by Danny Miller
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Sandy.
‘What happened to you? Weren’t you at the fire too?’
‘What fire?’
Clarke came over. She too had been crying, her eyes still brimming with tears. She sat Frost down and explained what had happened. John Waters was in intensive care, and there was a good chance he wasn’t going to make it. No one could see him.
Frost sat there listening to the information, but not really absorbing it. Sue then told him that he’d been hit over the head with a cricket bat by Jimmy Drake’s son-in-law, Malcolm. He’d been staying in the house for the last couple of days, as Maureen Drake was worried about it being empty. He thought Frost was just an intruder. Frost barely acknowledged these facts. But the description felt apt, because that’s exactly what he felt like right now – an intruder. At this moment in time he felt completely and utterly bloody useless. Unable to help his friend, unable to even string a sentence together to offer words of comfort to his colleagues, and to Kim, his friend’s wife.
Frost knew one thing: he had to get out of there, leave John Waters to the experts, leave Kim in the hands of people who wouldn’t say something stupid. He needed to get on with his job.
‘Peter Kelsey tried to kill George Price, and he did kill Jimmy Drake and Little Stevie Wooder. And I have the proof—’
Stanley Mullett raised his hand for Frost to stop. ‘I don’t doubt you do. After your recent conduct, Frost, I doubt that even you would be so suicidal as to come in here and accuse a fellow superintendent of … murder, if you hadn’t good reason.’
‘Thank you, sir. I think,’ said Frost with an uncertain wobble of his bandaged head.
Mullett was sitting behind his desk, looking at Frost and DI Eve Hayward. There were, of course, other members of the team missing, and one in particular. And if, as Frost and Hayward had explained, the George Price shooting, the Jimmy Drake murder and the heroin death were connected, Mullett was more than prepared to let Frost act as they thought best, and damn what the Assistant Chief Constable thought.
‘From what you’ve told me,’ said Mullett, ‘and I hope you’re not holding any more back—’ The detectives gave a resounding ‘no’. ‘Then we need to interview Edward Havilland and Melody Price. First of all, what about Harris and Wilkins, are they protesting their innocence?’
‘They have a rock-solid alibi,’ said Frost. ‘At the time of the arson attack they were in the Blind Blacksmith pub doing a deal …’
Frost turned towards Eve Hayward to ask her to explain.
‘That’s right, sir, I purchased a Transit van’s worth of counterfeit goods from them – videos, clothing, electrical goods. We have it all on film. It was to get them off the streets.’
Mullett gave a cautionary nod to this. ‘Of course, we need to find Kelsey first. Put in all the usual measures.’
Frost said, ‘I have officers at his home now. No one appears to be in. We were wondering, sir, if you had any ideas where—’
‘I know he has a house near Fort William, or more of a croft, I believe. Other than that, Peter Kelsey has remained something of an enigma to me, and to the other superintendents in the district. A man who seemed to live well beyond his means and always had money to spend, expensive clothes and the like. His behaviour hadn’t gone totally without comment, there were rumours of low-level corruption, but never any proof. Many dismissed the rumours as jealousy, from people envious of his lifestyle. He was … charming, likeable. And to be honest, despite the nagging doubts, no one really looked too hard. And I hold myself partly responsible for that. If I had doubts, it was remiss of me not to register my concerns, to act upon them. I’m telling you this because whatever else happens, that will go in the report.’
A deep silence fell over the room, heads were bowed in thought.
Frost spoke first: ‘I think we are all to blame when it comes to one of our own, sir. None of us want to believe it, because we all want to believe we’re all in this job for the same reason.’
The super took a deep breath. The moment of reflection passed and he seemed to be the Mullett of old again, as he asked: ‘Do we know the whereabouts of this Eamon Hogan?’
Eve Hayward said, ‘No, Superintendent, but we believe he’s in the county.’
Frost added, ‘On our patch, sir.’
‘Then let’s get him off it and put him where he belongs, Frost! I shall be at Denton General today. So you’ll know where to find me.’
Frost couldn’t help but smile. He knew that Mullett would feel as redundant as him hanging around Denton General. But he understood his reasons for wanting to be there – a man of theirs had fallen, and sometimes just being there was enough. Frost concluded that John Waters was right: Mullett was always Mullett, except when he wasn’t, and on those rare occasions he was almost bearable.
Friday (2)
Edward Havilland was in his office on the second floor of the town hall. It was a small office with an anteroom where his secretary sat. He was at his desk going through his drawers, and emptying them of anything that he might need for the next four weeks. As the incumbent councillor for Denton North, he had to vacate his office until after the election. This was his second term in office – for the last election, such had been his confidence in being re-elected that he didn’t take a thing. This time, even though the opinion polls were good, he was filling a box.
If he had a sense of impending doom about the election, it was only compounded by his secretary knocking on his door and informing him there were two police officers to see him. Havilland gave a resigned smile at this, and looked down at one of the open drawers.
‘Councillor Havilland?’ prompted his worried secretary.
‘Yes, thank you, let them in.’
Detective Inspector Jack Frost and PC David Simms entered the cramped office and introduced themselves. Havilland, still maintaining the smiling and affable façade of the public servant, offered them coffee, which they refused, then invited them to sit down, which they did.
‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘You look like you’re going somewhere, Councillor Havilland,’ said Frost.
Havilland explained the formalities of the elections. Frost’s expression didn’t change throughout, even though Havilland peppered his explanation with self-deprecating anecdotes and jokes. Frost eventually cut him off by reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out the photos that had been on the wall of Jimmy Drake’s shed. All the players: George Price, Peter Kelsey, and Havilland.
The councillor’s eyes were fixed on the three photographs now laid out before him on the desk. The forced joviality instantly slipped away. Game up, he thought. And then he seemed to relax back into his chair. The strain of the last few weeks or more – he couldn’t even remember how long the hellish spiral had been going on for – had taken its toll.
‘What … what do you know?’
‘We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t know everything, Winston,’ said Frost. ‘But we need you to tell us where Socks is. Peter Kelsey. Before he kills anyone else.’
Havilland slumped down further into his chair; his spirit depleted, all hope gone. ‘When my secretary told me you were at the door, I thought I would find a gun in my drawer, to do the decent thing. A glass of brandy, a prayer, the end.’
‘Is that the decent thing?’
‘Inspector Frost, I lost sight of that some years ago. I always said that if it came to this, I would … do the decent thing. It was my coward’s way out, but it just made me carry the madness on, saying yes to Peter … when I should have said no. And I should really have done the decent thing and come to you, to put a stop to it.’ He shook his head, as if a new thought had just struck him, or maybe just the banality of the obvious. ‘It’s insidious, once it has you in its grip.’
‘Indeed. George Price got shot, and Jimmy Drake and Little Stevie Wooder ended up dead.’
‘That was Peter, not me,’ said Edward Havilland, making an emphatic gesture with
his hands as if stressing a point in the council chamber.
‘But you knew about the murders, you knew what he was going to do.’
‘Peter told me that he was arranging a meeting with George Price to try and settle the debt once and for all. I didn’t really pay much attention to him, by then he was pretty unhinged with it all. He was still gambling, but now he was losing, more and more. I think even George Price had cut him off. He was desperate. I don’t know much about the shooting – I didn’t want to know. I wanted to wash my hands of it.’
‘But you didn’t. To wash your hands of it would have meant coming to us and informing us about Peter Kelsey killing two men, and admitting to your being privy to it. But you didn’t, you’re a gambler, you waited to see how the cards would fall. If George Price died, all well and good, no need to talk …’
Havilland raised his hands to his face, to cover his shame perhaps, or to shield himself from the reality of what he had become, and what was happening to him. The unrelenting presence of the two policemen, staring down at him, wanting facts, answers, the truth, made his situation inescapable.
He lowered his hands, his fat face flushed as he fought back the tears. He then took a key from the pocket of his yellow silk waistcoat and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘This is what I really came to get today …’ He reached in and—
Frost leaned across his desk and grabbed him – his hand barely fitting around the fat man’s arm in the sleeve of his brass-buttoned blazer. Havilland looked shocked by the move, then quickly attempted to make light of the situation and laugh it off.
‘Good Lord, Frost, you think I have a gun in here?’
‘I’m not a gambler, Mr Havilland, and I’m really not prepared to take that chance. But it’s more for your own protection than ours, considering the conversation we’ve just had.’
‘Suicide is best committed without an audience, otherwise it’s just a cry for help.’
Frost let go of his arm and Havilland retrieved a videotape from the drawer and handed it to the detective.
‘I suppose you could describe this as the smoking gun. Everything you need is on there. That’s what Peter was really after, not the little book or any other tapes that George Price had about how much we owed him. You see … and I doubt it makes much difference … but it wasn’t all about the money. If we’d just admitted to getting into debt with a bookmaker, then not being able to pay, well, it’s not the worst thing in the world. I think the public can forgive certain financial improprieties, no matter how they occur. Indeed, falling victim to a bookmaker like George Price could have even elicited some sympathy.’ Edward Havilland’s gaze fell reluctantly towards the tape now secured in PC Simms’ hand. ‘But this was a different matter altogether. Our behaviour, I’ll admit, was … unconscionable, considering our positions.’
PC Simms glanced down at the video he was holding like it could bite.
Havilland continued: ‘Our reputations would have been in tatters, had that come out. For Peter not to have a job, not to have the income to continue the lifestyle he’d enjoyed, would have been anathema to him. And, of course, with blackmailers you always keep paying. It never stops. I didn’t doubt for a second I’d have ended up paying for copies of the tapes for years – or until I’d run out of money. But Peter, he couldn’t stand it. It was driving him mad. Maybe it was the policeman in him, but he felt he had to do something. Try and solve the problem. So he acted. He arranged to meet Price to have it out with him once and for all, demand the tapes. I don’t know what happened for certain … You’ll have to ask Peter that. But it’s pretty clear to me what probably happened: George Price refused, and Peter … Well, like I say, you’ll have to ask him, I wasn’t there.
‘But I blame Melody Price more than anyone. It was all her doing. Big tough George Price, my God, she really had him under her thumb. The female of the species being deadlier than the male, that could have been written about her.’
There was a knock on the door and another plainclothes officer entered the room. He went straight over to Frost and whispered in his ear. Havilland watched as Frost gave him the nod, and the other detective then went and stood by the door.
Havilland knew now that it was all over. It had hit him in stages, and there would no doubt be greater depths he would plummet to, he knew that now. It was finally over. It seemed as if his office was no longer his; the other detective wasn’t introduced to him, didn’t even look at him.
‘Where’s Peter Kelsey?’
The councillor broke out of his reverie, and Frost repeated the question. Edward Havilland shrugged, then shook his head. ‘I suppose you’ve been to his house. I don’t know where else he’d …’
Havilland’s gaze drifted over to the wall behind Frost. The DI turned his head to see a calendar; it was familiar to him, it was the same one he’d seen in George Price’s house, and Jimmy Drake’s, too. It was a Radleigh Park Racecourse calendar.
Friday (3)
It was the last day of the Spring Festival of Racing at Radleigh Park. It was bright and crisp, and the going on the Polytrack was as good as if the horses were running on a big green carpet – which they almost were.
Frost ground out his second Gitane on the grass outside the Champagne & Oyster Marquee. He must have pinched the pack off Edward Havilland’s desk when the councillor was read his rights and taken away. He made a note to himself to stop nicking other people’s cigarettes. These gaspers were awful, they were French and strong. But after seeing what was on the videotape, it was clear that Havilland’s tastes ran to the unpalatable and the strong.
‘Sorry I took so long, bloody traffic,’ said Sue Clarke, approaching him. ‘It’s the last day, it’s always like this, apparently.’
‘Got any more news on John?’
‘Last I heard he was stable.’
The way she said it didn’t fill him with relief. And he didn’t want to press for more information, not now. There was work to do.
‘What are we actually doing here, then?’ Clarke queried.
‘Peter Kelsey, he may turn up here.’
Sue Clarke screwed up her face. ‘You’re joking! We’ve heard he’s headed for Portugal. That’s what his wife told us. She was caught stealing a handbag in Selfridges, and not Miss Selfridge on the High Street, but Oxford Street, London.’
‘Now you’re joking?’
‘No. She had her credit card declined and threw a hissy fit, said it was all a mistake, and was asked to leave. She came back an hour later and was caught with the bag up her jacket. West End Central turned up and told her the bag was the least of her worries, and once the hysterics had stopped, she told them about the house in Portugal, in the Algarve.’
‘Right, let’s go.’
‘But what are we doing here? I mean, Jack … this is the last place he’ll be.’
‘Edward Havilland thought he might turn up here. He said it was just a hunch. But it was his first thought, and no one knows Kelsey better than Havilland.’
‘Not even his wife?’
‘Especially his wife. Because Havilland and Kelsey are hooked on the same drug.’
Frost and Clarke made their way into the packed betting ring where the bookies were shouting the odds for the next race, trying to attract the punters, and where the tic-tac men stood high on their boxes waving their arms about in the coded semaphore used to shift money around the ring. At the height of the betting, it really was as fraught and fast-paced as the trading floor of the London or New York Stock Exchange. Frost could see how men like Kelsey could get caught up in the excitement and buzz of it, and lose their soul in the pursuit of the big, easy money. Or maybe it was just the times they were in. Greed, if not quite good yet, was certainly acceptable. Everyone was hooked. It was the new high. And for men like Kelsey and Havilland, it was proving a lethal drug.
‘She’s on the move,’ said Clarke, as Melody Price, in her head-to-toe furs like a predatory animal, slinked off her box and was soon lost in the c
rowd.
The two detectives picked their way through the throng of punters to George Price’s pitch. It was now manned by two new employees, and not out of the George Price and Jimmy Drake old school of grizzled cigar-chomping, Crombie-coated, trilby-topped bookies. They were young and sleek in sharp suits and striped shirts, and they wore their hair slicked back with gel.
‘Where’s Melody gone?’ asked Frost.
‘Who wants to know?’ countered the one now doing Jimmy Drake’s job.
Frost pulled out his warrant card. ‘I do, sunshine.’
‘Powdering her nose.’
‘Where’s her bodyguard?’
‘Keith? He’s at home, we look after Melody at the races.’
‘Is that right?’ Frost wiped the smirks off their faces by snapping shut the bookie’s satchel and tearing the list of runners off the board. ‘I suggest you two boys go home, because today she’s going to need a bit more muscle than Wham!’
Frost commandeered the Walkman-sized cassette player used for recording the bets and told Clarke to wait there, in case he missed Melody, then made his way up to the grandstand concourse.
It didn’t take long – Frost spotted Melody right by the ladies’ loo. But even so, he spotted her too late. She was pressed against the wall, and it was Peter Kelsey who was doing the pressing. He didn’t actually have a hand on her, but his six-foot-three presence loomed intimidatingly over her, and she was justifiably terrified. Kelsey was wearing a peaked cap with the rim pulled down as low as it would go, and a pair of silver-framed aviator sunglasses – he was doing a good job of covering as much of his face as possible. But it was unmistakably him. Kelsey’s hands were pressing down in the pockets of a black trench coat, not his signature Burberry, and Frost could only imagine what he was holding – a gun, a knife, an orange-twine garrotte; any one would be sufficient for the ex-Rimmington superintendent, and killer.
What had started as a wild hunch was now a stark reality. And Frost realized that he had little more on him than a sharp pencil to tackle Peter Kelsey with. And it was too late. Kelsey had gripped Melody by the arm and was marching her towards the exit.