by James, Henry
‘I like your cap.’
‘Eh?’ Todd touched the peak of his flat cap. ‘Stops me ’ead getting burnt.’
‘Very natty pattern. Such tasteful colours. I saw a chap wearing one just like that at the weekend – but not for the sun, because he had it on at night – a taxi driver, came up to the house to collect someone during the party. Where did you get it?’
‘Castleton’s, in the town … About the money, you’ll be sure to leave it?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Holland said, growing bored, ‘just be sure to get it done. And for your information I do not “make dresses”.’
Kenny –
Sorry to miss you. Tied up. Borrowed a couple of beers.
See you tonight, for sure.
Cheers
Jack
His stomach rumbled angrily. As an afterthought he then quickly scribbled: PS: don’t chuck out the leftovers – always happy to oblige!
Frost pulled out a pound note from his overstuffed wallet and left it on the counter under the biro on the note, then moved to fill Monty’s water bottle from the kitchen tap. Monty was a large – and unpleasantly loud – African Grey parrot. Frost wasn’t complaining. He was more than grateful to Mr Fong for allowing him to bunk in the flat above the restaurant. It was ironic that he had Suzy’s old bedroom, but his was not to question why, though he suspected one reason was so that he’d remember to feed the girl’s gecko, who lived in a terrarium at the foot of the single bed. And indeed, he had fed it when he’d woken up. The other pet he was unlikely to be able to forget about even if he wanted to, given the noise it made in its cage by the restaurant’s serving hatch. He turned off the tap and grabbed his keys.
‘Noisy bleeder,’ Frost said, re-attaching the bird’s bottle. Monty eyed him closely as he fumbled with the wire clips. The only time the bird shut up was when you got up close to the cage; Frost had tried making it talk when he staggered in last night, but not so much as a pieces of eight.
He called out goodbye to both creatures, stepped out on to the street and slammed the door shut just as Monty piped up with something indistinguishable but almost certainly blue.
The white sunlight prompted a wince from the inspector as he patted himself down blindly for his Polaroids. He cursed. Were they in the car? Having arrived late last night at the Jade Rabbit, he’d missed the Fong boys who’d cleaned the place before closing, and thus missed any chance of scrounging a meal. He opened the Metro and scrabbled around on the dashboard for his shades; not there, but his crumpled panama hat was. He felt rancid from all the beer the previous day. He was, he discovered, at an age where drinking on an empty stomach didn’t pay – something he’d not grasped until now. While living with Sue Clarke he’d eaten well; she would always cook enough for two, in the hope she could wean him off takeaways and thus rid her flat of used cartons. A fry-up in the mornings, too. As a consequence his belly was used to being full – missing one nosh was just about bearable; missing two in a row was decidedly not. He needed something urgently. Could he wait until the canteen? The station was in the next street. It would be quicker to walk, the traffic in Denton was dire at the moment; congestion everywhere, but he’d no doubt need the motor later …
He climbed into the car and thought for a second about the plan for the day. Rachel Curtis’s bottom – or to be more precise, her crab tattoo – was on his mind so he’d need to make enquiries there. He needed to inspect her house too – better get a uniform posted outside until he had a chance. The place was up for sale, he knew that much, which meant he also had to get hold of the estate agent … But a bacon sandwich beckoned with more immediacy. He had time; it wasn’t eight thirty yet.
He started the car. The radio came on simultaneously, filling his ears with Lieutenant Pigeon’s ‘Mouldy Old Dough’.
‘Good morning, world.’ He smiled and belched uncomfortably, flipped down the sun visor – finally locating his Polaroids – and drove the two-minute journey to Eagle Lane.
Detective Sue Clarke stood outside the station commander’s door, awaiting the summons to enter. She gathered from overhearing snippets of a telephone conversation that the superintendent was late in this morning. But she wouldn’t sit – that would indicate complacency, and should Mullett choose to open the door to her himself, she wanted him to find her upright and determined, eager to return to the force. She caught a glance from Miss Smith, Mullett’s prim secretary, sitting behind her typewriter. Clarke tried a smile, but the woman looked away disdainfully. Always hard to read that one, Clarke thought; bit snooty. A nice girl when she first started but … too much like Mullett now. She paced away from the secretary, feeling her skirt pinch as she did so.
‘Superintendent Mullett will see you now,’ came the tart voice behind her.
‘Thank you,’ Clarke said in a clipped tone, as she passed Smith, hand still on the telephone receiver. She stopped at the door, looked down, cleared her throat then opened the door without knocking.
‘Ah, Ms Clarke,’ the superintendent said as she entered the room, though his attention was still on the huge computer monitor. Clarke was instantly wrong-footed by his not addressing her as Detective. ‘Take a seat,’ he added, after a pause.
She swallowed hard and pulled back a chair. The room was unpleasantly hot for the time of day. She’d always hated his fancy office decked out in wood panelling. Frost called it the old log cabin, but it reminded her more of a room out of a Miss Marple story. An electric fan stood dormant in the far corner, looking as out of place as the grey computer screen.
Mullett continued tapping away at the keyboard. She sat, not knowing what to do, and picked nervously at a ragged cuticle.
‘Blast!’ Mullett erupted, reaching for the phone. He didn’t appear to be in the best of moods. Maybe it was the heat. ‘Miss Smith, fetch me Desk Sergeant Wells.’ The super nudged the keyboard aside and placed his hands there before his pristine tunic. Fingers locked together, he said, ‘Now, Ms Clarke, what can we do for you?’
He must surely know, she thought, so replied simply, ‘I want to come back, sir.’
‘Come back?’ he asked, genuinely surprised.
‘Yes. To CID. I’ve had time away to think, and although I have a child, I see my place here at Eagle Lane.’
‘Do you. Do you indeed.’ Mullett’s brow furrowed. ‘And why should I take you back?’
She paused for a moment before responding, ‘Because I am a good detective.’
‘Hmm.’ He slid open a drawer and retrieved a manila file. Hers, no doubt. ‘You have had,’ he said, opening the file before him, ‘a colourful time in CID. How is the leg, by the way?’
He was referring to a stab wound she’d sustained whilst trying to apprehend two teenage thieves the previous May. ‘Forgotten all about it, sir.’
‘Quite the little villain chaser, aren’t you.’
He proceeded to recount her successful capture of a rapist the previous autumn, after a chase on foot through the streets of the Southern Housing Estate. After an abrupt start he appeared to be warming to her; she felt a surge of confidence.
‘Yes, commendable …’ He smiled across the desk. ‘A solid record, Susan, until—’
At that moment Sergeant Bill Wells lumbered in. ‘Sir.’ He flashed Clarke a quick smile. She was fond of Wells, Eagle Lane’s old faithful; the station’s mainstay.
‘Wells!’ Mullett’s composure changed in a flash to one of pure annoyance, as he reached to pick something up from the desk. ‘The data on this disk is corrupt.’
‘Are you sure, sir? It was all right last night when I saved it.’
‘Would I waste my time with this pointless exchange if it were not so?’ Mullett waved a black flexible square as he spoke.
‘I’m not sure you should do that, sir.’
‘Nonsense. It’s a floppy disk. Here, take it away and uncorrupt the information immediately.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Enough! It’s not a debate. Is Wallace in yet?’
‘Tell Miss Smith to reschedule the appointment he failed to keep for after the briefing meeting. That gives you both extra time; I shall be expecting a solution.’
Wells nodded, and made to go. ‘Nice to see you, Sue.’
‘A solution,’ Mullett said as he watched Wells leave, ‘make sure Sergeant Wallace understands that.’
The door closed and Clarke focused on the superintendent who was scribbling something down on her file, or so she thought.
‘Technology is the way forward, Ms Clarke,’ he said, noting the time as he wrote. ‘Alas, I can but dream of automated desk sergeants for now, but one day – mark my words.’ He placed the pen to one side, and closed the folder.
‘Sergeant Wells is an asset to Eagle Lane, sir, I’m sure,’ she said, defending her colleague. ‘The lynchpin to the station.’
Mullett looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses and said, ‘Wells is, indeed, unique in many ways, and though his contribution to law enforcement can only be quantified – generously – as minimal, he has nevertheless not impeded its progress with anything more than lethargy and bouts of staggering stupidity. Unlike yourself, Ms Clarke.’
Mullett held the file upright and tapped the cover squarely; this was it, she thought. Clarke’s stomach fluttered, as she gripped the hem of her skirt and steeled herself for Mullett’s verdict on her future.
Frost shoved open the door to Mungo’s Tattoo Parlour and entered the shop, removing his crumpled panama hat as he did so. ‘Parlour’ was little more than wishful thinking on the proprietor’s part; Mungo’s was a slice of a place squeezed in between a ‘Private’ shop on one side and a bookie’s on the other, at the far end of Foundling Lane.
It was a little after nine but already the soft buzz of a needle, like a trapped fly, intermittently punctured the low-level rock music that filled the shoebox-sized concern. Frost took in the dizzying display of art crammed on to the walls: motorcycles, dragons, tigers, women of Amazonian proportions. At the far end of the dark room in a pool of light sat a man in a leather jerkin with his back to Frost, presumably Mungo himself, at work on a blonde woman.
‘Wotcha,’ Frost called gaily. The woman smiled at him. She was topless and the tattooist was hunched over her chest with his pen.
‘Be with you in a tick,’ the man said without stirring from his work.
Frost mooched forward to get a closer look, practically peering over the tattooist’s shoulder. He still couldn’t discern what was going on – it looked as if the man was nuzzling her breasts. Frost stepped back feeling awkwardly aware he was intruding. For her part, the customer, dressed only in denim shorts and bright red lipstick, winked and smiled demurely.
‘Right.’ The man rose, placing his equipment in a small metal tray and picking up a cloth to wipe his hands. ‘What can I do for you?’
But Frost was momentarily distracted, as he stood agape at the woman’s breasts, newly adorned with what appeared to be a pair of cricket balls nestling between them. He checked himself and forced his eyes back to Mungo’s face.
‘Err … yes. Frost, Denton CID.’ He whisked out a picture of Rachel Curtis. ‘Remember this young lady?’
The man, who sported a spider’s web up one forearm and a sword and snake on the other, took the photo and considered it for a moment and passed it back. ‘Yeah. Cancer.’
‘Cancer?’
‘The Crab. Birth sign,’ Mungo said, picking up a pouch of Old Holborn. ‘Yup. That’ll be her.’
‘Can you tell me when exactly she came by?’
‘Will have a note of it here, somewhere.’ He reached for a scruffy appointment book.
Frost glanced around him. His knowledge of tattoos stretched not much beyond military history and the likes of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard who covered themselves in ink. That and secret societies, such as the girls Mullett had alluded to the previous day but … Get off after a very serious crime and get a tattoo? Frost struggled with the logic.
‘Yeah, in the morning. Came in ’ere with another chick at eleven on Saturday. They both had one …’
‘What, she had a crab too?’
‘Nah … Leo.’
‘The lion.’
‘You’re quite the detective, all right.’
‘Do ladies do that a lot? You know, come in and get tattoos together?’ He regarded the woman still there, solo, and half naked.
‘Some muffdivers.’
‘You what?’
‘Lesbians,’ the woman translated, revealing a set of perfect teeth.
Frost grinned back and said, nodding at her chest, ‘You’re getting chilly sitting there.’
Mungo dogged his rollie, cracked his knuckles and picked up his instrument. ‘Might have been a birthday treat.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Frost said, eyes on the woman still.
‘We’re in Leo, ain’t we. Mind you, soon going into Virgo.’
‘You what! Oh, I see. Can you give me a description of the other woman?’ Frost scribbled a few lines in his notebook, wondering whether Kate Greenlaw, the woman who’d worked at the Coconut Grove and who Rachel had been looking for, was born in August. He thanked the man for his help.
‘Bet Chris Tavaré wouldn’t let Miller get his hands on those,’ Frost said cheekily to the woman.
She glanced down at Mungo’s handiwork. ‘Eh?’
‘The Ashes,’ he said. But clearly she had no idea of the England side’s spectacular test-match win in Melbourne last Christmas. ‘A famous catch Down Under … Cricket? You know – those balls?’
‘Ha, no, love,’ she purred, ‘these are cherries. Come closer.’
Frost edged closer, unabashed. ‘Ah yes, I can see the stalks.’
‘Nice, aren’t they?’ she said proudly.
And then throwing caution to the wind, he said, ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight, do you?’
The woman’s face registered surprise. ‘A drink with a policeman on a Monday night, you are joking?’
‘Most certainly not – there’s nothing funny about drinking with a copper; it’s not for the faint-hearted.’
Her face softened. ‘How about tomorrow?’
‘Done.’
The tattooist took that as his cue to continue, and switched on his needle. Frost hastily named a time and place and left the pair of them to get on with the job.
Outside, standing in the sunshine, it dawned on him he’d not got her name, but that didn’t matter, there was always tomorrow; for the first time in ages he had something to look forward to.
Monday (2)
‘Hold on!’ Frost bellowed out of the Metro window.
Sue Clarke lifted her head glumly as she made her way across the station car park. He could see it had not gone well. Had she blown it? How? He parked sloppily across two bays and hurried over to Clarke’s Escort.
‘How’d it go?’ He coughed. Thirty yards and he was wheezing uncontrollably.
‘It seems my services are not required.’
‘You’re kidding! I don’t flamin’ well believe it! What did he say?’
‘Mullett said he saw no reason to review the decision made eight months ago. Nothing has changed …’
‘Other than we need you—’
‘… and that my temperament was probably best suited to child rearing,’ she added despondently. ‘He’s probably right.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘To think I believed you, Jack!’ She opened the car door. ‘“Everything will be all right, don’t worry.” I should know better by now than to have any faith in you.’
‘Sue, Sue. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,’ Frost implored; he couldn’t believe it – what was Hornrim Harry playing at?
‘Oh, he did say one other thing,’ she said, climbing into the car.
‘Yes …?’
‘That now I was more mobile they could proceed with a full disciplinary hearing.’
Frost watched her disappear f
rom the car park on to Eagle Lane. Mullett. Blast him. But how? Mullett must know he had him by the goolies for his wife’s apparent guilt in the paperboy hit-and-run – what on earth would make him risk Frost blabbing about that? Maybe Frost had not got his message across yesterday evening.
‘How flamin’ obvious did it need to be?’ he muttered to himself as he locked his car.
Or did Mullett think Frost too principled to act? Through some misguided loyalty? Surely not. Or maybe the time that had since elapsed made Simms’s evidence invalid? Was there a loophole he’d not thought of? Frost cursed inwardly, he should have nobbled Mullett there and then months ago – traded the info for Sue’s guaranteed return – and not given him time to plot and scheme, which he’d clearly done, master of such things as he was. The sun beat down on the troubled inspector as he felt for his cigarettes. It was going to be a scorcher again, maybe the heat had fried Mullett’s noggin. Or maybe … could he have discovered something on Frost himself? He felt a chill in spite of the heat. Yes, that would have to be it. He knew the way the man’s mind worked … but what could it possibly be? He scrabbled through his memory trying to recall what misdemeanour he could be guilty of. Trouble was, over a period of so many months, there were so many possibilities …
‘Inspector Frost, please.’
‘He’s just slipped out,’ a jowly sweaty officer in his fifties behind the front desk replied. ‘Though he may have slipped back in while I was fiddling with this confounded thing. Let me try his line.’ He stopped twiddling with a printer and picked up the phone. ‘What can I say it’s regarding?’
‘Ah …’ Suddenly, when confronted with declaring his purpose, the words froze in his throat.
At that moment another uniformed policeman appeared; this one was slimmer and well-groomed, with a tie that looked inhumanely tight for the weather.
‘The disk, Wells. The disk!’ he hissed.
Clearly this one was a superior, but despite his seniority he exuded a level of tension that made Weaver’s legs go weak. Grave doubts flooded his mind – he didn’t know whether he had the resolve to be able to pull this off.