Fatal Frost (DI Jack Frost)

by James, Henry

  ‘Yep. The Hartley-Joneses had some Polaroids.’

  ‘Go grab them and bring them in here.’ Frost opened the door to Interview Room 1 and gestured for the WPC to leave. As he stood back to hold the door open for her – she was cute, not one he’d seen before – his attention was caught by two uniform in the corridor. One was Miller. ‘PC Miller?’

  ‘Sergeant Frost?’

  ‘I’d like to see you this afternoon. Something’s come up.’ The PC looked bemused. ‘My office at four,’ was all Frost said before stepping into the interview room, closely followed by Waters.

  * * *

  Simms sat disgruntled at his desk. Wakely was his collar; Frost couldn’t just boot him off the case and sort it out instead. And he’d taken Waters in, too. OK, so the guy was on secondment and needed to see how things worked, but it wasn’t fair that it had to be at his expense. He sighed and unfolded the list of Girl Guides.

  ‘Afternoon, Derek.’ DC Sue Clarke sat down opposite with a sandwich. He grunted and gave her a cursory glance. The list he had covered the two Girl Guide troops in the Denton area. Both columns were in alphabetical order, and included all members as of last September; ‘guiding’ activity apparently followed the school year. And there they all were before his eyes: Samantha Ellis, Gail Burleigh, Sarah Ferguson, Emily Hardy.

  ‘Lying little mares,’ he muttered. So the pair from Two Bridges knew Ellis after all. But so what? Had the Guides been camping last weekend it would have put all four girls in the possible area of Tom Hardy’s murder – but they weren’t, so that was that. Simms yawned.

  Just then he spotted a message saying Denton Hi-Fi had called, regarding the girl’s cassette – it was unintelligible. What had he been expecting – the Lord’s Prayer read backwards? He realized he should tell Frost about Ferguson and Burleigh lying about knowing Ellis; he’d do it once he’d typed up this damned witness report Mullett wanted on Chris Everett.

  Friday (4)

  CONSIDERING THE FRACAS he’d just been at the centre of, the youth in the airless interview room appeared uncannily fresh. Violence was no novelty to Martin Wakely and he was also no boy, as the aged pawnbroker had claimed to Waters and Simms, but a grown man, and a very nasty one at that. Wakely had been in and out of borstals across the country since the age of twelve. The rest was predictable – two years in the Scrubs for robbery, out for a breath of air, and then before he’d turned twenty-one back inside for six months for GBH.

  ‘Martin, Martin, Martin,’ Frost clucked as he pulled up a chair. ‘You have been a very naughty boy.’

  Wakely puffed angrily on a cigarette, not looking up. Waters stood to the side, observing quietly and holding a large white envelope.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself, eh?’ Frost reached across and punched the fan in vain – it was already switched to maximum power.

  ‘Think me ribs are bust,’ he grunted. ‘Wanker.’

  ‘Manners, Martin. That’ll be DC Simms. What he does in his spare time is no concern of yours.’

  ‘Shagging me cousin, that’s what,’ came the surprise response. Frost glanced at Waters, who shrugged.

  ‘Be that as it may, we can’t have people waving shooters around on Friday morning in Denton, now can we? Not good for the tourist trade or the grannies waiting for the number 19 to Market Square.’

  ‘Was defending meself.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From them that were chasing me.’ Wakely looked up, fixing his pale-blue, steely eyes on Frost. ‘They wasn’t in uniform. Could have been anyone. Can’t take a chance when there’s a few that ain’t too keen on you.’

  ‘Do be brief, son! “A few that ain’t too keen on you”? I’d be surprised if anyone was “keen” on you. Not even your poor old mum.’

  ‘You leave my mum out of this.’ Wakely stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me you didn’t recognize DC Simms? His beat was your estate for years.’

  ‘He looks different. Weren’t one of your plainclothes mob when I went inside. And’ – Wakely thumbed behind him – ‘Sooty here spooked me a bit. Thought he was … well, to be honest, had no idea who he was …’

  ‘Oi, oi!’ Frost snapped. ‘A bit of respect, if you please. He is Detective Sergeant Waters to you, and you’re not fit to clean his boots. Remember that.’ Frost leaned across the desk, meeting the young man’s eyes. ‘Now, let’s get this straight before we go any further: as far as I’m concerned, you could claim you were pursued by Basil Brush armed with a tommy gun – but you are not, to my knowledge, part of either the ATB or Her Majesty’s Forces, and therefore are not authorized to carry firearms, got it?’

  Wakely looked at him sulkily.

  ‘Right, enough of this nonsense, we haven’t got all day. Sergeant, the photos, if you please.’

  Waters handed Frost the white envelope, and Frost slipped out three small Polaroid photographs.

  ‘Sid Wilson informs us you tried to pawn these items yesterday.’ Wakely frowned. ‘These snaps were taken for insurance purposes, and the pieces in the photos were stolen from a home in Denton last Saturday. Yes, Martin, you have been handling stolen goods.’ Frost looked at his watch; it was close to two o’clock and he really needed some lunch. ‘I’m going to give you an hour to think things through, all right? I’ve more important things to do than deal with a second-rate tea-leaf like you …’

  ‘I didn’t steal anything …’

  Frost put his finger to his lips, saying, ‘Think about it, Martin – think about what’s happened. Assault on a police officer, and unlawful possession of a firearm? And then add to the mix that I’m very busy and not my usual tolerant self. Got it?’

  Frost allowed the silence to hang in the stifling room. Only the hum of the fan accompanied Wakely’s slow nod.

  ‘Good lad. Right, John, let’s leave him to stew for a bit.’ Frost retrieved the photos and slipped them back in the envelope, not wanting to let Wakely scrutinize them for too long. He closed the door behind him, indicating to the WPC to wait outside the room. ‘Bleedin’ stuffy in there,’ he said to Waters, who he suddenly realized was looking at him in amazement. ‘What?’

  ‘Those photos were the stuff that was nicked from Mullett’s mates, the Hartley-Joneses. It’s hardly likely to be the same gear.’

  ‘So?’

  Waters stared blankly and said nothing. Frost cuffed him round the shoulder playfully and headed off down the corridor to the main CID office. It wasn’t that Waters disapproved of Frost’s tactics – photographic evidence of any crime waved under a villain’s nose always brought reality crashing home – no, he was merely surprised at how swiftly Frost had reduced such an obviously tough man to a worried heap.

  Waters followed Frost into the CID office, which fortunately was better ventilated than the interview room they’d just left. Situated at the back of the building, the office had large windows which were open, allowing a gentle breeze to nudge the blinds.

  Simms and Clarke were both there, the former bearing down on an old typewriter and the latter hunched over the telephone, talking softly. Kim Myles had the day off – her first in ten days.

  ‘We’ve bigger fish to fry,’ Frost was saying. ‘We’ll let him sweat. Want to talk to me about buses? Did you find out where Tom Hardy got off?’

  ‘Yep. I’m parched, though. What’s the point of having a fridge if all you keep in it is sour milk?’ Waters closed the door on the tiniest, dirtiest fridge he’d ever seen. He was thirsty as hell; after calling at the bus station first thing, he’d subsequently had to chase all over Denton in pursuit of the driver who had dropped Hardy off. It was worth it, though; the driver had remembered.

  ‘There’s no law stopping you filling it up,’ Simms chimed in, clattering away on the Corona.

  ‘Now girls,’ Frost tutted, ‘that’ll do.’ He pinned a Western National bus-route map lopsidedly on the cork board and stepped back to admire it.

  ‘OK, John, so what did
our bus driver have to say about Tom Hardy? Did he see him get on or off the bus?’

  ‘He did. His story tallies with the offy man’s description – a boy in a white tracksuit and a girl dressed in black. They got off on Bath Road, at Union Street.’

  ‘Aha … Union Street …’ Frost carefully circled the area, a cigarette tenaciously gripped between his teeth, the smoke doing its level best to blind him, curling round his sandy-brown hair. ‘You’ll see the stops become less frequent past here.’ Frost jabbed at the map. ‘Though there are other buses … and on that basis we could rule out anywhere running down Union Street – if he wanted anywhere near the canal he’d have got a 7 or a 13 …’

  ‘Thirteen doesn’t run down the Wells Road,’ Simms pointed out.

  ‘He could change at Market Square, smartarse. So …’ Frost said, taking a step back. ‘There’s not much in the way of residential property on that stretch of the Bath Road – that leaves us with either Bath Hill or Forest View.’

  ‘Forest View,’ Waters pondered, remembering his first day at Denton – unbelievably, only last Monday. It felt like he’d been here an age. ‘That’s where the Hartley-Joneses’ place is. Sam Ellis’s aunt and uncle. She was feeding the cat.’

  ‘Cat? Really?’ Frost exclaimed. ‘Of course, she missed feeding the cat on Sunday, that’s how we know about the connection, although by that time there was no cat to feed … So, the house is empty, it’s Friday night, no grown-ups around because they’ve already gone off for the weekend. Seems likely to me he was heading there for a bit of rumpo with his girlfriend, the late Miss Ellis …’

  Waters could almost see Frost’s mind whirring.

  ‘Simms, find out if the Hardys have a pale-blue carpet – I doubt it, but we’d better rule them out. Then get over to Forest View, the Wotsit-Joneses, and find out whether it’s them who’ve got the new blue carpet. My money’s on the latter.’

  ‘What, guv?’ Simms grunted, looking up from the typewriter.

  ‘A pale icy-blue one, to be exact. Probably quite new.’ The boy was at a loss. ‘A fibre from such a carpet was found on Tom Hardy’s sock. Clarke found the clothes at the dump, remember?’ Frost tapped the side of his head.

  ‘What? I can’t just go over there and ask that. Besides, they’ll nag me about the cat …’

  ‘Cat? Well, you can relieve them of their worry, then. Whiskers is in my car.’ Frost tossed him his car keys. ‘Been keeping me company. But let me have the Girl Guides list before you go.’ Frost stood in front of Clarke and Simms’s adjoining desks, holding his hand out expectantly.

  ‘Here,’ Simms said, passing him the paper. ‘Meant to tell you …’

  ‘Well, well!’ Frost exclaimed loudly. ‘Lying strumpets! Burleigh and Ferguson claimed not to know the Ellis girl. Why on earth would they think we’d not find out? Such a stupid lie.’

  Clarke spun round on her chair, tying back her hair. ‘Do you think these might be the girls we’re after? Perhaps they were frightened.’

  Waters turned to Clarke. ‘You’ve not met them. These are cunning little minxes. They’d pull the wool over your eyes as soon as look at you.’

  ‘Oh, and you’re an expert on teenage girls brought up in the south of England, are you?’ she snapped.

  ‘Sue, for Christ’s sake,’ Simms interjected, ‘the guy did interview both girls …’

  Waters slumped down at the spare desk, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. Clarke could be spiky as hell at times.

  ‘Flamin’ hell, the temperature goes up a couple of notches and everybody gets bad-tempered,’ Frost said, looking as though he could do with a hose-down himself. ‘Will everybody just sit and think for a second.’ Frost raised both hands, exposing two damp underarms in his cheesecloth shirt. ‘A group within a group, that’s what we were looking for – and here we have a bunch on a plate. Now,’ he said calmly, walking back to the map of Denton, ‘we need to find out exactly where these young ladies were on Friday night.’

  ‘Which ladies?’ Simms asked. ‘There are dozens here.’

  ‘Use your loaf, son,’ Frost said. ‘Burleigh and Ferguson. My money’s on Hardy and Ellis having been there too.’

  ‘But Jack, we’re still a girl short,’ Clarke said. ‘Aren’t we looking for five, as in the School of Five Bells?’

  ‘True – for now – but it’s only a matter of time before we have the fifth one.’

  Waters noticed a gleam in Frost’s eye he’d not seen until now; they were finally making some headway with the case.

  ‘Frost!’ Mullett barked, as he and the Assistant Chief Constable strolled into the lobby. The superintendent immediately regretted bellowing; he wanted to express authority, but didn’t want Winslow to think that he could only keep control by shouting.

  Frost, who was heading outside with DC Clarke, turned to face the two men. Heavens, what a state! Was it really beyond him to shave and change his clothes once in a while? Mullett immediately wished he hadn’t stopped him, but to his relief the Assistant Chief Constable showed no adverse reaction. Mind you, Winslow himself reeked. Mullett wondered how many he’d had at the Eagle over lunch.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ Frost said, addressing Winslow and ignoring Mullett. ‘Off for a spot of golf? Glorious day for it. I’m thinking of taking it up myself if I ever—’

  ‘The Assistant Chief Constable is not interested in your blatherings,’ Mullett interjected. Insolent oaf, he thought to himself.

  ‘Nonsense, Stanley,’ Winslow slurred. ‘You certainly should take it up. Stanley here will vouch for you at the new club, won’t you, Stanley?’

  Mullett could feel himself colour uncontrollably with anger. What on earth was the hairless loon playing at? He’d rather impale himself on a 9 iron than have Frost anywhere near the club.

  ‘Would you, sir? That’s very kind. I might need some help with the … er … attire. Perhaps a nice pink jersey like you’re wearing …?’

  ‘Now, look here.’ Mullett was losing patience and didn’t care what Winslow thought. ‘Where’s DS Waters? I placed him in your charge.’

  ‘He’s off with Simms, sir,’ Frost said. ‘We’ve had a breakthrough on the Tom Hardy case. We believe we’ve traced his last-known movements.’

  ‘I see.’ Mullett would always remain cynical until he actually saw someone arrested. He found it difficult to allow his confidence to rise. He glanced at Clarke, standing just behind Frost. ‘And where exactly are you two off to?’

  ‘To find the boy’s sister, Emily.’

  Friday (5)

  ‘FOREST VIEW, EH?’

  Simms tutted, removing his sunglasses. It seemed ludicrous to imagine that anything so brutal as Tom Hardy’s murder could occur in such a serene setting. Had a bizarre satanic ritual really taken place within this modern detached house in a leafy cul-de-sac?

  Simms was unconvinced. ‘I ask you though – how? How on earth could they get the body to the golf course? And why?’ he implored.

  ‘Man, I don’t know,’ Waters conceded as they got out of the car.

  ‘These schoolgirls can’t drive. What did they do, fly him there on a broomstick? No, he was killed in Denton Woods, he had to be, and then the body was moved to the golf course.’ He popped the boot and regarded the cat-size package distastefully. ‘Not sure how this is going to go down, either, especially the bin bag.’ The original Jiffy bag was now wrapped in additional layers of black plastic to contain the smell.

  He spun the package irreverently in his hands and then stopped abruptly, looking at the bin-liner wrapping. ‘Hey, maybe they used some sort of liner? A giant polythene bag. It would keep the body clean and also the killer could drag it’ – he sighed – ‘for whatever perverted reason.’ He rang the doorbell.

  The supermarket manager led Frost towards the checkout till, behind which sat Mrs Ellis. At the morgue on Tuesday her beauty had been largely disguised by a mask of grief, but today she was strikingly attractive, with glossy red hair. Seeing her working at a checko
ut, Frost felt a pang of indignation; the spotty schoolgirls either side of her belonged here, but Mrs Ellis seemed to deserve better. As they drew nearer and she looked up, recognizing him, her face betrayed a rapid flurry of feelings. Frost was saddened that her initial look had been one of hope; maybe her little girl wasn’t really dead, maybe it was all a bad dream? The look vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

  Frost and Clarke stood politely to one side while she finished serving a customer. In an effort to find out more about the so-called Five Bells, Frost had decided to talk first to Mrs Ellis, who he was sure would be more candid and helpful than the slippery pair from Two Bridges, although he realized he needed to tread carefully so as not to upset her unduly. Mrs Ellis had said on the telephone that it was likely Samantha and Tom had spent Friday night together, although where they went she couldn’t say. Frost now believed it was Forest View.

  The store manager left the three of them in his office, shutting the door behind him as he left.

  ‘I thought it best that I went back to work as soon as I could,’ said Mrs Ellis, her unsteady hands struggling with a pack of cigarettes. ‘Nothing can bring my little girl back now, so sitting around at home isn’t going to help me.’ She looked across the desk at Frost. Viewed closely, her eyes were lined beyond her years. ‘Most people think I was mad to come back to work, what with Sam not even buried …’ She ground to a halt.

  ‘Besides,’ the woman continued, ‘the bleeders won’t pay me if I don’t turn up.’

  Frost was perplexed; here was Mrs Ellis, a bereaved mother, worrying about the paltry earnings from a supermarket job, whereas her relatives, the Hartley-Joneses, were sitting comfortably in Denton’s most exclusive neighbourhood. The Ellis family were clearly the poor relations. It seemed a shame, not to say peculiar, that Samantha’s uncle couldn’t have helped out in a practical way instead of just making a fuss about the Echo running the story about the suicide theory. Frost was yet to come across Mr Hartley-Jones, a man he’d dismissed as a mate of Mullett’s who’d been burgled and who was, in short, a pain in the arse, but he felt a sudden keenness to pay him a visit.