by Danny Miller
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Prologue
* * *
The old man had fought a long and hard battle, with fortitude and courage. As he lay in his hospital bed, tubes invading every part of him, the machine bleeped away, and the numbers flashed up, all telling him it was almost the end. That he was now on the losing side, as inevitably we all are eventually. The old man wasn’t in fact that old. But it was clear he’d had a hard life, and time had really worked him over. And of course, the disease had eaten away at him.
The orderly working that shift on the palliative-care wing did something he should not have done. Something he had no right, remit, or indeed qualifications to do. He increased the level of morphine being intravenously fed to the dying man. He didn’t do this on compassionate grounds, though he had struck up something of a relationship with the patient. He did it because the morphine loosened the man’s tongue, got him talking.
The orderly knew who the dying man was even before he’d arrived at the Longthorn infirmary. In fact, he was the reason he’d applied for the post in the first place. And he treated him with a respect sadly not always afforded the old, the crippled, the dying. Especially in places like this. It was easy to see that in his pomp, his prime, he’d been a man of some status in his particular field of endeavour. One of the very best in his chosen profession. A thief.
So when the morphine worked its magic, and the man started talking, talking about a job he’d pulled off many, many moons ago, where he’d stolen something so precious, so unbelievably valuable, that it would mark him out for ever and make him as rich as Croesus, the hospital orderly listened. He listened good and hard and did whatever was necessary to keep the old thief talking.
He made sure he worked the night shift so he could be alone with the man. He befriended him, talked to him every night, sneaked him in cigarettes and miniature bottles of fine Scottish whisky. At this stage of his disease, stage four, it mattered very little. Together they treated every night like it was his last. And every night the dying man told him more and more of the story. And what a story it was.
This wasn’t the last rambling speech of a mad man hallucinating on morphine. This was priceless.Once-in-a-lifetime stuff. It was the last will and testament of a true master. A deathbed confession. It doesn’t get better than this, thought the orderly, as he switched on the night light and released the valve that sent the morphine into the old man’s arm.
As the opiate worked its way through the patient’s system, far from sending him into the land of nod, it livened him up. His rheumy eyes widened and glistened, and he looked twenty years younger as his mind scrolled back to the past.
‘… It was a beautiful day … fantastic … I was there, you know?’
‘Where?’
‘Where? The hallowed turf … Wembley.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I wasn’t … wasn’t a big fan of football … but I couldn’t turn down the opportunity … A friend of mine told me to meet him at Wembley … his name was Charlie … Charlie the Dip … he was a pickpocket, one of the best in London … and within minutes of mingling into the crowd … he’d got us a couple of tickets … I saw Bobby Moore lift the cup that day …’
‘Ah. I’ve only seen it on TV. Geoff Hurst’s goal. That famous commentary: “They think it’s all over, it is now.” That was 1966, wasn’t it?’
The old man smiled, his grey teeth looking three sizes too big in his sallow and shrunken head. ‘It was … It was a wonderful time …’
The orderly pulled his chair closer to the bed. ‘But it was the year after, 1967, that you pulled off your greatest victory. Got your biggest score, wasn’t it? Bigger than that bauble Bobby Moore lifted in ’66, eh?’
The man attempted to laugh, but it just deteriorated into a hacking and wheezing cough that brought up a foul green viscous substance. The orderly mopped his chin. He then gave him his ‘medicine’ of two fingers of Glenfiddich in a plastic beaker and lit him up a Player’s. With the morphine chaser, the orderly doubted that even the ubiquitous Larry had ever been happier. It was now that he struck:
‘But the big question is … where you buried it all those years ago.’
‘Buried … ?’
‘The treasure … Where did you bury it?’
‘Ahh … I buried it where no one would find it … No one!’
The orderly calmed him down. Sometimes when the dose was too high, the old thief would get excited, and he’d go off at a tangent. But he himself would remain calm; his bedside manner was impeccable, and he prided himself on being able to wheedle information out of people. So he waited a few minutes before asking again, softly, softly.
‘Yes, my friend, very good. Now: where, where did you bury it?’
‘The treasure?’ The old man grinned, his eyes sparkled again, full of mischief. Then they narrowed suspiciously. He looked at the orderly, startled, as if he was a stranger. It was clear the fog had lifted, the drugs and booze had quickly worn off. ‘Kevin? … You’re not Kevin?’
‘No. I’m not Kevin.’
‘Where’s Kevin … ? I want to talk to Kevin …’
‘That’s because Kevin knows, doesn’t he? Kevin knows where you buried the treasure?’
‘Kevin … Kevin knows …’
The orderly shook his head and let out a forlorn sigh, and repeated the old man’s words, Kevin knows, because he’d heard them many times before.
But this was as far as the old thief would go. This was as far as he always went. It seemed that somewhere in that dying head of his was an insurmountable wall that just wouldn’t crumble to reveal the vital information only he and Kevin knew: where it was buried. He was like a scratched record. Good up to a point, then useless. The orderly was satisfied that this was as much information as he would ever get from him. But it was enough. The rest he’d work out himself.
He turned up the level on the morphine release and watched the old man’s eyes flutter and close. He then gently lifted his head, and went to plump up the pillow as he always did. But this time he picked up the pillow and placed it over his face. It didn’t take long, the pillow barely moved.
They think it’s all over, it is now. But in reality, it was just the beginning.
Sunday (1)
* * *
‘Oh, please, call me Shirley. You wouldn’t want me to call you Inspector Frost instead of Jack, would you?’
‘Depends on the circumstances, Shirley.’
‘Now you’re talking. I’ve been guilty of a few crimes of passion in my time. It would have been interesting having you as the arresting officer. You’d have had to catch me, secure me, cuff me, bundle me into the back of your panda car and then give me a hard and thorough interrogation. Sweat me under the lights, as they say.’
Jack Frost laughed nervously, as had become his habit when talking to his recently installed neighbour. Shirley was of indeterminate age. Frost put her at around the forty-five to fifty-five mark, but doubted he would get a straight answer from her if he ever asked. She was originally from Rotherham, and her accent hadn’t shifted a jot in the twenty-odd years she’d lived in Denton.
She had moved into Paradise Lodge a month ago, into number 142. Her abode was inconveniently situated between the lift and his front door. When leaving the elevator Frost had taken to padding across the carpeted hallway as stealthily as a cat burglar, as silently as his thick Doc Martens soles would allow, to get to the relative safety of his flat. And yet he still managed to stumble on the psychic tripwire she had rigged up in that overly made-up head of hers. Her door would burst open with a deafening whoosh as she sprang forth, all honey-blonde curls and plunging neckline, every time revealing more and more of her ample flesh. It was a twenty-minute conversation at least. She was a widow, she kept reminding him, and eventually she managed to drag his occupation and marital status out of him with the blunt determination of the Spanish Inquisition. On hearing he was a police inspector
and a widower himself, anticipation seemed to palpably throb through her and she ran a muscular tongue around her glossy red lips. And that was it. Frost could feel the branding iron on his rump, and now it said: ‘Property of Shirley’.
And here she was, actually in his flat, togged up in a turquoise towelling outfit, more suitable for the beach than landlocked Denton in January. She had just delivered a fish pie in a Pyrex dish, a dish that would need returning, so Frost knew there would be another round to go.
He said he’d have it tonight with his tin of peaches and condensed milk. She raised her blue-mascaraed eyes to the heavens and said she’d whisk up a trifle for him. He went into the kitchen and put the fish dish in the fridge.
‘It’s a nice view from here,’ said Shirley with more than a note of sarcasm in her voice, as this side of Paradise Lodge looked out over the car park and the other blocks in the complex, Eden and Utopia. ‘Me, I’ve got a pretty good view of the reservoir.’
When he returned from the kitchen, Shirley was shimmying away from the window and was soon sat, uninvited, on his sofa.
‘Had a sense of humour, your mum and dad?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Jack, Jack Frost?’
‘To be honest, they didn’t – but everyone else did. My real name is William, but ever since the first day of school, Jack just sort of stuck.’
‘Kids can be cruel.’
‘Could have been worse – a kiddy in my year had the surname Anchor. You don’t have to be much of a poet to get the punchline.’
She laughed, a little too keenly, so every part of her wobbled. ‘Well, I must say, Jack, I like what you’ve done with the place – very swish, very tasteful.’
‘Bit like the name, I can’t take any credit for it. I moved in and got the furniture that came with it. I was supposed to have the ground-floor flat, the main show flat. But it was covered in parrot droppings so they had to repaint the place, even new carpets. I was in a bit of a hurry to leave my previous lodgings, so I took this one instead.’
Shirley wasn’t really listening, and it was clear to Frost she had her own agenda. ‘It must be fate, us landing on the same landing.’
‘And the parrot droppings,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Got a lot to answer for, that bleeding parrot.’
‘What was that, Jack?’
‘Just saying, the parrot.’
‘Whose was it?’
‘Belonged to Kenny Fong’s mother, owner of the Jade Rabbit, and my old landlady.’
Shirley nodded over to the empty cartons of Kung Po on the dining table. ‘Nice to see you’re still in touch.’
‘I miss Monty, the parrot. He was a very clever bird, helped us catch a felon.’
‘How did he manage that?’
‘A long story.’
‘I’ve got plenty of time, Jack. And I’m quite a clever bird myself.’
She laughed hard and hearty, deep and dirty. Her ample flesh seemed to be rolling around in time inside the turquoise outfit, which had the effect of lowering the zip, each juddering laugh revealing more and more cleavage. Any more gags, Frost thought, and I’ll have to throw a sheet over her.
When she did eventually stop, her hand patted the neighbouring cushion, inviting him to join her on the three-seater sofa. He noted that her long painted fingernails were the same colour as her outfit. The turquoise-talonned hand sported a chunky ring on every finger; every finger apart from the wedding finger, which stood out like a sore thumb, so to speak.
Frost stood resolutely by the mock mantelpiece, with his fists pressing down into his trouser pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, but she continued to pat the cushion and fix him with a ‘come hither’ look. He’d run out of options and was forced to join her. But at a safe distance, his elbow weighing heavily on the armrest.
‘Well, Jack, this is nice. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday. Who knows, I might even scrounge one of them cans of lager I saw you had in the fridge. Quite a few, I see.’
Frost tilted his wrist and read the digits on his Casio that told him it was 1.05 p.m. ‘Bit early for me, Shirley. How about a nice cup of tea?’
‘Oh, Jack, I must confess I’m in the mood for something a bit stronger.’
Frost felt a charge move through his lap. It was his pager going off. He read the message from John Waters: ‘Fancy a pint?’
He sprang from the sofa, the grip of Shirley’s hand on his thigh slipping away. ‘Sorry, Shirley,’ he said with serious intent. ‘Police business. A dead body. Murder.’
Her red lips puckered then parted into a perfect O shape, then she seemed to melt all over the leather sofa.
‘My old man was a chiropodist. You don’t know how exciting that bloody sounds … Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’
Sunday (2)
* * *
‘Cheers, Jack,’ said DS John Waters, easing himself into the yellow Metro.
Frost had pushed the seat back for him as far as it would go. Still, as the tall, once athletic detective got into the car, Frost saw that beneath the mask of chirpiness lurked a grimace of pain.
The operations and skin grafts on Waters’ back where he had received extensive third-degree burns had been a success, but the recovery process was slow. Inhaling all that toxic smoke as he rescued two women from a burning flat on the Southern Housing Estate had literally seared his lungs. It had happened over six months ago now, but his breathing was at times still laboured. To Frost, John Waters seemed to have aged ten years. It was understandable, and there was never any serious talk about the DS leaving the force. The union rep had of course spoken to Waters and Frost, and the idea of retirement on full pay had been mooted, and just as quickly rejected.
In fact, after the commendation for outstanding bravery in the line of duty had been approved, Frost immediately proposed to Superintendent Stanley Mullett that Waters should be promoted to detective inspector.
But right now, DS John Waters was three days a week and desk-bound. His re-entry into the hubbub of the Eagle Lane incident room was to be slow and steady.
‘Sunday, bloody Sunday. I hate Sundays. I needed to get out of the house,’ said Waters as the car headed out of the close.
Frost caught sight of Waters’ wife, Kim, at the window. She looked like a ghost, indistinct and sad behind the net curtains. Frost knew better than to ask, partly because he didn’t know what to say. But when Waters was ready to talk, he was sure he’d be ready to listen.
‘Your invitation for a pint was a lifesaver. I may have to move.’
‘You’ve only just bought the place, Jack.’
‘I’m afraid one day I might have one Skol too many and weaken. I lack the resolve of most men, John. I’m weak when it comes to the sins of the flesh.’
Waters laughed. ‘Jesus Christ … I know it’s Sunday, but what the hell are you on about?’
Frost filled John in on the Shirley situation: his very own Merry Widow on the landing, a landing that was now a minefield. Waters laughed harder. It was good to see him laugh, thought Frost, it had been a while.
The DI then pressed down firmly on the horn. A cheer went up from the nearby pavement. Frost had answered the request on the placard: ‘Honk Your Horn To Show Support For Denton Woods’.
Though he agreed with the demonstration against the planned development of houses and shops that would encroach on Denton Woods, he’d hooted more to wind up PC Mills who was on duty. The protest had thus far been peaceful, but there had been anonymous threats sent to the Denton Echo, so Mills and two other uniforms were there to make sure nobody tried to break into the site and sabotage the equipment.
PC Mills responded to his superiors in the familiar yellow Metro with a two-fingered salute.
The car radio crackled into life just as Frost’s pager bleeped. It was DC Susan Clarke. Frost reflected on his earlier excuse to extricate himself from Shirley’s grasp. A dead body. Be careful what you wish for, he thought.
About the A
uthor
Danny Miller is the author of the Detective Vince Treadwell novels, the first of which – Kiss Me Quick – was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Award. He started his writing career as a playwright and a scriptwriter, and has written for the BBC, ITV and Channel 4.
After a successful career writing for radio, R. D. Wingfield turned his attention to fiction, creating the character of Jack Frost. The series has been adapted for television as the perennially popular A Touch of Frost, starring David Jason. R. D. Wingfield died in 2007.
Titles featuring Detective Inspector Jack Frost
R. D. WINGFIELD
Frost at Christmas
A Touch of Frost
Night Frost
Hard Frost
Winter Frost
A Killing Frost
JAMES HENRY
First Frost
Fatal Frost
Morning Frost
Frost at Midnight
DANNY MILLER
A Lethal Frost
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Written for the Estate of R. D. Wingfield by Danny Miller
Copyright © The Estate of R. D. Wingfield 2018
Extract from The Murder Map copyright © Danny Miller 2019
Photographs © Tony Watson/Arcangel
Cover Design by Sarah Whittaker
Danny Miller has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Quotation on p.144 from Monty Python’s Flying Circus written by John Cleese and Graham Chapman.