A Lethal Frost

by Danny Miller

‘I … I think so.’

  The man, Frost, was moving again. Footfalls drawing closer. He was now inches away from the wardrobe. It was bound to be his next port of call after the bathroom. That’s what people do with doors – they open them, natural reaction. Frost would take a look to see if he could fit all his clobber in there. You always check the wardrobe space. It was the next logical move, no matter how much Terry Langdon wanted it to be otherwise, and it was going to happen. It was his destiny. His fate. To kill, to be a murderer.

  Langdon raised the gun to chest height. He was pressed into the corner of the wardrobe now. Maybe if Frost only opened one door he wouldn’t see him. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Frost was going to open both doors to take a proper look. And when he did, Terry was going to shoot him. Put a bullet right in his head. After all, he had to. He knew they were looking for him, prime suspect, and he was done for. What difference would one more make?

  ‘No, if you want to succeed in this game, think of it this way, son. It’s a bit like you having one of your birds back here – they’re sitting on the flash couch, you’ve had your pizza, your bottle of vino, then you decide to go to the local nightclub to see if you can pull a better-looking bird. That’s where the expression “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” comes from.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Of course it does, what else can it be?’

  Frost’s hand was on the doorknob now. It creaked, it edged open. Langdon stopped breathing. He didn’t want to see his face. He would shoot the bastard through the door. He had a good silhouette of the man against the light from outside. He aimed the gun at his head. Nothing mattered now, just getting away. Getting away as far as he could, then who knows, send for Melody to join him once he’d got fixed up in another country, maybe Spain. Canada, yes, that was better, somewhere far away from Denton, a fresh start for them both. But to do that he had to get away first, and for that to happen he had to kill this man now. Frost. The door opened further and Terry Langdon’s forefinger squeezed itself around the trigger …

  ‘Bloody hell!’ shrieked Jason.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A parrot! Look!’

  ‘I’ll be damned … It’s … it’s … Monty!’

  Both men rushed from the room. With their footsteps fading into the distance, Terry Langdon gave a huge sigh of relief, and then eased his finger off the trigger. As he carefully nudged the wardrobe door ajar, he heard Jason and the man called Frost noisily scrambling out of the lounge window … Frost seemed to be whistling and calling out the name of something … a name Terry couldn’t make out. Then he heard Frost swearing. He swore like a trooper. Then more muttered voices from outside before he heard someone clamber back in through the window.

  The wardrobe door was quickly opened and Langdon took aim again.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Langdon lowered the barrel from Jason’s forehead.

  ‘Bloody hell, Terry, why didn’t you just hide under the bed?’

  ‘Where’s … Frost?’

  ‘Gone back to the station, probably.’

  ‘What station?’

  ‘The police-bloody-station! He’s a copper! Didn’t you hear me? I shouted it out when we came in, said the word “policeman” really loudly.’

  Langdon shook his head, stunned by his narrow escape. ‘No, I was too busy looking for somewhere to hide.’

  The fugitive stepped out of his hiding place and now stood in the middle of the master bedroom. A pale-looking Jason sat on the bed, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt; not that it made much difference, as his scrawny neck barely touched the sides of his fifteen-inch collar anyway. It was more an expression of despair than a necessity. Because Kingly now realized that he was way out of his depth and was drowning in panic.

  Langdon wasn’t doing much better. He was pacing up and down, and every now and again taking a peek out of the bedroom window just to make sure that Frost wasn’t attempting a re-entry. The gun was hanging loosely from his hand and looking lethally dangerous and out of control, like it could slip from his sweaty palm at any minute, rebound on the thick nap of the carpet and let off a shot. Jason kept one eye on the revolver, and the other eye on his erratic cousin.

  Kingly had always admired his cousin Terry. He was older, richer, better-looking and it was sort of taken for granted that he was smarter – though Jason was swiftly re-evaluating that. So he was happy to help him, give him some time to sort this mess out, and Terry assured him that he was innocent and all would be OK. But Jason could see that Langdon was disintegrating before his very eyes: he looked sallow and gaunt. It had only been a few days, but Kingly could tell that he was a nervous wreck. Right on the edge. And Jason feared he was going to take him over it with him.

  ‘That was close.’

  ‘Yeah. Then I really would have been a murderer.’

  The word murderer freaked Jason out some more, and he began to scratch maniacally at the heel of his left hand, where there was a livid patch of itchy eczema that flared up at times of stress and crisis. ‘I knew it was a mistake letting you stay here …’ he started to say, thinking out loud, and not considering his cousin. ‘If they find out you’re here I’ll lose my job … Sod that, I’ll lose my freedom too, probably … I don’t want to go to—’

  ‘Calm down, Jace, for God’s sake! It’s only for another day or so. I’ve got a passport and some money coming to me. Soon as they’re delivered I’m out of here, out of Denton, out of the country.’

  ‘Bloody hell, why didn’t you bring your passport and your money with you?’

  ‘Same reason I didn’t hide under the bed! Heat of the moment.’

  ‘Maybe you should hide somewhere else? I’m not trying to get rid of you, it just might be safer now the flats are on the market. People will start coming around to take a look, you’ll be seen—’

  ‘No. This place is even more perfect now. Frost’s been here and seen it’s empty. He won’t look again, it’s perfect.’ Terry smiled a satisfied smile at his young cousin. ‘And all thanks to your quick thinking. What did you tell him? You brought birds back here? Though to be honest, Jace, I don’t know how he swallowed that. Let’s face it, you couldn’t bring chewing gum back here if it got stuck to your shoe, never mind a bird!’ Terry laughed and ruffled his cousin’s hair. He then looked at his hand, grimaced, and rubbed the residue of hair gel on Kingly’s Prince of Wales shoulder.

  Jason didn’t appreciate it. ‘Cheers!’

  Terry pinched his cheek and winked. ‘I’ve got a nice burgundy leather box jacket you can have, looks the business, Italian. Alberto Armani, Giorgio’s more talented brother, said the fella on the stall.’

  Langdon laughed, but it was hollow, and certainly didn’t entice Jason to join him.

  ‘I won’t need it where I’m going,’ continued Terry, stepping up the bravado. ‘Down to Spain, it’s lovely in Marbella this time of year. Then off to Canada, maybe Australia, the world is my lobster, as they say. Yeah, that could be just the ticket, Australia, a new country, a new life. The Gold Coast, full of good-looking birds down there, mate. You can come and visit, I’ll see you right.’

  Kingly watched as Terry resumed pacing up and down. He was grinning at the prospect of Australia, but Jason could hear the trepidation tugging at the edges of his cousin’s voice, like he knew, at heart, that it was all just a pipe dream.

  ‘Maybe I could talk to Frost,’ offered the younger man. ‘He likes me.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, if you tell him the truth, he’ll listen.’

  ‘No, no, no! Look, it’s not as simple as just handing myself in.’

  Terry sat down on the bed next to Jason. With the gun resting across his lap, it was now pointed at the young man. It may not have been aimed at him intentionally, but Jason still tensed up.

  ‘But I reckon he’s all right,’ said Kingly. ‘He seems like a good bloke, a fair bloke. Maybe I could h
ave a word.’

  Terry turned sharply towards his cousin. Now the gun was aimed at him on purpose. ‘Are you fucking mad? Don’t you dare! Don’t you even think about it! This isn’t kids’ games we’re playing here!’

  Jason raised his hands in surrender.

  Terry looked bemused at this reaction. ‘What the hell are you doing now?’

  ‘You’ve … you’ve got a gun pointed at me … a gun.’

  Terry glanced down at the shooter in his hand, and seemed almost as shocked and distressed as Jason to see it aimed at him. He stood up, went over to the side table and put the gun in the drawer. He then stood over Jason and put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jace, I wouldn’t hurt you – don’t be silly, you’re family. But don’t talk about calling the Old Bill again, not Frost, not anyone.’

  ‘But you didn’t do it! You’re innocent. You told me that you didn’t kill George Price.’

  ‘Kill? What have you heard? Is he dead?’

  Kingly shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything.’

  Terry sighed. Jason couldn’t tell if he was relieved that he wasn’t dead, or upset.

  ‘If he’s gone, then so be it. I’m not shedding any tears over him. You know what he did to my dad, to your uncle, don’t you? You know how upset your mum was when he died.’

  Jason knew, but in fact he was sick of hearing it from Terry. The way he went on about what had happened all those years ago made Kingly believe that Terry had in fact shot George Price. Then there was the wife, Melody. Jason had seen her in the flesh at the races, and in some old Page Threes where there was even more of her on show. She was a cross between Sam Fox and Linda Lusardi, Jason reckoned, though she had never quite hit the heights, the twin peaks, if you will, of those two Sun ‘scorchers’. What broke Jason out of his soft-core reverie was Terry’s hand on his shoulder, but its grip was hard this time, not comforting.

  ‘Jason?’

  Kingly glanced up at him. Langdon’s large brown eyes – bedroom eyes, as they had been described by more than one of his conquests – now just looked dark with foreboding. He looked a lot harder without his moustache. The distinctive ’tache was the first thing to go in an effort to distinguish himself from his wanted poster. And his lips were thin, and prickled with tension.

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  Jason nodded. Too scared to actually say yes, just in case Terry caught the doubt in his voice.

  ‘Good. But I’ll tell you something, I do know who did shoot George Price, and that’s why I can’t go to the police, Frost or anyone else.’

  ‘I understand. You don’t want to grass. So who shot him?’

  Terry looked grim and shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know. But it’s not just about being a grass, it’s about being believed. You don’t know what goes on in this town, corruption right to the top. I’ll be glad to get out of this place. So trust me, and no more talk about telling Jack Frost anything – you swear?’

  Jason swore on his mother’s life, no more talk of Jack Frost. ‘You wouldn’t have shot him, would you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Inspector Frost?’

  Langdon didn’t answer, and Kingly took that to mean that he would have. And by the look in his eyes, the desperation etched on his face, Jason believed that he would have, too.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Jason. ‘He doesn’t know how close he came. A parrot saved his life.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There was a parrot, an actual parrot. He was sitting on the windowsill.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Nah.’ Jason started laughing, like he’d never seen a parrot before – much less a wild one in Denton.

  ‘I thought you’d just said that to distract him?’

  ‘No, the parrot looked like he wanted to come into the flat. Frost started calling out to him. Then he flew off, out of sight. Frost kept shouting out his name, though.’

  Monday (2)

  ‘Monty!’

  ‘Monty who?’

  ‘The parrot. Monty the parrot. Or Monty the Second, to give him his full title. But as his home was a Chinese restaurant, he was more commonly referred to as Monty Number Two.’

  ‘And you saw him flying about, out in the wild?’

  ‘I did, Johnny. He flew down and sat on the windowsill – it was like he was waiting for me, or had come to tell me he wanted to go home.’

  ‘He wasn’t nailed to his perch, then?’ said Desk Sergeant Bill Wells.

  ‘Eh?’

  Wells started to channel John Cleese: ‘This parrot is dead, deceased, this parrot is a—’

  Frost groaned.

  ‘Cut it out, you muppet. Not even funny,’ said Johnny Johnson.

  Frost had come into Eagle Lane to find that Night Sergeant Johnson was lingering long after the end of his shift, to discuss with Bill Wells some of the finer points of the new computer system neither of them could master but that they both hated. They were always good value for some banter, but Frost wasn’t in the mood for it. He wanted results, he wanted action, he wanted dogged detective work, and he wanted Monty banged up behind bars by the end of the day. Although the parrot had looked in good health, Frost was sure he could do with the creature comforts of home, the Trill, the cuttlefish, the swing and the plush newspaper carpet.

  ‘He saw me coming through the window and he took off, headed towards town. I got in the car and was able to follow him for a bit – then I lost him.’

  Wells asked, ‘This window ledge he was on, where was it, Jack?’

  ‘The flats I’m looking to move into. Paradise Lodge.’

  ‘Perhaps he lives there. Paradise Lodge,’ said Johnson. ‘Perfect place for a bird of paradise.’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’

  ‘So what do you want us to do about it?’ asked Johnson. ‘Call the flying squad?’

  ‘Maybe he’s nesting in there,’ said Wells, gesturing towards the DI’s heavily bandaged head.

  The two sergeants laughed uproariously at the gag. Frost remained impervious to their desk-bound double act.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ said Wells, ‘you’re not the only one having bird trouble. Got a call on Saturday and one late on Friday from Joe Kelso. His farm’s missing some chickens.’

  ‘They’ve probably joined the parrot, migrated for the spring,’ posited Johnson.

  ‘Chickens don’t fly.’

  ‘That’s penguins.’

  ‘And you’re gonna end up like a couple of dodos if you don’t start making some calls to find my parrot!’

  ‘RSPCA,’ said Johnny Johnson.

  ‘RSPB,’ corrected Bill Wells.

  ‘RSVP, whichever it bloody is! Just call them, tell them what I saw, give them a description … He’s mainly blue, with a bit of green and yellow around the collar.’

  ‘If they see a parrot flying around Market Square, Jack, I’ll tell them to assume it’s yours,’ said Bill Wells, looking up the number for the RSPB.

  ‘I’ll see you later, chaps, and good luck,’ said Johnson, making his way out of the door. Before he left he warned Frost, ‘Talking about swooping birds of prey, Hornrim Harry’s gunning for you.’

  ‘Feather-brained peckerhead, more like,’ muttered Frost, pushing through the swing doors into the main CID incident room, just as a beleaguered Detective Constable Arthur Hanlon was making his way into reception.

  ‘Calm down, Debbie, calm down,’ pleaded Hanlon to the fierce Debbie Wooder, who was with him.

  ‘And I’m telling you, Officer, I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone!’

  ‘No one is saying you haven’t. Just a surprise to see you here, that’s all.’

  Stevie Wooder’s missus was with three of her brood, aged from five to seven. There were two more children, but they, worryingly for Hanlon and Eagle Lane, had disappeared from view the second they’d stepped into the station. Debb
ie was a vision with her shiny pink shellsuit, fluffy slippers, bleached and backcombed hair, and a face so slathered in slap that she looked like a Rimmel make-up counter had been dropped on her. She had more gold chains around her neck than Mr T, and a sovereign ring on every available finger. And every item was probably plunder from someone else’s jewellery box. Hanlon wondered how she had the nerve to come into a police station wearing so much stolen swag, and all a gift from her loving husband, Little Stevie Wooder, who, although he had a record as long as a pickpocket’s arm, was renowned as a very successful burglar due to his agility and diminutive size.

  ‘I just said … maybe he’s off … working somewhere.’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Listen, Debbie, I could say a lot – we’ve known Little Stevie almost as long as you have. In fact, the first person to nick him, when Little Stevie was even smaller than he is now, retired two years ago. He was his first nick, and his last. He was going to invite him to his leaving-drinks do, but Little Stevie was banged up in Brixton at the time. But we know Little Stevie doesn’t work locally, prefers big houses out in the shires, that’s his game, right, Debbie?’

  ‘PUT IT DOWN!’ Debbie had just located one of her brood trying to detach a fire extinguisher from the wall. Arthur Hanlon rolled his eyes. Debbie continued, ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Have you thought that he might not want us looking for him? I’m just saying. I mean, it will be a first, you wanting us to go looking for him.’

  Debbie considered this and thrummed her fingers on Wells’ desk. Hanlon looked at her bejewelled hands and gold-laden neck. Jack Frost had told him he once saw Little Stevie with his family and friends in the pub, and he took off a couple of chains from around Debbie’s neck and gave them to the landlord to pay for the night’s drinks. She was his walking, talking cashpoint.

  Debbie said, ‘Even if Stevie was away working he still always calls me. Lets me know he’s all right. Always. He never came home on Saturday night. I think he slipped out real late, but he didn’t come back. He’s been missing for more than a day now. I’m going mental, I am, wondering where he is.’