content in the knowledge that the questioning was over, Frost pulled one more out of the bag. ‘I know about the tapes.’
On hearing this, she arched one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows so it resembled the rounded top of a question mark, and kept it there for an inordinate amount of time, without so much as a quiver. If Frost thought he could stare her down into a withering submission of some sort, he was wrong. He could feel the seconds dragging slowly by – he counted twenty of them – before he realized he was in the hands of a stone-cold professional.
Frost broke first. ‘I read DC Arthur Hanlon’s statement.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The rotund detective you spoke to about the missing tapes from the break-in.’
‘There were no missing tapes.’
‘Mrs Doreen Trafford, she reported the break-in—’
‘Yes, I’m aware who she is and what she said.’
‘She swore blind some videotapes had been stolen, adamant she was.’
Melody sighed, and a weary smile broke across her face. ‘Jack, please. I’ve held off because I don’t like to speak ill of people. Not in my nature. But I actually fired her shortly after the incident. I don’t know what she told your … rotund detective, but she is a vindictive, bitter woman. This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to cause trouble, cast aspersions. The minute I stepped into that house she was looking daggers at me. I inherited her, you see, and she made it very clear that George’s first wife was a complete angel, and I was dirt on her J Cloth. I tried my best, really I did. I was very good to her, and her layabout husband. He used to do odd jobs around the place, which were generally botched, and he used to steal the booze. George had it out with him. Frank got nasty. So George sacked him, and I sacked her. If anything had been stolen, tapes or otherwise, I’d have known. So it’s my word against hers.’
Melody pointedly checked her watch, which was the ladies’ version of her husband’s, and said she needed to get back as the first race would be starting soon.
The watch was a timely reminder for Frost too. And he had one last gambit. ‘By the way, your husband’s personal possessions – a gold Rolex, like yours, I see, just bigger; a gold money clip with, if memory serves, five hundred quid in it; some loose change and keys – are ready and waiting to be picked up at Eagle Lane station. I would have brought them with me, but you need to sign for them in person. I’d hate anything to happen to them. Which makes you wonder why they weren’t stolen in the robbery?’
Melody ignored that last comment and smiled appreciatively. ‘Was that all he had on him?’
By most people’s standards that would be a hell of a lot to have on you, thought Frost, but he kept his counsel, and let the question hang in the air for a bit, looking for something in her eyes, or a twitch from that very expressive mouth of hers. But nothing came, so he lied, ‘Yes, that’s all.’
Saturday (3)
‘That was an excellent briefing. Clear, concise and informative. Everything one could hope for. I feel secure that Denton CID understands the pervasiveness of this crime, from Trinitrons to trannies to T-shirts, and what to look out for and how to tackle it. Well done, Detective Inspector … May I call you Eve?’
‘You may indeed, Superintendent Mullett.’
‘And you must call me Stanley.’
DI Eve Hayward demurred with a polite smile. She was sitting on the opposite side of the Denton superintendent’s desk, a desk that was spotless, not a sheet of paper askew, nor a paperclip out of place. She took the opportunity to survey the office, mainly to avoid the lascivious gaze that Mullett was fixing her with. One of the dark wood-panelled walls was adorned with a portrait of the Queen, circa 1964, which, alongside a map of the area with coloured thumbtacks stuck seemingly arbitrarily in it, was pretty much standard in a super’s office out in the provinces. In her time of going station to station in her war against the counterfeiters she’d seen portraits of Wellington, Churchill, even Nelson, and lots of Spitfires going over the white cliffs of Dover.
‘Well, I must say, the reaction and questions I got from your team were very intelligent and pertinent. Sometimes they just sit there and pretend to take notes and can’t wait to get out.’
‘They are an inquisitive lot,’ said Mullett, ‘and making the most of a good briefing and expert opinion is something I’ve tried to instil in them over the years.’
‘Some can be a little suspicio
us of outsiders coming on to their patch, especially from London.’
Mullett smiled, sat back in his chair, and laced his hands together over his stomach, which still felt delicate and more distended than usual due to the kebab he’d drunkenly devoured on the way home from the golf club last night. ‘It wasn’t always thus, I’ve had to work on them, they can be a narrow-minded provincial lot. But I believe modern policing is built on networks and the sharing of information.’
‘I fully agree, Superintendent.’
‘Stanley, please.’
‘Cooperation across the lines is the only way modern policing works. And I’m looking forward to sharing my database with you.’
Mullett’s brow furrowed at this before total blankness set in.
Eve Hayward prompted, ‘Computer database?’
‘Ah, yes, of course. You know, only yesterday I chaired a meeting with some fellow top brass from the surrounding districts in the county at the Denton and Rimmington Golf Club, of which I’m chairman, incidentally.’
The London DI was getting the measure of Stanley Mullett. ‘That’s very, very impressive. I can see you run a tight ship here at Eagle Lane. I’ve had lots of offers to show me around. PC Simms, DC Hanlon, DC Perks, DS Waters, someone called Pete. All said they’d received information on counterfeit goods in the area.’
Mullett stopped smiling and leaned forward on his desk and placed his hand on the phone receiver. ‘All capable men, though I’m not sure who “Pete” is, but I’ve already taken the liberty of assigning someone to show you around.’ Mullett picked up his phone and asked Miss Smith to get DC Clarke in his office immediately.
‘Clarke? I don’t think I met him.’
‘An excellent DC with extensive knowledge of the area. I’m sure you’ll be more than satisfied.’ Mullett relaxed back in his chair again, then removed his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed at the lenses vigorously, as if keen to ensure that nothing would hinder his view of Eve Hayward, not a speck of dust or the slightest smudge. ‘I was thinking, Eve, it might be good for us to liaise later today, maybe this evening, to assess what progress you’ve made in your investigations and for you to fill me in. I do like to be kept abreast of what’s going on.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘How about dinner tonight? I know a nice little bistro not far—’
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ said DC Sue Clarke, managing to knock, enter and talk all at the same time, much to the chagrin of Mullett.
‘Yes, Clarke, take a seat.’
Clarke and Hayward exchanged smiles and the DC sat down. Mullett made the introductions and told Clarke she would now be helping DI Hayward with her inquiries into the glut of counterfeit merchandise in the area.
Clarke couldn’t conceal her disappointment. ‘I’m still working on the George Price shooting, sir. DI Frost believes there are further avenues to look into other than just Terry Langdon – hence me not being at the briefing earlier on.’
‘From what I know about the case, in Langdon you already have a prime suspect who’s been identified by eyewitnesses as leaving the scene of the crime in great haste. You’ve received corroboration from others that he has more than sufficient motive for the shooting. And he’s missing. Whilst I never say a case is closed until the judge pronounces his sentence, I think we can spare you.’
Eve Hayward gave a clandestine little roll of her eyes at this. Sue Clarke clocked it and suppressed a smirk. This little exchange seemed to make them immediate allies.
As they got up to leave, Mullett said, ‘Oh, about our meeting later, Eve—’
Hayward cut him off. ‘I don’t believe I’ve met DI Frost yet, but I seem to be hearing about him a lot. Shame he wasn’t at the briefing, too.’
Mullett frowned. ‘Indeed. Where is he, Susan?’
‘Gordon bleeding Bennett! You useless bloody nag!’
Frost tore up his betting slip and threw it in the air in disgust. It was the third race in a row where he’d backed a loser. He was using the Tote in the grandstand, away from Melody Price and her fellow bookies in the betting ring. On leaving the Champagne & Oyster Marquee, they’d said their goodbyes with Melody’s ringing endorsement of Terry Langdon’s guilt reverberating in his ears.
But Frost didn’t leave the races, and it certainly wasn’t his luck on the horses that was making him stay. His wallet was taking a vicious beating and flattening out fast. One of the reasons he stayed was propped up against the counter at the public bar, a bar that was rapidly filling up as the punters poured in for their race-interval drink. It was thirsty work throwing money away. And Frank Trafford looked like he’d been working harder at it than most; grim-faced but seemingly undeterred, he was supping a pint and looking attentively at his copy of the Racing Post for his next investment.
Frost pulled out the copy of the mugshot that Arthur Hanlon had given him. It had piqued his interest that Trafford, like Terry Langdon, was the proud possessor of a moustache. Not quite in Magnum PI’s league, or so Hanlon said – less flamboyant, more trimmed and utilitarian. Frank was a big block of a man, with a square-shaped head and close-cropped iron-grey hair. His charge sheet put his age at fifty-two, and he looked like he’d gone through the years hard.
‘How’s your luck, Frank?’
Trafford looked up from his paper at the man who had just sidled up to him at the bar. His mouth torqued into a grimace, and his eyes, grey as his hair, narrowed menacingly.
Frost didn’t waste any more time and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Frost. Your wife reported a robbery at the Prices’ place in February? George Price, I believe your—’
‘I know who he is.’ He folded the paper over a few times and held it gripped in his hand like a cosh. Frost hadn’t ever seen a more threatening-looking newspaper. ‘My wife worked for him for fifteen years. What do you want to know: who shot him?’
‘You know about that?’
‘I see he’s not here today. Word gets around fast at the races, down there in the betting ring. What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Just wondering if you had any information on the robbery at the house, as your wife reported some videotapes had been stolen.’
‘How’d you know I was here?’
Frost shrugged. ‘I didn’t. There’s a lot of people here I know. It’s a popular, if unprofitable, place to be on a Saturday afternoon.’ That was a lie. Arthur Hanlon had given Frost the tip that he might well find Frank Trafford at the races today. ‘But from what I hear, you and George Price had a falling-out?’
Trafford’s scowl intensified. He balled his free fist and looked like he wanted to hammer it down on the bar, where his pint sat. ‘He’s a welsher. In more ways than one. He owed me money for work I did for him – and bets I had with him.’ Trafford took a glug of the pint. ‘All that money, big house, and they treat Doreen like dirt, don’t pay what they owe. Scum!’
Frost weighed him up. He stank of alcohol like he was infused with the stuff, that sort of long-term boozing that kept him perpetually topped up. There was probably an army pension paying for the gambling and drinking, with his wife working her fingers to the bone to pay for everything else. Or maybe he was drummed out of the army, dishonourable discharge, thought Frost. Had he been in the Falklands? No, too old. Somewhere along the line he’d lost it, but he looked like he still had further to go.
‘Makes you wonder what was on those tapes, right?’
‘Her with her kit off, probably!’
‘Who?’
‘The wife, little Lady Muck, Melody Price.’
‘You watched the tapes?’
‘No, didn’t have to. Doreen reckoned that’s what they got up to. You know that’s what she did, Page Three? She can put on airs and graces, but once a tart, always a tart.’
‘Sounds interesting, I’d like to talk to Doreen about it.’
‘Ha! Then buy a ticket to Manchester, that’s where she is. She’s staying with her sister.’
‘How long
for?’
Frank Trafford’s thick shoulders gave a heavy shrug. Frost now realized it wasn’t a fleeting visit to the sister, and what Trafford had lost. And it wasn’t hard to imagine what had driven Doreen away from her husband.
‘Where were you yesterday, Frank?’
At this he straightened up from his slump across the bar, as if being called to attention, and like the well-drilled soldier he once was, he didn’t want to be caught off guard. ‘I was here, doing my money. Bloody bookmakers, they always win.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Soon as I ran out of bloody money – no point being here otherwise.’
‘What time?’
‘What is this, what are you accusing me of?’
‘A simple question. Got nothing to hide, have you?’
‘No. Maybe after the fourth race. I didn’t even have my fare home, so I walked.’
‘Long walk. You live on Langley Road, right?’
‘Through the woods it’s quick enough. I’m used to marching, put in longer stretches than that. And I’ll do it again today, the way things are going.’
‘I think we’re going to have to talk further, down at the station,’ said Frost, delivering this with a smile and as much informality as he could muster. ‘Just to eliminate you from our inquiries.’
Frank Trafford picked up his pint glass, and sucked down the final dregs. Frost saw that running out of booze was Frank’s biggest problem right now, rather than being a possible suspect in an attempted murder.
‘Buy us a whisky and I’ll talk now, I’ll talk to your heart’s content, me old flower!’
‘Best not, think you’ve had enough.’
Trafford attempted to pull a jovial grin. It trembled precariously on his lips, and certainly didn’t match his eyes that were now brimming with anger. ‘Buy us a drink, go on, tight bastard, what’s wrong with you!’