A Lethal Frost

by Danny Miller

  Eve Hayward did indeed know what came next. They carried on walking, no longer interested in what was on the stalls. This was little more than a sideline, only one part of the impending crime wave that would soon engulf Denton and the surrounding area if their intelligence proved correct. Her job on the inside was now to connect all the dots.

  ‘Any bad apples at Eagle Lane who might be on the payroll?’ asked Norton.

  ‘It’s only my second day. Start going in too hard and heavy about personalities and they’ll smell a rat and think I’m investigating them. But I’ve heard some interesting things about a DI Frost. Seems to like doing things his own way, and we know how that usually turns out.’

  They made their way out of the market to the privacy of DI Norton’s car, where he filled her in on a robbery that had happened last night in nearby Rimmington.

  At 7 a.m. that morning a white Transit van was reported to the police because it had been parked all night next to a jewellery shop. On checking the plates, the investigating PCs discovered the van was stolen. It was actually flush against the wall of the jeweller’s, so with the side door open the thieves had been able to use their drills and sledgehammers, muffled with blankets, to make a hole big enough to crawl through. Only the door and window grilles of the shop were alarmed, and so they had effectively bypassed the security system. The old cast-iron safe that held most of the stock was a doddle for the thieves to open. The shop’s owner, a Mr Raymond Handler, said that there was over twenty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels, precious coins and gold missing. The sum might have been rather inflated for insurance purposes, but it was nonetheless a significant haul.

  And for Eve Hayward and her colleague, the crime had all the professional and daring modus operandi of one gang in particular, from over the water in Dublin: the Hogan Gang.

  As they drove away from the Coconut Grove, Frost and Waters discussed the case. They agreed that whilst Baskin was largely keeping up the criminal code of conduct by keeping his mouth mostly shut, he was also on edge. And they both felt that Melody had lied about Harry Baskin volunteering to provide protection for both her and George – Keith had been all her idea. She was alone in that big house and she was rattled.

  For Frost, it was becoming clear that there were darker forces at play than just Terry Langdon, who, according to everyone who knew him, was no cold-blooded killer likely to come back to finish off the job. Baskin was proving to be a loyal friend to George Price, but he was also a pragmatist and a businessman who wanted to protect his investments and the nefarious ventures they shared, and he wouldn’t bother posting Bad Manners Bob outside Price’s hospital room, or indeed providing Keith’s services to Melody, if the threat was solely from a playboy chancer like Langdon. As far as the DI was concerned, and Waters agreed, all these little facts blew the whole case wide open again.

  DS Waters dropped off a very reluctant Frost at the Jade Rabbit. Frost had wanted to go back to Eagle Lane to get stuck in. He was keen to liaise with Sue Clarke on what she’d discovered at Langdon’s place; she’d hinted over the radio that it could be of interest, and that she was just waiting for an urgent ballistics report (she’d called in a favour and ruined a technician’s Sunday lie-in). But Waters was having none of it, and insisted that for once Frost should follow orders, and go home to get some rest.

  On entering the Jade Rabbit, and being hit with the powerful aroma of sweet and sour emanating from Kenny Fong’s wok, Frost decided to get a Kung Po to take away. He was still persona non grata with Old Mrs Fong, and it was probably the safer option to eat upstairs in the flat. So he quickly put in his order with Kenny before his mother appeared, and went upstairs. Frost knew the only way to make peace with her was either to find Monty the parrot, an impossible task, or to replace it, a not-so-impossible task, though likely to be an expensive one; due to their longevity he was sure they didn’t come cheap.

  As he lay on his futon, an all-the-rage Japanese form of bed that was about as comfortable as lying on a griddle, he glanced through the brochure for Paradise Lodge. The three identical blocks with their colourful Lego brickwork and cladding didn’t look like they would age well, but he was pretty sure he was going to pull the trigger on one of the flats anyway.

  His lodgings upstairs at the Jade Rabbit were ruining his love life, or attempts at a love life. He’d come to the conclusion that he couldn’t bring birds back here any more than he could keep them from flying out of here. And futons, as far as he could tell, were the preserve of students and not of grown men in respectable professions … or coppers. No, he’d made up his mind – tomorrow he would contact young Jason Kingly, the estate agent, and have one last look around Paradise, Eden and Utopia, and make an offer. There was a knock on the door: his Kung Po with extra Po and an ice-cold can of Harp lager had arrived. He smiled. This was Jack Frost’s idea of Paradise, Eden and Utopia right here.

  Monday (1)

  The cold morning still managed to be luminously bright and filled Frost with optimism. He was happy to be in the Metro, with Art Pepper playing on the cassette deck, as he drove northwest, foot down, with a renewed vigour and purpose, to purchase himself a flat. A new home, somewhere he could call his own. And he was determined to be in his new place as quickly as possible. This fresh resolve to be out of the Jade Rabbit pronto was brought about by him getting his timing terribly wrong, and bumping into the venerable Mrs Fong.

  He didn’t have a clue what she was saying, but in all honesty it didn’t take an interpreter of Cantonese for Jack Frost to get the message: she wanted him out. At 8.30 a.m. Frost had slipped ninja-like out of his room, along the hallway and down the creaking stairs, which he managed to make not creak due to his stocking-footed stealth – he was holding his old suede slip-ons in his hands. The front door of the restaurant was in sight, but as he got to the bottom of the stairs, she was coming out of the kitchen. Her inscrutable features screwed up in distaste when she caught sight of him. He still had the bandage, now rather grubby, around his head; the shiner was in full florid bloom; and his lip was swollen and curled like that of a bad Elvis impersonator. Frost attempted a smile through a face that was still puffy and tight with pain and said good morning. To no avail; seemingly his condition didn’t elicit any sympathy from the Fong matriarch. She just looked at him as you would an overflowing toilet, and fixed him with a baleful glare. She pinched her nose with one hand, then pointed at his feet with the other, and let loose a burst of loud Cantonese. Hearing the commotion, Kenny Fong quickly appeared on the scene, coming out of the kitchen.

  ‘Frost, you must put your shoes on!’

  ‘I thought it was a Chinese custom to take them off.’

  ‘No, Frost! Shoes on. Mum reckons that’s why her beloved parrot Monty flew off, because of your feet, they stink!’

  Frost thought about it; Monty did used to let out a mighty and sustained squawk and flap about in his cage whenever Frost slipped off his shoes.

  ‘I never knew parrots had such a highly developed sense of smell, I thought that was dogs.’

  ‘Frost, you don’t need that much of a developed sense of smell with your feet, no offence. Pen and ink! Pen and ink!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Pen and ink! Pen and ink!’

  Frost had momentarily forgotten that Kenny and his family were fans of Chas & Dave, and when they weren’t listening to their records they were reading through their book of rhyming slang, inexplicably, to improve their Queen’s English.

  ‘Pen and ink – stink?’ questioned Frost.

  ‘Yeah, stink! Even up the apples and pears, can still smell your plates of meat!’

  ‘Well, Kenny, you know what they say about coppers’ feet – that’s why they call us the Plod. Spend all day on them, bound to hum a little. But it’s the start of the day, no pong now?’

  Kenny Fong looked as furious as his mother. ‘No pong now? No pong now? You taking mickey?’

  Frost held up the brochure for his potential new home, said he wouldn’
t be here much longer and made his escape. He went straight to the phone box at the corner of the road and phoned Jason Kingly.

  As he pulled the Metro into the car park of Paradise Lodge, Frost was met by Kingly. The young estate agent was looking keen and today was wearing a Prince of Wales double-breasted suit that looked far too big for him. In fact, it looked like he was wearing a sandwich board advertising Prince of Wales check.

  ‘Morning, Mr Frost, beautiful day to be purchasing a luxury yet very affordable home,’ he said in his best patter. But as Frost got out of the car, Jason stopped smiling and looked concerned. ‘You been in the wars?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, yeah, all part of the job.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the bank manager later today, should sort out all the paperwork for the mortgage this week.’

  They made their way towards the entrance of Paradise Lodge.

  ‘Should go through OK, will it, Mr Frost?’

  Frost smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ll have any problems, I saw the bank manager only yesterday, in fact. In church.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t strike me as a church-goer, Mr Frost.’

  ‘Well, I say a church. There was a woman of the cloth there. And then she took it off.’

  Jason looked confused. Then worried. ‘Just out of curiosity, how did you get …?’

  ‘A good kicking?’

  The estate agent nodded.

  ‘Have a guess.’

  Kingly guessed and shrugged as he answered, ‘Playing rugby?’

  ‘Sports were involved, but not rugby. It was horse racing. And I didn’t fall off a horse. It’s a long story, Jason, but I was at the races and I’d had a few drinks, and I was …’ Frost stopped in his tracks as something caught his eye. ‘I thought you said all these flats were empty, no one had moved in yet.’

  ‘I did. They haven’t. By the way, the office didn’t tell me, what did you say you did for a living? Your job?’

  Frost ignored his question and went over to the flat on the ground floor that had piqued his interest. He peered through the window. The flat was expensively decorated and furnished. In the living room was a black leather and chrome-framed three-piece suite arranged around a deco-style coffee table. All very swanky and tasteful, thought Frost, getting ideas for maybe how his own place could look with a bit of effort. But what really grabbed his attention was what was on the sleek coffee table. There was an empty bottle of wine and some scrunched-up cans of Castlemaine XXXX, and a big box of fried chicken that someone had laid waste to. Frost grinned; now he could really imagine what his place would look like. He pulled himself away from the window to be confronted with Jason, who was looking concerned.

  ‘Well, Mr Frost?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What is it you do, professionally, for a living?’

  Frost understood: the cuts and bruises, they didn’t give a very good impression, and the estate agent obviously didn’t want hooligans moving in to the newly built properties and lowering the tone – and future asking prices. Frost, to put Jason’s mind at rest, pulled out his wallet and warrant card. ‘I’m a detective inspector with Denton CID. So, who’s moved in there, then?’

  Kingly should never commit a crime, thought Frost, as he looked quizzically at the young man – his mouth was wide open, his eyes were rounded in terror, and his bum-fluffed pasty face was colouring up a treat.

  ‘Jason, you all right, lad, something you want to tell me?’

  ‘It’s a show flat. We show it to people so they can see what it would look like furnished. We usually have some flowers in there, a bowl of fruit on the side table, maybe some books on the shelf. That sort of thing.’

  ‘So how do you account for an empty bottle of plonk, some tins of Aussie lager and a chicken dinner?’

  ‘Err, yeah, well, between me and you, Mr—’

  ‘Inspector Frost.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector Frost. I’ve been using it for … for entertaining. I’ve got a new girlfriend, you see. We use it sometimes for—’

  ‘All right, I get the picture. I take it you’re not supposed to entertain birds in here, right?’

  ‘They’d go mad if they found out, I’d be sacked immediately.’

  Frost gave him a nudge and a wink. ‘Don’t worry, son, your secret’s safe with me. I’d do the same in your shoes. So why didn’t you show me this show flat? Looks nice, and it’s on the ground floor.’

  ‘It was a bit out of the price range you were looking at, Inspector.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, the mortgage is not a problem. My bank manager is putty in my hands. It’s the bank that likes to say “Yes”.’ Frost then muttered to himself, ‘Anything so I don’t tell his wife.’

  ‘It’s a two-bedroom flat with an extra boxroom, for a growing family, that type of thing.’

  Frost considered the show flat again – it looked enticing. Maybe young Jason was on to something, maybe he had to expand his horizons, plan for the future. The bump on the head had woken him up to new ideas and possibilities, mainly that he didn’t want to end up on his own, come the day of reckoning. And if he did meet the right woman and a kid came along, Frost would be ready now, he felt.

  ‘Inspector Frost?’

  Frost glanced round to discover Jason marching off ahead towards Paradise Lodge. Frost called out to him to hold his horses. ‘I want to have a look in here.’

  The estate agent stopped and reluctantly made his way back over to Frost, who was again peering in at the window of his potential future home.

  ‘You can’t. I don’t have the keys.’

  ‘You don’t need them,’ said Frost.

  ‘I do, how else are we going—’

  ‘What caught my eye, Jason, was the window – it’s not properly closed.’ Frost slipped his fingers in the gap and pulled it open. ‘I’m a copper, we’re trained to spot things like this. Crime prevention is half the work.’

  Kingly froze, with that soppy wide-eyed look on his face that was beginning to annoy Frost.

  ‘We can’t … we can’t go in … I don’t have permission.’ Jason quickly looked around. ‘People might think we’re breaking in …’

  ‘What people? There’s no one around, they’re empty flats. And relax, I’m a policeman. Plus, I don’t think your superiors will mind me having a nose around if I decide to spend more money, do you?’

  ‘We can’t go in, we’re not supposed to, I don’t have permission,’ repeated Kingly.

  With a hint of blackmail in his voice, Frost reminded him, ‘That’s never stopped you in the past, eh? You and your bird?’

  Frost climbed through the window and was soon standing in the living room. Jason followed him in. And as he did so, he called out to the DI in a very loud and incongruous fashion, ‘No, Inspector, I don’t suppose they will mind you coming in … what with you being a policeman!’

  Terry Langdon’s heart was pounding in his chest, so loudly was his panic reverberating around his body that he was sure they could hear the thumping racket. Cold sweat prickled his spine. He tried to slow his breathing, to calm himself. The gun felt heavy in his hand now. He’d been carrying it about with him, just in case, just in case something like this should happen. But now it felt real, it didn’t feel like a toy, a prop, it felt like something he was going to use, a tool to deploy. To kill if need be. And he would.

  But first he’d kill Jason. That little idiot – letting someone into the flat – what the hell was he thinking of? Though in all fairness to him, it did sound like the other man’s idea. In fact, from what he’d heard, the fella sounded like a pushy bugger. Insisting on taking a look, not taking no for an answer. He could hear Jason trying to usher him out. And in all fairness to the kid, he did try to warn him, by shouting out that he was coming in.

  Langdon could hear them getting closer. The man had insisted on a tour of the flat, and after obviously starting in the lounge, Jason had taken him to the bathroom, the kitchen and the two s
maller bedrooms, and now they were fast approaching the master bedroom – where he was hiding.

  As they entered it, Terry could just make out their figures as he peered through the slatted door of the fitted wardrobe he was standing in. The gun was fully loaded, and cocked. He could hear them perfectly now. The man had a strong voice, sounded commanding.

  ‘Not bad, not bad at all. Tell me, Jason, does the bed come with it?’

  He saw the man bouncing up and down on it, trying it out.

  ‘I bet this has seen some action, eh? You and your girlfriend, what’s her name? I want some discount on it, seeing as it’s been used. One young enthusiastic owner, lots of spins around the block but not a lot of mileage on the … Are you all right, son?’

  ‘Yes. I … I was just thinking I’ve got another appointment … I should really be going.’

  ‘That’s not the attitude.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, far be it for me to tell you your business, but you’re looking at it all wrong. Are you sure you’re OK? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m all right, Mr Frost.’

  Frost. He had a name for him now. He wished he hadn’t heard it – it made it just that bit more personal. Terry Langdon watched as the man got up from the bed and moved around the room, opening the door to the en suite and peering in. Langdon heard the shower curtain being swished aside, and he congratulated himself for not hiding in there.

  Frost came out of the bathroom and stood by Jason. There were some shuffling sounds. A quick burst of flame and then the familiar aroma of cigarette smoke.

  ‘What I mean by your attitude is, well, I’m here, and I’m ready to buy. You might rush out of here to your next appointment and discover they’re messing you about. They just like spending their time looking around properties. Me, I’m a live one. I’m hot to trot. I’m a goer. Get my meaning, Jason?’