by Danny Miller
Frost did a cartoon double-take as his eye snagged on a pair of brightly coloured argyle socks in red, green, yellow and blue. His head craned up and he saw that they belonged to Superintendent Peter Kelsey of Rimmington. Kelsey, Peter Kelsey. He was an imposing, well-built and strong-looking man in his late forties. Even though he was sitting down, he seemed to dominate his neighbours. With his thick sandy hair and his fair complexion made ruddy through various outdoor pursuits, he could be taken for a typical Scotsman, thought Frost. The DI remembered Kelsey came from somewhere near Fort William, but had moved down south over twenty years ago. But the accent was still solidly there, and he was known to dial it up when it suited him, lending him an authoritative and authentic toughness amongst his southern Sassenach counterparts. Kelsey was also known for being a bit of a flash git: he tooled around in a top-of-the-range German car (a new model every year), took frequent holidays in Bermuda and other locations usually only glimpsed on Whicker’s World, and there was no grubby copper’s mac for him, always a pristine Burberry or black overcoat from Savile Row. His wife was said to have money – good for him, thought Frost. And that’s all he really knew about Peter Kelsey. But as the DI was dealing with men like George Price and Harry Baskin, with their love of rhyming slang and nicknames, it was quite enough for right now.
In the end, Frost stayed for the whole meeting, leaving his creaky fold-up chair only once for a cigarette break; for some reason they didn’t allow smoking in the grand hall. Frost had seen more and more of these nanny state restrictions creeping in, and wondered where it would all end. The meeting was rambunctious and angry at times, and never less than energetic. Everyone gave a good account of themselves, and Frost had to include Mullett in that; you didn’t get to be a super by being a complete clown, no matter how often Frost thought he fell into that category. As far as Denton CID was concerned, it was John Waters’ star turn that really captured the audience’s imagination, with him talking about his past and growing up in Stoke Newington, the scourge of drugs and the loss of his brother.
But, of course, it was Ella Ross and Cathy Bartlett who gave the most compelling account of themselves and the tragedy that had befallen them, and received the most applause for their efforts. They made it clear that they weren’t interested in platitudes and sentimentality – they wanted action. They had already received threats that they would be run off the estate if they didn’t disband. But they were going to stand firm.
Frost wasn’t really that interested in what was being said at the meeting; he stayed because he was looking for clues, and studying the body language between the two men of interest to him, Peter Kelsey and Edward Havilland. They were at opposite ends of the stage, so they weren’t able to interact much. But when the meeting finished, and the members of the panel mingled at length with the general public, what struck Frost was the distance Kelsey and Havilland maintained between themselves: never in the other’s orbit, they seemed to be going out of their way to avoid each other.
‘Where’ve you been, Jack?’
Frost turned sharply to see Eve Hayward. ‘Did we have a date?’
‘We were trying to call you, you’ve been off air. Bill Wells wanted to send out a search party. We’ve had a real breakthrough.’
‘I had to see a man about a parrot. You go first.’
Hayward filled Frost in on the afternoon’s work: how she and Clarke had tailed Melody and Michael Price from the video store to the farmhouse; how they’d photographed the beating meted out by Hogan’s henchmen; and the intel she’d received on Melody that connected her to Hogan …
Eve stopped talking when she realized that Frost wasn’t listening.
He was keeping a steady eye on Edward Havilland, but when the councillor got himself entangled in a knot of potential voters, the DI turned his attention back to Peter Kelsey, knowing that these two must soon come together to collude. And when they did, Frost wanted to be there. He knew he might not be able to hear what they said, but with the stakes so desperately high for both men, he was sure their body language would speak volumes.
When they both suddenly disappeared from view, Frost mumbled an apology to Eve and rushed out of the main hall into the foyer, then out into the twilight. He was just in time to see Edward Havilland striding down the road with Peter Kelsey in tow. The fat man seemed surprisingly fleet of foot, or he was just in a hurry to get away from Kelsey. They reached a dark-blue Daimler, from which Havilland’s driver sprang out to open the back door for his employer. Frost couldn’t lip-read, but at thirty yards and concealed in a shop doorway, he could tell a good brush-off when he saw one. Edward Havilland, looking red-faced and angry, waved his hands in front of Peter Kelsey to draw whatever conversation they were having to a close in no uncertain terms. The rotund politician then lowered himself into the back of the car as quickly as he could, and the Daimler made off in a stately fashion.
Frost studied the man left on the pavement. Kelsey pushed his hands into the pockets of his Burberry, brought out a pair of leather gloves that he pulled on over his large hands, and then punched a powerful fist into his other palm.
On re-entering the town hall, the first person Frost collared was Sandy Lane, who was by the fire bucket, puffing away on one of his thick unfiltered ‘gaspers’ and sneaking a sip of Bell’s whisky from a hip flask.
‘Thirsty work this, Jack, listening to do-gooders, politicians and policemen pontificating.’
‘Easy, Sandy, someone might accuse you of being a cynical old hack. And a drunk.’
‘I’ll drink to that. So would you, probably.’
Sandy offered Frost a snifter. Frost took one, but refused one of Sandy’s cigarettes and sparked up one of his own less pungent coffin nails. The two men stood smoking and drinking over the fire bucket. To a casual observer, it might have looked like the next thing they were going to do was throw up in it. They were hunched over conspiratorially in a conversation that Frost wanted to keep private.
‘It’s simple, Sandy.’
‘That’s my nickname, Simple Sandy.’
‘Just get it into the paper, first thing tomorrow, something along the lines of: George Price, whose condition has been steadily improving, is to undergo an operation next week, after which a full recovery is expected.’
‘Is any of that true?’
‘He is having an operation next week. I don’t know what the odds on his recovery are. But it would certainly be doing me a favour if they were thought to be good.’
Sandy Lane weighed this up, his red-lined eyes narrowing on Frost, his booze-blotched face pensive. ‘So what’s in it for me?’
‘If what I think is going to happen does happen, it might be in your interests to have a snapper on standby at the hospital. I think someone might try and kill George Price right there in his bed. Of course, it has to be discreet: if you have some bloke standing there with a great big zoom lens and a press pass around his neck, it won’t happen.’
The hack pulled a sly grin, exposing a top set of crooked nicotine-stained gnashers. ‘Gotcha. Say no more. I know just the snapper. Works a lot of divorce cases for Whispering John.’
‘Whispering John?’
‘Yeah, Denton’s pre-eminent, if not only, Private Dick.’
‘I thought it was Whispering Dave?’
‘Oh yeah. Whatever. Anyway, he’s a crafty little bugger, gets in anywhere, very discreet. You won’t even know you’ve been snapped until they serve the divorce papers.’
Good old Sandy. But as much as he admired the hack’s old-school press ethics, and had shared a good few boozy lunches with him over the years in the pursuit of their mutual interests, even Frost felt like having a hot bath and a rub-down with the Dettol after one of their meets.
‘Here he is, the star of the show,’ said Lane, looking past Frost.
Frost turned to see DS Waters loosening his tie like it was a noose around his neck.
‘Sandy, I’ll see you later, cheers for that!’
‘You’
ll read it first thing in the morning, Jack.’
Frost stalked over to Waters and grabbed him by the arm just as he was about to get entangled in another powwow with some mothers from MAAD.
‘Follow me, John.’
Waters looked glad of the rescue: being in the public eye wasn’t really his strong point, no matter how photogenic and PR-friendly the top brass thought he was.
‘Where we going?’ he asked, as Frost, still holding his arm, aimed him towards the sweeping white granite stairs that even after all these years still managed to sparkle. As they made their way up to the third floor of the town hall, Frost filled John Waters in on what he suspected.
‘What’s all this bloody racket?’ called a very angry voice.
Frost had been disappointed to find the office locked, but he could see there was still a light on, so he’d been hammering on the door with determination.
The door opened a few inches, to reveal a clerk straight out of Dickens. Frost dipped into his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet and flashed his warrant card.
‘This is most irregular. Our hours are strictly nine thirty to four. I’m only here because our computer keeps crashing, but the good citizens of Denton keep on being born and dying, relentlessly. But I see you leave me no option. Come in.’
Frost and Waters stepped into the town hall’s records department. The DI then asked the clerk if he could see the Register of Interests for the local-government officials. Frost knew that all councillors had to declare their business and special interests, and the register of these was made public for voters to peruse; you just had to ask.
His request was met with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. The clerk scowled, which didn’t improve his appearance. He was rake-thin in his worn grey-tweed jacket and had an Adam’s apple that protruded almost as far as his beaky nose, giving him the profile of a wrench.
‘Listen, chum, this is a very serious investigation. I don’t care what time it is. I need to see those records now, not tomorrow.’
The man tutted and muttered to himself as he disappeared from the counter to get the register.
Frost turned to Waters, who still looked in shock from what his boss had told him, especially about the man he’d just shared a stage with.
‘Kim always says that Kelsey’s a flash sod,’ said Waters in a near whisper. ‘She calls him Inspector Gadget, he’s always got something new to flash – a new watch, expensive pens – he’s even got a crocodile-skin Filofax.’
In an equally hushed tone, Frost said, ‘We might need to ask Kim some questions about what goes on at the Rimmington nick, see if she’s noticed anything off about Kelsey lately.’
‘To tell you the truth, it all makes sense. She says that he flies off the handle all the time, especially recently. Has these mood swings.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, you know how Mullett is always Mullett. He never changes, he’s just …’
‘Always Mullett, yeah, I get you.’
‘Well, Kelsey is up and down like a yo-yo. One minute all happy, mixing with everyone in the pub, buying everyone drinks; next, he’s throwing tantrums over the smallest things, not coming out of his office.’
Frost said, ‘That figures. When he wins he’s happy, when he loses he’s not. Typical gambler. And lately he’s been losing.’ Frost went to put a cigarette in his mouth—
‘No smoking!’
The two detectives jumped out of their respective skins as the stealthy jobsworth appeared out of thin air to bark his order.
John Waters laughed. ‘Jesus, sneaking up like that, like Kung Fu walking across ricepaper, you are!’
The jobsworth’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Some of these records are over a hundred years old, it’s like a tinderbox in here.’
He handed over the file.
‘Right,’ said Frost, ‘we’ll have these back tomorrow.’
‘No, you won’t. They can’t leave this room.’
‘Can we use your photocopier?’
‘No, you can’t, it’s in the copy room which is now locked. I do not have possession of the key.’ He pointed to a small table with two chairs tucked under it at the end of a row of ancient-looking shelving units crammed with dusty storage boxes. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’
Thursday (7)
Frost drove up the barely lit track to the Coconut Grove. He was alone, having let Waters go home – he deserved something of an early night after his star performance on stage at the town hall. Frost could tell he’d hated every minute of it. And maybe the news of Kim’s impending bundle of joy had motivated Frost to let his DS go – after all, soon he wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep, never mind an early night.
But there was another reason for Frost’s magnanimity. Harry Baskin didn’t like crowds. And in Baskin’s book, three constituted a crowd. When there were three people in the room, there was always a material witness; but when it was nice and cosy with just the two of you, there was complicity. And armed with the new information he had, the detective was sure he’d get more out of Baskin with a tête-à-tête than a conference.
‘Nice tan you’ve got there.’
Even in the gloom of Baskin’s back-room office, he could see that the club-owner had either been away somewhere sunny or had fallen asleep on Mrs B’s sunbed. He sat there looking very pleased with himself, smoking a big cigar, with naked women lying across his desk.
‘Looking well, Harry. Put us in it.’
Baskin looked up from the photos of the naked girls and gave him a wink. Then he explained that it was strictly business, as he was auditioning some new strippers; even though it was only April, he was already planning the not-so-traditional Christmas spectacular for the club: this year it was to be ‘The Not So Snow White Show’. All the proceeds from the event went to local children’s charities. He shuffled the photos together and put them away in a drawer. Frost was grateful, he could do without the distraction.
Harry gestured for Frost to take a seat and explained the tan. ‘Been abroad, went off early on Monday and got back this morning, so any crimes committed over the last couple of days in Denton, or the surrounding area, have absolutely nothing to do with me.’
Frost leaned back in his chair, fished his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one up. ‘Let me guess: Tenerife, overseeing your timeshare business whilst your partner George Price is … indisposed?’
‘Nothing gets past you, does it? That’s exactly what I told the concerned parties also involved in the venture. Like I said, anything happens to George, we all stand to lose a good few quid.’
‘I suppose you’ve been keeping abreast of what’s been happening back home during your absence?’
‘George has his operation next week.’ Harry rapped his knuckles on his desk. ‘Touch wood, should be on for a full recovery. Again, that’s what I told the concerned parties.’
‘Jimmy Drake, I was thinking of.’
Harry Baskin stopped grinning, and the big man seemed to slump back in his chair. ‘I heard. Terrible business. First George, now Jimmy.’
The club-owner hauled himself out of his seat and went over to his fancy drinks cabinet; once the inlaid walnut doors were opened, it lit up like one of Harry’s Christmas shows. He then poured two large measures of Johnnie Walker Blue Label into a pair of crystal tumblers and handed one to Frost.
Without saying a word, they both raised their glasses to Jimmy Drake and took some noisy and appreciative sips of their drinks.
Harry Baskin sat back down at his desk. ‘Any news on Terry Langdon, he still the prime suspect?’
‘We’ve found him. And he’s not guilty. He’s a little bit off his trolley, but not guilty.’
Baskin nodded along in accord to this. ‘So, I take it this isn’t a social call.’
‘Edward Havilland.’ Frost said it slowly and steadily so there could be no room for Baskin to say ‘Excuse me’ or ‘I didn’t catch that’ to mask his reaction. A criminal recidivist like Harry kne
w how to twist an interrogation in his favour.
The burly gangster crinkled his brow in thought. ‘Rings a bell.’
‘Should ring more than that, Harry. Without Edward Havilland, your strippers wouldn’t have a stage to strip off on, and you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Very good. We’re looking for someone to play Happy in the Snow White show – any more gags like that and the part’s yours.’
‘Councillor Edward Havilland just happens to be head of the licensing committee and pushed through your licence for your club for the next five years. Making you Happy.’
‘So what? He’s liberal for a Tory. I think his stance was that if Denton was to grow as a town and attract investment, it must be seen to be supporting a diverse economy, and that includes a thriving nightclub and entertainment scene to cater for all tastes.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it off by heart, Harry.’
‘It’s good to see progressive politics in action.’
‘Tell me, is Edward Havilland one of the Denton high-flyers that George Price said he had in his pocket?’
The tip of Harry Baskin’s cigar burned bright as the big man’s cheeks sucked in the full flavour of his Montecristo. He then picked up his Johnnie Walker and took a slug.
‘Because as well as being a member of the local hunt, a keen fisherman and handy with the twelve-bore when it comes to bagging the grouse, Edward Havilland is on the board of Radleigh Park Racecourse, and he was very active in the campaign to get the course reopened after it closed in the seventies. He’s even gone on record as supporting the idea of the development of a Las Vegas-style casino in the area.’