by Danny Miller
‘No.’
Frank Trafford lifted himself off his stool and took himself up to his full height, over six foot; under a grubby donkey jacket he was barrel-chested and a very capable-looking unit. Frost kept one eye on the glass in the ex-soldier’s hand that was now brandished like a weapon, and the other was drawn to the spittle-flecked moustache twitching above his scowling mouth.
Don’t do it, Frank … Don’t do it, uttered Frost to himself, keeping his lips sealed and his eyes trained on the glass that looked like it might shatter under the pressure of Trafford’s white-knuckled fist. The ex-soldier was now so close to Frost’s face that he could feel his booze-laden breath beating down on him.
‘You can come for me, copper … I’ll be ready for you.’
It was said with enough menace for Frost to leave it at that – he wasn’t there for whatever Trafford could throw at him, which at that point looked like the pint glass. So he let the drunken man glare at him for a moment or two longer, before Frank put the glass on the bar counter with a thud and stalked off.
Frank shouldered and elbowed his way through the crowd, just looking to provoke a fight. Luckily there were no takers and he was soon gone, to begin another long march home through the woods, if his story was to be believed.
Frost blew out a noisy gust of air in relief that the ex-soldier had left, not only because most men who’d suffered the intimidating attentions of Frank Trafford would have done the same, but because he wasn’t interested in wasting any more time on him today.
However, two pints of lager, three packs of salt and vinegar, five more quid blown on one more losing horse later, and his reason for being there finally presented himself.
Frost followed Jimmy Drake as he picked his way through the packed bar and took his place at the counter, a pound note fluttering in his hand to attract the barmaid. The DI was soon at his side. ‘Buy you a drink, Mr Drake?’
Jimmy Drake looked round at Frost, the half-moon gold-rimmed specs still balancing perilously on the tip of his nose. ‘Inspector Frost, isn’t it?’
‘Not for long if I get caught in here – no one will believe I’m on police business.’
‘Like a flutter, do you?’
‘Not particularly. I’ve never understood the lure of the betting shop. But the roar of the crowd is infectious, I’ll give you that. I’ve already lost fifteen quid.’
‘That’s what we like to hear. I suppose you want to talk about George, what else? Terrible business. I already spoke to a colleague of yours, nice girl, told her everything I know.’
‘Yes, DC Clarke said you’d known George longer than anyone.’
‘It’s nose and nose between me and Harry Baskin, who I take it you know rather well.’
‘Our paths have crossed.’
‘I’ve worked with George for over thirty years.’ Drake shook his head and looked pained at the thought. ‘I’ve not been to the hospital. Can’t bear to see him like that. Lying there … tubes running in and out of him. Horrible. But as soon as he wakes up, as I know he will, I’ll be there.’
Frost couldn’t share his confidence but luckily the barmaid distracted them. He ordered half a Double Diamond for the clerk and a pint of Hofmeister for himself. Cheers! They took their drinks over to a table that had just become available.
Jimmy Drake picked up his pale ale and downed it in two noisy glugs, followed by a throaty ‘Ah’. ‘Thirsty work, racing. The Melster tells me Terry Langdon is the odds-on favourite.’
‘The Melster?’
‘My little nickname for her. She hates it.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘But I can tell you now, Mr Frost, if you’ve put your money on him, you’ll lose it. I’ve known Terry Langdon since he was a kid, and he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag with a water pistol. Hasn’t got the bottle for that type of caper. And now he’s blown his father’s business, he’ll swap the Porsche for a Cortina and get a job selling double-glazing and be very happy, probably. But you haven’t cornered me to ask me that, so what’s really on your mind?’
‘We found this on George.’ Frost reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out the little black book, all the time keeping his eye on Drake, watching for the gambler’s ‘tell’, the involuntary reaction which could be anything from a slight twitch to a near-imperceptible smile, that would tell Frost he had a winning hand.
He needn’t have bothered, because Jimmy came right out and said it: ‘If that’s what I think it is, I’ll wager that whoever took a shot at George might well be in that black book.’
Frost couldn’t help but give a victorious grin on hearing this. ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Trouble is, there’s no discernible names in it, just initials and columns of numbers. Bets, I assume.’
The clerk looked at the notebook like it had just been retrieved from a toilet bowl, and a particularly unsanitary one at that. Frost raised a questioning eyebrow, and Jimmy eventually snatched the book out of his hand and flicked through it, running a quick calculating gaze over the figures and letters.
Frost smiled. ‘Another Double Diamond, Jimmy?’
‘I’ll have another half. Oh, and a Hamlet cigar.’
When Frost returned from the bar, Drake laid out the whole deal. George Price ran an off-course betting service for prized customers. The type of men who didn’t like going into betting shops and mixing with the hoi polloi there, and whose reputations might suffer if they were seen in such places – or were indeed seen gambling at all. Trusted gold-star customers could call up George on his private number and have a bet. This entailed the bookie extending them credit as and when. Jimmy said that George could keep all the bets in his head, and knew who owed him and how much, and the little black book was just back-up.
Frost pieced the rest together himself: with both George and the notebook gone there would be no record of how much they owed, or even who they were. And as some of the large sums listed in the book showed, killing George Price made good financial sense. Jimmy Drake said that running a betting credit business is always risky, because transactions between the punters and bookies are unenforceable by law. ‘It’s a gentleman’s agreement, always has been.’
So who collects for George if someone decides to be ungentlemanly and not honour the bet? Frost asked himself. And as quickly he came back with the answer: Harry Baskin.
‘Recognize any of the initials?’
Drake shook his head and handed the book back to Frost. ‘Nothing stands out. But to be honest, I had nothing to do with this part of the business; like I said, George ran it all himself. I just clerk for him at the races.’
‘You don’t seem to approve.’
‘Well, if I’m right, look where it got him. Running a betting shop and working at the races where you see the colour of people’s money is a perfectly respectable business. But when it comes to letting them gamble without seeing their money, it’s like betting on tomorrow, and who knows what tomorrow brings.’
‘Very philosophical, Jimmy,’ said Frost, straining to get it, as betting generally seemed to him like throwing money into the great void of the unknowable anyway. ‘How about these two, you know what these mean?’ Frost pointed at the two most prominent entries in the book, the only ones that weren’t just initials. They were in capitals and underlined: SOCKS and WINSTON. They also had the biggest amounts next to them.
Drake muttered ‘Socks and Winston’ to himself a few times, then his face crumpled in bafflement as he tried to make sense of the names and the numbers. ‘Well, whoever they are, they’re into George for a bloody fortune, unless those are their telephone numbers. Have you tried ringing them?’
‘Socks and Winston,’ Frost ruminated. ‘Nicknames, I’m assuming … or names of horses?’
Jimmy shook his head at the last suggestion. ‘Horses don’t gamble, too clever by half. George likes giving people nicknames. Plus it’s more discreet, just in case the book fell into the wrong hands. Like yours.’ He smiled.
The DI returned t
he smile. ‘I know all about nicknames – mine’s stuck so much most people think it’s my real name.’
‘Jack – it makes sense to me. What’s your real one?’
‘I was christened William. But only my mother-in-law used to call me that, and then just to wind me up.’
‘As Shakespeare once said, “What’s in a name?”’
‘In this case, Jimmy, quite a bit.’ Jack Frost closed the book and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. ‘It said “George Price and Son” on the board – tell me about the son, Michael?’
The clerk shook his head again and let out a gloomy sigh. ‘Michael’s a good lad. The trouble with him and George is that the boy just wasn’t cut out for the racing world. Wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t good with the numbers. In this game, at the height of the betting, the betting ring is like the floor of the London Stock Exchange. Money passes from hand to hand real fast, the odds are always changing, and you have to keep your wits about you, think fast on your feet. George was always shouting at Michael, and eventually it just did for the kid’s confidence. Then when Melody came along, that was it. Michael was out of the business, and she was in.’
‘You don’t sound too happy about it.’
‘It’s a family thing, none of my concern. When George’s first wife passed away he was heartbroken, devastated. Then Melody came along and changed all that, got him smiling again.’
Frost noted a cool reserve in Drake’s tone. He seemed disapproving of Price’s newfound happiness, or at least suspicious of it. ‘How did George seem to you, Jimmy? Did he have other problems, like money problems, personal problems, enemies?’
‘Bookmakers are the—’
‘Bookmakers are the enemy, I’ve heard,’ said Frost. ‘But I’m talking about real enemies who would want him dead. Recently, was George happy, unhappy, moody, nervous, anything?’
‘George always prided himself on being the life and soul, always cracking jokes, larger than life, you know the type. But these last few weeks he seemed out of sorts. Short-tempered, sullen. I can’t really say any more, because George wasn’t the type to talk about things.’
Jimmy shrugged and added, ‘Me neither, really. Her indoors says it’s like getting blood out of a stone, getting me to natter.’ He then muttered his complaints about ‘her indoors’ into his glass of Double Diamond.
Drake wiped away the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, and checked his watch whilst doing it. ‘Right, I need to get back to work,’ he said, before clamping his Hamlet between his teeth and rising to his feet.
Frost stood up with him, took out his wallet and handed the clerk his card. ‘If you think of anything that might help, day or night.’
Jimmy took the card. ‘Thanks for the drinks,’ he said, giving a tug on the brim of his fedora and starting to make his way out of the bar.
‘Oh, Jimmy. One last thing.’
Drake wheeled round.
‘You haven’t got any tips for the next race?’
Jimmy took the cigar out of his mouth, had a quick glance around him to make sure no one was listening, then said in a conspiratorial stage whisper, ‘You want me to tell you the secret of how to make a small fortune from betting on the horses?’
Frost’s eyes widened, his ears pricked up. ‘Yes, please.’
‘You start with a large fortune.’
‘Go on, my beauty! Go on, my son! Ride him home! That’s it! … That’s it! … YES!’
Frost jumped up in the air, pumped his fist and kissed his betting slip. It was his fourth winner in a row, more than making up for the three losing tickets before Drake had literally ‘marked his card’, and given him four tips for the following races. Jimmy had asked only one thing, that he didn’t place his bets with the Prices.
Frost went to the Tote window to collect his winnings off an unsmiling and brittle blonde who counted out his money as if it was coming out of her own purse. He now had four hundred quid and some loose change burning a hole in his pocket. Money for nothing, he thought, and now Frost could fully understand the lure of gambling.
The DI shouldered his way back into the bar, feeling ten feet tall and parched. Standing at the winning post cheering on your winning horse really was thirsty work. He’d already had four … maybe five pints? So he did the sensible thing and ordered half a Double Diamond and a Hamlet in honour of Jimmy Drake and his tips. He stood at the bar lighting the cigar and thinking about the funny TV adverts for the brand. They always featured some poor loser having terrible luck in some way or other, then lighting up the cigar to take away the pain, a consolation prize of sorts. Well, not today, Saatchi & Saatchi, thought Frost as he stood triumphant at the bar, puffing out perfectly formed smoke rings.
The magic was only broken when he glanced down at his watch. He was very late for something – he was pretty sure Mullett had arranged a briefing of some description, something about counterfeit goods?
Frost made his way out of the racecourse to the car park, which was no more than a series of roped-off fields, and began looking for his Metro. He thought he’d beat the traffic leaving before the last race, and he also didn’t trust himself not to have a final bet; and as he stood gently swaying in the muddy field, he didn’t trust himself with another drink inside him, either. And whilst he didn’t plan on getting much more work done today, he thought he should at least put in an appearance at Eagle Lane, hoping he wouldn’t bump into Mullett, before sloping off again. More by luck than effort, he spotted the yellow Metro boxed in amongst the tight rows of cars. A taxi was looking like the best option, or maybe radioing for a uniform, getting Simms to come and pick him up, urgent police business. He’d see how he felt when he got behind the wheel.
He put both hands in his trouser pockets to locate his keys, then yanked them out to lean on the roof of the car – like a tightrope walker teetering on his feet he did feel rather wobbly. And he really didn’t stand much of a chance when he heard the loud thwack that reverberated around his skull, followed by a searing all-consuming pain. Almost immediately the yellow Metro started to fade from view as blurry insensibility took hold of him … He just managed to raise his right hand to the crown of his head and feel a warm ooze of blood. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as he swayed helplessly … Then the fist connected with his face and all went black.
Saturday (4)
‘If we see anyone dealing drugs, we should chop their bloody hands off!’
‘Drag ’em up to the fifteenth floor and throw ’em off the roof!’
‘Better idea, lean out the window and pour boiling water over the bastards, that way we don’t have to look at their ugly faces!’
‘Now, now, ladies,’ pleaded the Reverend James Tutt, trying to cut through the raucous laughter. ‘Please can we be constructive and try and keep within the limits of the law with what we can do. DS Waters has kindly come along to help us with this matter, it would be wise to hear him out.’
John Waters sat in front of a semi-circle of concerned residents of the Southern Housing Estate, about twenty in total, predominantly young mothers with a vested interest in keeping hard drugs away from their children. They didn’t want Denton’s largest estate to become a drug-infested no-go area for decent citizens, the fate that had hit so many up and down the country. Drugs, especially heroin, were cheap, addictive and deadly. It was the new scourge, bumping football hooliganism and Arthur Scargill off the front pages of the tabloids and making the nightly news, feeding the fear, as it spread and tightened its pernicious grip on the impoverished sink estates of England.
The Reverend James Tutt, the vicar of the parish, was present to chair the meeting, and to keep the more vociferous, if not downright ferocious, of the mothers at bay. They were in the Rainbow Room, the community hall that abutted one of the blocks on the west side of the sprawling estate. The windowless space was lit up with fizzing strip lighting that revealed the brightly coloured murals of rolling green hills, blue skies, fluffy white clouds, a smiling sun an
d, of course, a rainbow; a country idyll, and a view that in reality wasn’t available anywhere on the estate. The room doubled as a play centre and an after-school club, and toys and footballs that hadn’t been put away littered the grass-green carpeted floor.
Waters had got involved with the community outreach programme through the urging of Frost, who thought the London-born DS could bring some of his big-city nous and experience to bear. The first thing Waters did was target the kids; he got to know them, learned their first names, and soon won their trust – some of them at least. He organized a minibus and took groups of the kids to play football, and he even considered starting a boxing club. Red tape tied everything up and stopped it happening. But his efforts hadn’t gone unnoticed, and he had the trust of the parents as a good copper who wasn’t interested just in nicking them.
‘Sorry, vicar, but I still think, anyone we see dealing drugs on the estate, we should kill them on sight.’
‘Oh please, Natasha,’ implored the vicar. ‘Listen to DS Waters.’
‘Come on, girls, let the man speak,’ said Cathy Bartlett.
‘That’s right, he has experience with this stuff, he’s not just a pretty face,’ said Jackie.
Ella Ross agreed. ‘Yes, we’ll listen to what John has to say.’
Natasha insisted, ‘And if we don’t agree, then we can still kill them on sight.’
They all cheered. Ella quietened them down. ‘Go on, John, we’re listening. We are, really.’
Not big on public speaking, and suitably cowed by the passion of his audience, Waters was grateful for the words of encouragement that were now coming his way.
‘My experience is that the ones who finally decide if drugs are welcome in an area are the potential customers and those who live in that area – not the gangsters and thugs who push the merchandise, no matter how threatening they are. So we get to the kids before the dealers do. Where I grew up, around Stoke Newington, the local residents, mainly the women, I have to say, got together and did something about it. They formed an action group, took to the streets, made banners and placards and marched in the so-called no-go areas, and made their presence felt. But it was all very peaceful, all very orderly, all very … serene and dignified. And that’s what gave them their power.’