A Lethal Frost

by Danny Miller

  ‘Bring more money in than the poxy garden centre they’re planning on building.’

  ‘You probably know more about Edward Havilland than me.’

  ‘It’s all a matter of public record, Jack, right?’

  ‘It is indeed. A politician, bon viveur and gambler who bets heavy with George Price. One of George’s high-flyers who ensures he never even has to pay for a parking ticket, or so I’ve been told. And who gets your nightclub licences pushed through. Let’s face it, we both know that when it comes to collecting gambling debts for George, he entrusts that to you. A knock on the door from any one of your team of bouncers and they pay up quick, right?’

  ‘If you’re suggesting—’

  Frost cut him off dead. The banter was over, time for the nitty-gritty. ‘Havilland is a big punter of George’s, into it for a good few grand. I don’t have the exact numbers on me, but we’re talking five figures. George has him marked in his book as “Winston”, due to his Tory politics, and he’s fat, posh, wears bow ties and likes to pose like Churchill. But that’s where all similarities to the great man end.’

  ‘George looks like pulling through. And Eddie Havilland wouldn’t harm a fly. Why would you say such a thing, Jack?’ Baskin smiled indulgently.

  ‘Jimmy Drake’s not going to pull through, though, is he?’

  Harry stopped smiling. Frost could tell that for all his bravado, he was hurting over the death of Price’s clerk. Baskin was a fully paid-up member of the Winchester Club, used to sitting at the card table and bantering away with George and Jimmy. He took another swig of his drink, for some Dutch courage perhaps.

  Frost knew he might just have him on the ropes. ‘Listen, Harry, this is murder. And it’s one of your own. Jimmy Drake was a good man. But he knew too much and someone killed him. There were two names in that book, both of interest to me: Winston and Socks. I also don’t think Winston is capable of killing anyone, but Socks is a different matter.’

  ‘So tell me who Socks is.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

  Harry Baskin shifted in his seat, supremely uncomfortable at the idea of telling Frost anything. Nothing personal, just business.

  Frost understood. So he eased Harry along: ‘That’s OK, Harry, I’ll tell you who I think Socks is. It could just be someone who likes wearing brightly coloured socks. Someone a bit flash. Or, knowing your and George’s Stepney roots, how about a little bit of cockney rhyming slang: sweaty sock – Jock. So, a Scotsman with a penchant for wearing coloured socks is just crying out to be nicknamed Socks.’ Frost watched as Harry Baskin just sat there, saying nothing, but denying even less. His silence spoke volumes. ‘But cockney rhyming slang and a man’s choice of socks aren’t going to get me anywhere; I bring that before the CPS and they’d laugh at me. I need some hard proof. I need to make the connection. Jimmy Drake would have provided it, if it looked like George wasn’t going to make it. Until Socks got to him. Then there’s Little Stevie Wooder – you know Little Stevie?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘He’s been in the club.’

  ‘He was pulled out of the river last night. Shot with the same calibre of bullet that’s in George’s head. Feet and hands bound with the same rope that Jimmy was strangled with. Stabbed all over multiple times so the body would sink.’

  Harry shifted in his seat again, sat up straight and put his glass on the desk. ‘Go have a look round Jimmy’s bar. Have a drink in the Winchester Club. You’ll find your connection.’

  Frost stood up. He didn’t say another word as he left Harry’s office. Like Baskin had never spoken.

  John Waters rubbed a knuckle over a tired pouchy eye as he tried to focus on the road. He was in his car driving as fast as he could to the Southern Housing Estate.

  Ten minutes earlier he’d been asleep on the sofa with Kim. He hadn’t even had time to change out of his suit; as soon as he’d got home he’d collapsed on to the sofa, where Kim joined him for a cuddle. They’d planned on getting a takeaway. Kim, who tried to encourage healthy eating, said he could have whatever he wanted as a reward for his performance at the town hall. But they ended up just dozing off in each other’s arms, perfectly content and ignoring their growling stomachs. Quite some time later the phone went, and they let the answerphone pick up. But then Waters heard the panicked voice of Cathy Bartlett, and he quickly got off the couch and took the call.

  When Ella Ross and Cathy Bartlett got back to the estate from the meeting, Ella found that superglue had been squeezed through her front-door lock. So she was staying the night at Cathy’s place, which was a ground-floor flat. About half an hour earlier, they’d heard voices outside and when they sneaked a look through the window, they spotted two men hanging around. They were wearing baseball caps with the peaks pulled down low, so the women couldn’t make out their faces. But they looked like trouble, like they were working out how they could break in. John Waters said he’d be there as quickly as possible. He said sorry to Kim and kissed her goodbye.

  When he arrived on the SHE it was around eleven. But even at this late hour there were usually still some kids about, teenagers gathered in knots, drinking cider and smoking fags by the playground. Usually, there was also someone telling them to keep it down or threatening to nick them. It was just the way of the estate. But not tonight: the streets, courtyards, all the communal areas seemed deserted.

  Waters parked up and got out of the car. As he turned the corner of Grafton Way towards Cathy’s block, he heard glass breaking. But Waters could tell the difference between a dropped pint glass and a window being smashed. And then came the screams, women’s voices raised in terror. Waters ran towards the block, and as he rounded the corner of the building, he saw that Cathy’s flat was ablaze. In the same field of vision he saw two men in baseball caps making their escape.

  Waters was sprinting now. He knew that only one thing causes an explosion of fire like that: a Molotov cocktail. He hammered on the front door, but got no response. He rammed his shoulder into it a couple of times, but it didn’t budge. The next quickest way in was through a window, but not the one that the firebomb had been thrown through, as the curtains there had ignited and were now a sheet of flame. He took off his jacket, wrapped it around his fist and punched in the only other available window. He felt the heat being drawn towards him and fresh oxygen being sucked into the flat like fuel, feeding the fire’s voracious appetite. He could also feel his stomach getting ripped on the broken glass left in the frame as he crawled through.

  He’d come in through the kitchen window and ended up with his hands in the sink. As he rushed into the hallway, he saw them, Cathy and Ella, huddled there, choking on smoke. He threw his jacket over to them so they could cover their mouths with it, and headed to the front door. They gestured wildly at him that it was jammed, that they’d already tried to open it, but in vain. Waters retraced his steps, grabbed the jacket they were cowering under and yelled, ‘Get up, move, come on!’ as he pushed them into the kitchen, just in the nick of time to avoid a sudden surge of fire devouring the hallway carpet.

  Smoke filled the flat completely now, black acrid fumes clawing at their throats, searing their lungs. There was no door to the kitchen and the fire was relentlessly making its way towards them.

  Waters laid the jacket over the jagged window frame and grabbed the woman nearest to him; he couldn’t see which one it was, and as every second now could make the difference between life or death, he didn’t need to know. ‘Through here!’ he gasped in desperation, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give them any more instructions. The smoke and heat were sapping his strength. But with whatever resolve he had left, he lifted her up and pushed her head-first through the window. Someone must have been on the other side of the window by now, because she seemed to get pulled through it to safety.

  Waters spun round to grab the other woman, who had collapsed on the floor. He felt a new blast of heat and his hair being singed, his skin being scorched. He lifted her off the floor – she felt sma
ller, lighter and also more lifeless, as though the smoke had already got the better of her. Waters let out a roar as he tried to summon the last of his strength to lift her out of danger. The cry was also one of agonizing pain, as the burning lash of the fire attacked his back. He raised her limp body over the sink, started to push her through the window and saw her being yanked free.

  He thought he heard sirens and panicked voices, saw flashing blue lights … the smoke forced his eyes to close … he wondered if he’d kissed Kim before he left the house … he was so tired when he left … but he was sure that he had … he was sure he’d kissed her goodbye.

  Frost stole up the path like a thief in the night. There were no lights on in the modest 1930s semi, so when he came to the side gate, Frost felt it safe to switch on his pocket torch to light his way down to the bottom of the garden and the Winchester Club. He was sure the house was empty; Maureen, Jimmy’s widow, was staying with her daughter, at least until the murderer had been found. In Frost’s experience, the victims of a crime such as the one Maureen had endured often moved home for good. Murder is quick, but for those it leaves behind it lasts a lifetime.

  But even with the certainty that the house was empty, Frost moved stealthily down the garden path, not wanting to disturb nosy, if well-meaning, neighbours. He unwound the length of police tape that was barring his way, and then found that the padlock was off the shed door. He went in and turned on the light. Spread out across the walls of the Winchester Club was a photographic record of Jimmy Drake’s life in racing. Frost always suspected that the murderer would be somewhere up on the walls; most killers were well known to their victims. But now Frost knew who he was looking for.

  As well as the photos, Frost’s eyes were immediately drawn to the optics behind the bar, and particularly to the bottle of whisky with his name on it – if your name happened to be Johnnie Walker. The detective, never one to take liberties when it came to the etiquette of drinking, and always careful to buy his round, put a quid in the bookmaker’s satchel that served as the Winchester’s till. He also helped himself to one of Jimmy’s Hamlets. Lighting up his cigar, he started to have second thoughts about Paradise Lodge: was it too posh and designer for him? Plus the fact that it didn’t have a garden. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that every man should have a shed at the bottom of the garden, and every shed should be like the Winchester.

  Frost got to work. He started at the top left-hand corner of each wall and worked his way along, examining each photo. It was three fingers into his second tumbler of Johnnie Walker that Frost belted out a victorious ‘Yes!’ like his horse had just won the Grand National. He was crouched down, looking at a series of three photos featuring George Price and Jimmy Drake at the Epsom Derby. They were wearing custodian helmets, and they were surrounded by coppers, with their arms around a young, but unmistakable, Peter Kelsey, probably in his mid-twenties. There were two other photos, more recent and even more pertinent to the case – these had been taken at Ascot. Peter Kelsey and Edward Havilland stood with George Price, probably about ten years ago, judging from the fashions, big teardrop collars and flares. They all looked happy, prosperous and very chummy. George Price with his late first wife, an elegant-looking woman in a wide-brimmed summer hat for Ladies Day. When did it all go sour for Kelsey and George Price? Frost had noticed that there were no photos of Melody up on the walls.

  The detective was then hit by a more compelling thought – it was clear that Kelsey had forgotten about the photos. They weren’t in the most prominent of places in the shed, but surely he would remember them. Wouldn’t he …?

  Frost eased himself up from his crouch with an accompanying creak – but even his joints weren’t that bad. It was the shed door opening. Frost was almost upright, and about to turn to see who was behind him, his hand on the aluminium pocket torch (wishing it was something more substantial, like a cosh or a good old-fashioned copper’s truncheon), when he felt the air split with the force of the blow and the nauseating sound of wood against skull. The light faded, and it was game over for Frost as he slid down the wall.

  Friday (1)

  It was on the second page of the Denton Echo, a small column of copy from Sandy Lane, chief crime correspondent, reporting some good news for a change: ‘George Price, 62, a local bookmaker who was the victim of a shooting last Friday, is expected to make a full recovery, according to the prognosis from a respected neurosurgeon who is to operate on Price early next week.’

  The front pages of the paper were taken up with the arson attack on the Southern Housing Estate. Two men had been arrested, notorious local thugs Billy ‘Bomber’ Harris and Tommy Wilkins. Three people were in hospital. Ella Ross and Cathy Bartlett were suffering from smoke inhalation but were expected to make a full recovery. However, Detective Sergeant John Waters was in a critical condition with third-degree burns covering his back and legs.

  Patricia Kelsey entered the kitchen dressed in a smart blue skirt and a cream-coloured blazer with padded shoulders and some kind of gold brocade running down the front of it. She looked, to Peter Kelsey’s eyes, like a million dollars, as they say. Her heels clicked on the expensive slate floor as she fussed around, filling her bag with keys and money. She was going up to town to have lunch with some friends.

  Kelsey sat at the table, the paper in his hands, but no longer reading it. And he wasn’t really listening to his wife, either. He knew that ‘up to town’ meant London, not Denton. He expected that his wife would pay for lunch on her credit card, and probably go around the shops afterwards, spending freely on it. Kelsey wondered at what point it would be refused, maybe even cut up in front of her. Oh, the shame and humiliation she would feel, in front of her little cluck of pampered hens.

  He almost laughed at the thought. She didn’t deal with the finances, all that was left to him. She didn’t have a clue. All the bank and credit card statements went straight to him. And now they came in the form of final demands stamped in red.

  But she certainly knew how to spend it. And he didn’t blame her; he’d encouraged it, he’d always wanted his wife to look good, to have the best of everything. She deserved it. She had that innate breeding about her, like a true thoroughbred. The type he backed all the way. And when he was winning, she spent freely. The trouble was, when he lost, she still spent freely. He won a lot, or used to. But he couldn’t stop. He never could. He’d even seen a shrink who’d told him that gambling to him was what heroin was to a junkie, and he would end up the same way. Of course he’d dismissed the warning; I’m no lowlife addict, he told himself. But still he couldn’t stop, extending his line of credit until it had run out.

  She kissed the top of his head, and looking at the front page said, ‘What a terrible story. Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Yes. One of ours, a DS from Denton.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Yes. I must … I must go to the hospital. Go and see him.’

  ‘Are you OK, darling?’

  Kelsey didn’t turn round to answer her question. Of course, she’d been asking him that a lot these last two or three months. He’d blamed his moods on work, said he had a lot on. He’d not cried in front of her, he always managed to excuse himself from the room just in time. So he was happy that she’d left it at that, and hadn’t demanded an answer from him; today he wouldn’t have been able to control the quake in his voice. Maybe he could have blamed it on the fact that he knew John Waters, had shared a platform with him at the town hall only the day before – a nice lad. And at that moment, he meant it. He worked with Waters’ wife, Kim. She was a good copper and so was her husband, by all accounts. And so was Kelsey, at one time.

  After the gentle thud of the front door shutting behind his wife, Peter Kelsey finally gave vent to his feelings. He threw the kitchen table over, sending the crockery, the pint of milk, the toast and everything else on it crashing to the floor. This was the day, he was sure of it, this was the day when it would all go.

  He dried his eyes and stoo
d up. He had some business to attend to. He had some things to finish off.

  Frost’s eyes ratcheted open like … déjà vu. The pain in his head was also horribly familiar. And so was the location. It was the same room he’d woken up in on Sunday morning, after the last time he’d been ‘coshed over the canister’, as Waters had termed it. Frost was aware that his head had been bandaged yet again, but made a point of not dwelling on it. Knowing what to expect this time, he just sat up straight, swung his legs around and got out of bed. His clothes were hanging just where they’d been put last time. He got dressed and made his way along the hospital corridor.

  But something was very different this time: the corridor was packed with faces he knew, all coppers. He was groggy. He thought he was seeing things, hallucinating. The scenario didn’t seem real. There was Sue Clarke with David Simms, Arthur Hanlon and Bill Wells; there was no banter, and they all looked grave.

  Cheer up, he thought, it’s only a crack on the head – another one. They should be used to it by now. Or maybe they knew something he didn’t. The doctors might have discovered something, a brain haemorrhage, maybe this was it, maybe this was the end—

  ‘You might as well forget our photo op, not a chance of him making an appearance now,’ a voice whispered in his ear.

  Frost turned to see an equally grave-looking Sandy Lane. Of course, he got it immediately. There was no chance of Kelsey trying to finish off George Price now; with all these coppers milling around, it looked like Eagle Lane on a bad day. Frost cursed, then caught sight of a weeping Kim Waters, with her hands grasped before her almost in prayer, being comforted by some colleagues from Rimmington.