by Danny Miller
‘What else did you do yesterday, Michael?’ asked Clarke.
‘Went for a pint, had a couple, actually.’
‘What pub?’
‘The Spread Eagle on Eagle Lane.’
‘What time?’
‘About eightish.’
‘You use that pub a lot?’
‘Not as much as you coppers. I know it’s a coppers’ pub. Maybe that’s why there’s never any trouble in there. Apart from the coppers getting drunk, that is.’
Eve Hayward laughed. Sue felt the need to defend Eagle Lane. ‘We’re not that bad, except on birthdays, promotions, solving cases, and any day with a Y in it. Tell me, did you talk to any coppers in there?’
He gave what Clarke considered a sly smile. ‘I don’t know any coppers, apart from you two now. I’ve never been in trouble in my life. Like I say, a couple of pints, then home. Not much of a productive day – in fact it was the kind of day that my father would look down his nose at. George has a picture of Maggie Thatcher up in his office, she’s his pin-up. He divides people into strivers and shirkers and always considered me to be a shirker. That’s why we never got on. Did Terry Langdon do it? I heard you’re looking for him.’
‘How’d you hear that?’
‘Uncle Jim told me.’
‘Jimmy Drake?’
Michael Price nodded. ‘He’s not my real uncle, but I’ve called him that since I was a kid. I know Terry Langdon too. He always seemed like a nice bloke. I suppose you know all about him?’
‘We know your father was in business with Terry Langdon’s father and there was a dispute. Michael, did your father know the rumours about—’
‘Terry shagging Melody?’
Sue Clarke wouldn’t have chosen those exact words, but couldn’t argue with their immediacy.
But on blurting them out, Michael Price’s expression suddenly changed as his eyes widened, and he looked startled, shocked by his own words.
‘Did he?’ pressed Clarke.
‘Did he what?’
‘Did Terry Langdon, as you said, “shag” Melody, and did your dad know about it?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said that. Sometimes I just … I just say things.’
‘You don’t get on with your new step-mum then?’
‘She’s all right. She’s … she’s nice to me.’
‘That’s quite a thing to say, that she was having an affair with another man.’
‘You won’t tell her, will you?’ Michael Price’s wide-eyed gaze flitted from Clarke to Eve Hayward again and again, as if he was looking for a glint of sympathy in the detectives’ eyes, a way out. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t say she was having an affair with Terry Langdon. I just used to see them together at the races, when my dad wasn’t around, and I could tell he liked her, and that she liked him … a bit … maybe … They were about the same age … and stuff … I don’t know. And anyway, I make it my business to stay out of Dad’s business since he sacked me. I used to work at the races, you know that?’ Clarke nodded. ‘Ever since I was a kid it was George Price and Son. My mum wanted me to go to college. I don’t know, maybe become a vet or something. I wouldn’t have minded that, I like animals. But my dad wanted me to go into the business with him. I liked watching the horses, but that was about it. I’m not good at maths or anything like that, you have to be good with numbers to be a bookie. But he wasn’t interested in what I wanted, couldn’t give a toss. And once Mum died, well, he sort of lost interest altogether.’
‘Lost interest in what?’
‘Well, in me, I guess.’
Sue Clarke considered Michael Price, now sipping coffee from his chipped Return of the Jedi mug. Despite his height and bulk and resemblance to his father, he managed to look small and vulnerable, like a kid. But without an alibi or anyone to corroborate his movements on the previous day, he was very much a suspect in his father’s shooting.
When Clarke wound up her questioning, she was satisfied that it had been a fruitful exchange. She had learned that Terry Langdon and Melody Price might well have taken their relationship beyond the bounds of flirtation and actually consummated it. And if Michael Price knew about it, a man who struck Clarke, even by his own admission, as not the sharpest knife in the drawer, maybe his father knew about it too. And maybe George and Terry Langdon had arranged to meet up yesterday to settle it once and for all. This combustive scenario wasn’t hard to imagine: the older cuckolded husband and the younger lover; they argued and one thing led to another, and Langdon shot Price. And with Langdon ‘away on his toes’, as Hayward would say, it really was looking like case solved, or certainly an abundance of motive and evidence was closing in around Terry Langdon.
And as Clarke sat in the lounge bar of Denton’s premier hotel, the Prince Albert, drinking her filtered coffee, Eve Hayward agreed with her.
‘From what you’ve told me,’ said Eve, ‘all fingers are pointing at Terry Langdon. Spotted leaving the scene, motive, opportunity and—’
‘Away on his toes.’
‘Precisely. It seems a better fit than Michael Price, even though you can’t verify his whereabouts yesterday afternoon.’
‘I was in the Spread Eagle with Jack last night after work, must have been around the same time he claims to have been there, bit later, and I didn’t see him. And I believe him when he says he spent the day on his own playing video games. He just doesn’t strike me as a good liar, seems rather guileless. And if I’m totally honest, maybe a little odd. It’s almost like he wanted to get himself in trouble. Like a trip down the station wouldn’t be a bad day out, maybe a bit of excitement for him. And yet, he didn’t want to drop Melody Price in it?’
‘His step-monster?’
‘Yeah. She effectively ousted him from his birthright. “George Price and Son” is now “George Price and Sexy New Young Wife”. You’d think he’d have a bit more to say about her. Instead he was apologizing for saying anything he did say about her. Like she was his real mum, and he was a bit scared of her.’
‘Tell me really, why doesn’t DI Frost fancy Terry Langdon for the shooting?’ wondered Hayward.
‘Well, it’s like I said before. He thinks it’s too early to tie it all up and not scout about for other suspects and motives. Mind you, I have my suspicions that he just enjoys kicking against the super, who likes to tie everything up as quickly as possible. It’s good for the clear-up stats, you see …’ Sue Clarke mopped up the mess she’d made of the fancy Rombouts plastic filter to cover up her confusion – she rather suspected she’d said too much. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be speaking out of turn about Superintendent—’
‘Relax, Sue. I get it! He’s a real piece of work, your Stanley Mullett, I got that when I first met him. And I smelt booze on him, too.’
‘In all fairness to him, I think he had a big day and night out yesterday with the other superintendents from the county.’
‘And this is Eagle Lane, and you like a drink, or five – sounds like my kind of station.’ They laughed.
‘I’m sorry about earlier, in the car,’ said Clarke.
‘I didn’t notice anything.’
‘Yeah, you did, you just didn’t say anything. I appreciated it. I’m not usually so—’
‘How old is he? I’m assuming he’s a boy, from the Action Man on the back seat.’
‘He’s just one.’
Eve Hayward smiled. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Philip. It was my grandad’s name.’ Sue Clarke took another sip of her coffee. ‘I don’t know, you just seem to have it all together, and I’m running around in a car that looks like … looks like how I feel most of the time …’
‘I don’t have kids, Sue. It may happen, but it hasn’t happened yet. And if I’m really honest with myself, maybe I’m just too selfish, or too ambitious and wrapped up in my own career. But my mum brought me up on her own, so I know the challenges.’
‘I didn’t say I was on my own.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn�
�t mean …’ Eve Hayward then glanced over to the clock on the marble mantelpiece.
‘We should get going, I suppose,’ said Clarke, taking that as her cue and finishing off her coffee.
‘Relax, I don’t think we’re going to get much serious work done in the next twenty minutes. Fancy something a bit stronger than coffee?’
Clarke picked up her handbag. ‘I think I’ll need to go to the cashpoint—’
‘Again, relax, we can put it on my tab. This is where I’m staying for the next week.’
Sue Clarke looked around the impossibly posh hotel, with its chandeliered lounge bar decorated like a Georgian drawing room. ‘You sure?’
‘Expenses, taxpayers’ money well spent.’
Saturday (6)
They’d arranged to meet at midnight. It was his idea to meet here. The damned fool had wanted to meet in a pub. There was no way that was going to happen – he didn’t even want to meet in the car park of a pub, much less the public bar, as the little man was an arch criminal, a thief, a burglar of repute and, to his credit, great skill. And that’s why he used him, his skill as a burglar. But the little man’s reputation went before him, and with a record as long as his arm, he was the last person he wanted to be seen with. But then again, it wouldn’t have done much for the other bloke to be seen with him, either.
‘Fancy bumping into you here,’ joked the grinning little thief, Stevie Wooder, on approaching him. ‘You got my money?’
‘Very funny. You’ve been paid very handsomely already and failed to come up with the goods. Why should I pay you more now?’
The swaggering thief reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat and pulled out the little black book, the little black book that had for a short while been in the possession of Jack Frost. ‘Is this perhaps of any interest to you? It should be, it’s got your name in it.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘I didn’t find it, mate, I took it, I stole it. I risked my liberty to get it.’
He reached over to take the book, but the little thief whipped it away and put it back in his pocket. He eyed Wooder, looking down at him with barely disguised contempt, like he was something that could slither off into the undergrowth at any moment. But it was that slipperiness that made him such a good thief. Little Stevie Wooder barely scraped five foot three, was whip thin and had the physique of an eel, which all made him perfect for his profession.
‘I was at the races. And who do I see there, but none other than Inspector Jack Frost. He’s up at the bar talking to Jimmy Drake. And what do we know about Jimmy Drake? He’s a good man, honest as the day’s long, keeps his head down and gets on with his work. I’m a betting man, and I’d bet pound notes for pennies that he’s not involved in anything that George and Melody are up to. But when Jack Frost bought him a drink, sat him down and started questioning him, he looked like he had plenty to say.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I’m not a lip-reader, mate …’
He didn’t like Stevie Wooder calling him ‘mate’, and that was the second time. But then again, it was preferable to him using his actual name. It had a catch-all anonymity to it. So, all things considered, he’d take ‘mate’. And anyway, their business relationship would be over soon. Terminated.
‘… And I don’t want Jack Frost to spot me,’ continued the thief, ‘so I keep my distance. But I did see Frost get this little black book out of his pocket and show it to Jimmy. And from where I was stood, it looked like Jimmy was a mine of information for the copper. He looked like he was telling him things about the book, and Frost was taking note of what he was saying, nodding away like he was glad to hear it.’
‘OK, I get the picture. But how did you get it?’
‘You’ve not heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘I thought—’
‘Never mind what you thought, just tell me.’
He could feel himself tense up just listening to the little thief. He buried his hands deep in the pockets of his expensive mac. He was wearing his driving gloves, finest calfskin leather. He’d purchased them on a weekend trip to Paris. Funny the things you remembered, at the oddest times. But when you were on edge, like he was, it was comforting to remember the little things that gave you pleasure. He’d always appreciated the finer things in life. He liked that his wife went out in designer clothes, that he himself sported a Rolex watch; after all, the opposition did, they spent their money as they pleased, so why shouldn’t he? And if you couldn’t flash the cash in this day and age, then when could you? But now he was here, bargaining with a lowlife thief like little Stevie Wooder in the shadow of the Southern Housing Estate, its brutal towers looming in the distance, ugly reminders of the human and social blight that scarred the landscape. Of course, his wife didn’t know about any of this. Did Mrs Jekyll know about Mr Hyde? Not until it was too late, and he was determined that wouldn’t happen. He’d sort out this mess, finish it once and for all and get back on track. Take back control of his life.
‘Well, cut a long story short, Jimmy must have given Frost some racing tips as well, because he starts betting and wins a few quid. Which, incidentally, I do too, because I know Jimmy Drake knows how to sniff out a winner, so I just bet on the horses Frost does. Which is easy, because by now, Frost has had a few beers and he’s got the gambling fever on him, so I can get close enough to hear what he’s betting on …’
He was getting sick of his voice now, the chirpy little cockney thief boasting and mouthing off. How they liked to stand in their pubs, their pool halls, their card clubs and their betting offices and boast about their criminal exploits – no wonder they always got nicked. Couldn’t keep their vainglorious braggart mouths shut.
‘… So I just follow him out of the races. Luckily I’m tooled up, got a jemmy in the poacher’s pocket of my lucky Crombie that I always wear to the gee-gees and the dogs. Lovely it is, mixed fibre, blue velvet collar. So I look around, no one about, just me and Frost. Be rude not to, so I hit him over the head with the tool …’
He watched intently as Wooder laughed. Then he thought about his gloves again. The little thief and his cheap ‘mixed fibre’. Crombie wouldn’t appreciate their sublime quality. They didn’t feel like gloves at all, rather like an extra layer of skin, a gossamer sensation, the finger on the trigger without any bulk or loss of control … control … control …
Little Stevie Wooder stopped laughing the moment he saw the gun. His eyes almost crossed as the barrel of the shooter rested just inches from the bridge of his nose. He looked confused, but just for a second. Then he fell backwards with a hole in his forehead, a single bullet right between the eyes. The assassin, because that’s what he was now, bent down to take a look, to check if by some miracle the thief was still alive, and if he was, put another bullet in him. He then went to his car to retrieve the length of tarpaulin in which he would roll the dead man and carry him to the boot. And then he would drive to the spot and make him disappear for good. He knew how to make someone disappear. It’s amazing what you pick up over the years, he thought.
Sunday (1)
When Frost’s eyes eventually ratcheted open and the blur of unconsciousness gradually dissipated, his vision was filled with the concerned, and then smiling, visage of DS John Waters.
‘Man, we thought you were never going to wake up. How you feeling?’
‘How do I look?’
‘You look terrible.’
‘That’s how I’m feeling.’
Frost glanced around at the unfamiliar surroundings. ‘I’m in hospital, right?’
‘Yeah. VIP suite. Managed to swing a private room for you.’
‘I’m looking for a new place and this could do nicely. Food’s probably not too good, but the bed baths from the nurses will be welcome.’
‘You know what happened, right?’
‘Yeah …’ A thought struck him. ‘Where’s my clothes, John?’
‘They’re hanging up, but your wallet and keys ar
e in the bedside table.’
Frost lifted himself up in bed, then paused and winced as he suffered the full extent of the damage with each move he made. His ribs hurt, his left eye felt hugely swollen, and the back of his head throbbed hot. He did a quick recce with his tongue around his mouth searching for gaps left by knocked-out teeth, but he felt none and was grateful they were all still in situ. All he noticed was the tang of blood and broken flesh from a cut lip.
Waters said, ‘They gave you a good working-over, but not the worst. You’ve got some stitches at the back of your head, bruised ribs, but not broken. And a real beauty of a shiner, and that’s about it.’
‘Thank you, Dr Feelgood, that’s enough to be getting on with.’
Frost reached over to the side table and opened the drawer. Inside were his Casio watch, some loose change and his wallet – empty. The day’s winnings were gone, no real surprise there. But most importantly, George Price’s little black book wasn’t there either.
‘The doctor said you were muttering something about winning big at the races. How much was in the wallet?’
‘About four hundred quid.’
John Waters whistled, impressed, and then shook his head like the loss of the cash was more painful than getting coshed over the bonce.
‘Pass me my jacket.’
Waters responded to the urgency in Frost’s voice and collected his brown leather jacket off the hanger and handed it to him. Frost checked the inside pocket first, then the side pockets.
‘The book too. The black book’s gone!’
‘Did you have a lot to drink?’
‘A few.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Three, four …?’
‘Three, maybe five, and a chaser or two …’ Frost stopped thinking about the missing black book and staring into the empty drawer and turned his attention to Waters, who was sat with his arms folded, looking every inch the inquisitive and unconvinced copper. ‘Are you questioning me?’