by Danny Miller
‘Jack Frost was the copper who came in here and you almost shot, remember?’
‘Course I remember. Though it seems like ages ago now.’
‘Right … well, it was only two days ago. Anyway, what stopped you shooting him was the parrot. I spotted him outside on the windowsill and Frost went after him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he knew him, so he was after him.’
‘Why, what’s he done?’
‘Who?’
‘Simon.’
‘I don’t know … Flown away, I guess. But Frost called him Monty.’
‘Now that is a stupid name for a parrot. It’s a bloody cliché.’
‘The parrot has to go … he’s a wanted parrot. He’s got people out looking for him. And if they find him they’ll find—’
‘No! I’m not turning him in.’ Langdon then looked over at the parrot, its head buried in its wing as it groomed itself. ‘We … we’re birds of a feather, me and Simon, we’re both wanted by the law.’
Jason stepped back from Terry to get some perspective and a good look at him, or rather what he had become. Terry didn’t notice the way that his cousin was casting a concerned eye over him, because he was now over by the kitchen counter, feeding the bird peanuts and raisins, and cooing and whispering sweet nothings to it. Terry hasn’t been here that long, thought Jason, but already he looks like he’s going stir crazy. The pressure’s getting to him, or maybe it did long ago. Maybe he did pull the trigger and shoot George Price? Jason concluded that Terry looked unhinged enough to have carried out such an act.
Kingly tentatively asked, ‘Terry, when … when are you going to sort out that passport you were talking about?’
‘What passport?’
‘You said that you were going to ask a mate, or you had a mate that could sort out a passport for you.’
Terry’s head shot round to confront him. And Jason saw that his face was full of confusion and vagueness.
‘Jesus!’ cried Jason, expelling another exasperated breath. ‘You said you had a mate who was going to get you a passport, so you could leave the country?’
‘Oh yeah, him. And he will, he will.’ In two lunging strides he was right next to Jason. He then grabbed his face and held it in his hands. ‘First off, we have to get Simon some food, bird food. What do parrots eat in the Amazon?’
Jason didn’t know. He’d had little experience of the Amazon, or parrots, for that matter.
‘Fruit, get plenty of fruit and … seeds! They eat seeds. Nan had a budgie, like a parrot, but smaller, used to eat seeds and a white thing stuck in the bars?’
‘Cuttlefish?’
‘Now you’re thinking. Ask the pet-shop people, they’ll know. Get him the best, the best cuttlefish there is, the caviar of cuttlefish – and a cage, we have to get him a cage. The Buckingham Palace of cages.’
‘We have to let him go, can’t have him in here, there’s people looking for him.’
‘There’s people looking for me, too. We’re in this together. Me and Simon. He goes down, I go down, too. It’s me and him from here on out … The Defiant Ones … You seen that film?’
Jason shook his head, and took the opportunity to shake it free of Terry’s sweaty and manic grip.
‘He needs a cage, or he’ll shit all over the place.’
Jason agreed on this point. It was the most normal and sensible thing Terry had said since he’d got here.
‘Bird seed, fruit and a cage. I won’t lock him in, mind, he just needs a base, he’ll come in and out as he pleases, understand?’
Jason went over to the front door. ‘You’ll look into getting that passport though, eh? So we can get you out of here.’
Terry pulled another big manic grin. ‘Oh yeah, I’ll get right on it. Tell you what, though, might see if I can get Simon to teach me to fly,’ – he stood on one leg and flapped his arms – ‘then I won’t need a bloody passport!’
Jason’s heart sank as he slipped out of the door.
Wednesday (4)
‘How many men?’
‘Six.’
‘You’ll get four. I need a strong presence on the Southern Housing Estate.’
Frost was in Stanley Mullett’s office securing search warrants for George Price’s home and betting shops. He’d asked for six officers, expecting to get half that amount, so four was a result. Mullett seemed distracted; Frost could tell that the super hadn’t enjoyed that morning’s press conference the minute he stepped into his office.
‘Thank you,’ said Frost, rising from his chair to leave.
Mullett signed the warrant, but didn’t hand it over. ‘Sit down. There’s other matters.’
Frost sat back down, and, as if by magic, Mullett produced a copy of that morning’s Denton Echo from a drawer and slapped it on the satin-finished mahogany desk. Frost eyed the well-thumbed rag. Mullett’s red pen had circled a pull-out quote from an anonymous source high up within Denton CID. It was Frost’s quote, the one he’d given to Sandy Lane on the Pellerocco Café napkin.
‘Recognize this?’
‘The Denton Echo. It’s a publication I have very little to do with, except when it’s wrapped around my cod and chips.’
Mullett wasn’t smiling. He was in his top-of-the-range executive chair which was adjusted to its maximum height, allowing him the greatest opportunity to look down his nose at anyone sitting opposite him. Frost always felt like he was squashed into a brightly coloured plastic child’s chair when sat opposite the super.
‘So you don’t write for it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting, sir.’
‘These anonymous comments have got your syntactical fingerprints all over them.’
‘They do?’
‘Most of what you’re quoted as saying you will do to the culprits when you catch them is illegal.’
‘I respectfully ask that you refrain from saying “you” because it isn’t me. I’ve got nothing to do with it. Ask Sandy Lane.’
‘I did. He said he doesn’t reveal his anonymous sources, not even to his editor.’
‘Obviously a principled man, case closed.’
‘A gin-soaked hack, and I don’t think so. And his recalcitrant stance with his superiors doesn’t absolve you of guilt, Frost, it merely puts you in cahoots with him.’
‘I take offence to that, sir. I don’t touch gin.’
‘We were up all night working on a carefully crafted press release – and what do we find on the front page?’ Mullett picked up the paper and took the opportunity to emphatically slap it down on the desk again. ‘The nationals are going with it, too. Let me tell you, and you can relay this to your friend, Sandy Lane—’
‘No friend of mine, I can assure you of that. Always keep a healthy distance from the fourth estate.’ Frost did his best not to smirk, and failed.
‘This cosy little “arrangement” he has with his editor doesn’t wash with me, and I will find out who his anonymous source is. And if I find even so much as an outstanding parking ticket for Mr Sandy Lane, he will feel the full weight of the law pressing down on him, do you understand?’
‘I do, but like I said, you’re talking to the wrong man.’ Frost raised his wrist in front of his face to commune theatrically with his watch. He really didn’t need this, he wanted to get out there and do his bloody job, not play politics. ‘Are we done?’
Mullett seemed to relax and now made full use of the rocking motion of his office chair. His snarl softened and his gaze wandered over to the portrait of Her Majesty up on the dark wood-panelled wall, which always resulted in a reflective smile alighting on his face as he considered his employer.
‘I need to ask you something a little more delicate. Between you and me, you understand?’
Frost liked Mullett even less when he was like this, lurching from giving you a right bollocking to engaging you in false camaraderie. He said he understood.
‘Tell me your thoughts on Eve Hayward – what are your impressions?’
Frost’s eyebrows shot skywards; was he really asking his opinion? Out of your league, you dirty git, was his answer.
What he actually said was: ‘May I ask why you ask, sir?’
‘I’ll be frank, I’ve heard rumours.’
‘About her and Sue Clarke? Totally unfounded. The erotic fantasies of young PCs with too much time on their hands and furtive imaginations—’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Frost?’
Frost saw that Mullett genuinely didn’t know and hadn’t heard the rumours. ‘Joking. It was a joke. Or wishful thinking, one of the two.’
‘Either way, it’s in bad taste, and as far as you’re concerned, this is no time for jokes.’
‘Sorry, sir, please go on.’
‘I’ve heard that Detective Inspector Eve Hayward has been asking questions about members of our team. About you, in particular.’
‘Really? What kind of questions?’
Frost watched as Mullett’s magnified eyes behind his glasses narrowed on him, as if weighing up whether he was worthy of what he was about to tell him.
‘I don’t like people asking questions about my team. Do you know why, Frost?’ Mullett didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Because it reflects badly on me. The idea that County has to bring in outside forces to root out bad apples, that suggests that I’m not up to the job. Are you hiding anything from me? Is there any reason Detective Inspector Hayward should be questioning your character?’
‘I haven’t got a clue, sir.’
Frost said it with such forceful sincerity that Mullett could do nothing but hand the DI his search warrant. However, it came with a warning: ‘If you are hiding anything from me, I swear to God, Frost, I will rain down a flood of paperwork on you that will keep you desk-bound for a month.’
Frost met this with a benign indifference that he knew would annoy Mullett, and left the super to contemplate the scenario of Sue Clarke with Eve Hayward, now he’d planted it in his mind.
Melody Price looked genuinely upset. She perched on the edge of the cream-coloured armchair, her bejewelled hands clasped together, her eyes moist with tears. Frost watched her, and was genuinely unmoved. At this stage in the proceedings, Melody was striking him as a supreme performer. She was someone who was able to turn on the waterworks whenever it suited her – and was most profitable. Frost had just delivered the news of Jimmy Drake’s murder; and at this point it was definitely profitable for her to shed some tears.
A comforting hand went on to her shoulder. ‘Are you OK to continue?’
Melody aimed her big damp blue eyes up at her lawyer and said, ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks, Clive.’
The lawyer then went and stood by the fireplace, as if ready to see Frost out at any moment, and assured Melody that this whole business wouldn’t take long. The DI smiled, knowing he had a nice surprise for him.
Clive Felton wasn’t known to Frost, and he knew most of the solicitors in the area. But whilst this particular one was new to him, his type was also very familiar, in his dark double-breasted suit, as sharp as his tongue, ready to cut off any lines of questioning that might incriminate his client in any way. Felton had an unpleasant bony face, oiled-back hair and flinty grey eyes that were impossible to read. And in their very brief association, Felton had struck Frost as one of those overly combative lawyers who would rather you arrested his client than talk to them, so he could roll up his sleeves and get stuck into the fight he was itching for. His narrow, unsmiling, hawkish face expressed this perfectly.
‘Were you at the races yesterday, Mrs Price?’
‘No.’
‘May I ask why not?’
‘I’d have thought it was obvious. I didn’t have a clerk. The job that Jimmy does is very specialized, good clerks are hard to find.’
‘So you knew in advance that Jimmy wouldn’t be working yesterday?’
She glanced over at her lawyer. The lawyer took up the challenge.
‘May I ask why this question is pertinent, Inspector?’
‘Because Jimmy Drake was killed in his home yesterday afternoon, and we need to establish his movements and exactly why he was at home on that day, that particular day, a day when he should have been racing. Does this break in routine have anything to do with his murder …’
Clive Felton had gestured and made murmurs of agreement that the question was relevant to the case long before Frost had finished. But Frost had hammered home the point to get in early doors, to appropriate the sporting parlance, and take the opponent’s legs from under him. From now on in, Frost felt assured that the combative brief would be more sparing with his interjections. Clive Felton instructed Melody to answer the question.
‘Jimmy decided to retire.’
‘Retire?’ Frost repeated incredulously.
‘What’s wrong with that? A man of his age, perfectly normal thing to do.’
‘When did he inform you of his decision to retire?’
‘The other day. Monday. I was visiting George at the hospital and Jimmy was there.’
‘Did he give any reasons why?’
Melody shrugged. ‘He told me he’d had enough. He was a few years older than George, definitely of retirement age. And I suppose the shock of what happened to George may have spurred him on. He said that he wanted to spend more time with his wife and grandchildren. He’s got a few of them, grandkids.’
‘He’s got four of them, I believe.’
‘That’s right. He was always showing me pictures. Such a tragedy, for them, his whole family.’
Frost had lied, there were seven grandchildren in total. It was an impressive number, and one that Melody Price had obviously taken no interest in, or Jimmy had had no interest in sharing with her. The rest of the discussion at Price’s bedside was cast in doubt too. The only witness to the conversation between Melody and Jimmy was George himself. But Frost was sure there were darker matters being discussed than Jimmy spending time with his grandkids, and those may very well have led to his permanent retirement.
‘It’s cold-blooded murder,’ said Frost. ‘Jimmy Drake knew his killer, and I strongly suspect that they are already known to us, too. It’s just a case of us putting the evidence together, which I’m confident of.’
‘How do you mean, they’re known to us?’
Clive Felton explained to his client, ‘I believe Inspector Frost is implying that it is someone they have already been in contact with, or know to be associated with Mr Drake, so the field is narrowing. Am I correct, Inspector Frost?’
Before Frost could answer the brief’s question, the intercom for the front gate buzzed, and he was glad of it. Frost didn’t like the idea of answering to Felton and clarifying his position, he wanted to leave it nice and murky and also open to interpretation, to give Melody Price something to think about.
‘That’ll be for me,’ said Frost, standing up, reaching into his jacket pocket and coming out with nothing more than a soft packet of Winston cigarettes that he’d managed to purloin off DC Hanlon’s desk. He then went through the routine of patting himself down to locate what he needed.
‘It’s here somewhere …’
‘What is, Inspector?’ asked Felton, looking contemptuously at the lint-covered packet of Juicy Fruit the detective had just pulled out from his back pocket.
‘… sure I had it with me …’
Felton prompted impatiently, ‘What are you looking for?’
‘… maybe I left it in the car …’
The solicitor was now angry. ‘What? What did you leave in the car?’
Frost whipped it out from his back pocket and waved it in Felton’s face. ‘This. You have a good look, I’m sure you’ll find it’s all in order, and I’ll let the lads and lasses in for a good rummage.’
Frost went to answer the door.
Clive Felton had, of course, seen one of these before. ‘It’s a warrant to search all the premises owned by George. Business and residential.’
‘Can they do this?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they wipe their feet!’ called out Frost from the hallway.
‘Don’t just stand there, Clive, do something!’ Melody Price, with her hands pulling at her perfectly coiffed blonde tresses, began to pace in front of the fireplace. ‘I’m not standing for this, they’re taking bloody liberties. I’ve not done anything, I’m an innocent woman!’
Felton hushed her and whispered, ‘You’re hardly that, Melody. Tell me, is there anything in the house that might be of … embarrassment to you?’
Melody took some sharp intakes of breath as if something ice-cold had just gripped her. She stopped pacing before the hearth and sank down on to the nearest armchair, looking anything but innocent.
John Waters sat on the edge of the sofa, watching the early evening news with great concentration. He was suited and booted in his Sunday best, ready for a night out with Kim. She’d insisted, with all the double shifts they’d been working lately, that they deserved a treat. Even before they’d intoned their wedding vows last year, fully aware of the long hours, conflicting shifts and pressures of their jobs, they’d come up with a credo: when there’s never a right time, you make time.
The lead story on the news was about the miners’ strike, Arthur Scargill and Maggie Thatcher going head to head, and Waters didn’t fancy Maggie’s chances of winning that one. This was followed by a report on the protracted eviction of the women peace protestors at Greenham Common, looking as put upon and bedraggled as the inmates in an episode of Tenko. Then Sue Lawley said the familiar words, the name of the town and county that had become his home. He thought he’d always be a Hackney boy, and Denton was just a posting before moving on, maybe back to London with some more stripes on his arm. But now he realized that Denton was his and Kim’s home.
Kim was in the bedroom getting ready, singing and humming along to a mix tape, with Aztec Camera’s ‘Oblivious’ turned up to full volume on the ghetto blaster while she belted out an approximation of the lyrics. She sounded so happy, he didn’t have the heart to tell her to turn it down so he could listen to what was being reported. So he got up and went over to the Grundig and turned it down instead – anyway, he knew what was being said. He just had to look at the images flickering on the screen. The BBC reporter on the Southern Housing Estate looked solemn as the kids on BMXs rode behind him, pulling faces and laughing; OAPs stood in their doorways staring at the man they recognized off the telly. There was a shot of the grimy stairwell where Dean Bartlett had taken the lethal dose of heroin, and then it cut to his school photo, smiling and hopeful, the whole wide world ahead of him. Next came a picture of Gavin Ross wearing a black T-shirt with the distinctive radio waves from Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures album, and a phone number to call, as he was still missing.