by Henry James
‘Ah …’
The superior one had suddenly clocked him and – unlike the desk officer – he’d apparently taken in Weaver’s attire because his first words to him were, ‘St Mary’s?’ Weaver was technically not supposed to be wearing his surplice – but he felt it afforded him some protection in the circumstances.
‘Yes … I—’
‘We’re doing all we can, you know. Wells, page Frost immediately: he has been issued with a bleeper.’ The man had intense beady eyes, shiny with anger. ‘I shall call the bishop personally, as soon as we have concrete news. In the meantime, avoid the piffle in the press.’
Bishop? What in heaven’s name? ‘I’m sorry?’ Weaver said, confused.
‘The young lady found in the churchyard?’ His eyebrows shot up in consternation. ‘I assume that is why you’re here?’
‘Err no, I’m here about a neighbour of mine, who appears to have gone missing – I’m here to offer my services … If there’s anything I can—’ but the stiff policeman had lost interest at ‘no’ and marched off down the squeaky-floored corridor.
‘Phew, thank goodness for that.’ The desk officer breathed heavily and licked the tip of his pencil. ‘Right, sir, if you’d be so good as to give me your particulars.’
The Monday-morning staff briefing could set the tone for the entire week, Mullett found, especially after an eventful weekend such as this. He stepped up to the dais as the digital wall clock clicked on eleven. Despite being late in he’d managed to catch up, due to his superb time-management skills. He surveyed the assembled officers, waited for a few more uniform to take their seats. A full contingent there thankfully, all present and correct, including Sergeant Wallace. Conversely, CID were woefully under-represented. Hanlon and Waters; that was it. Where was Frost? For heaven’s sake.
Mullett was in two minds about Clarke – they did need a body, that was true, but all that … that … what-d’you-call-it with Derek Simms that had landed her in hot water in the first place. Drama. Yes, that was it: drama. A police station processed and solved other people’s dramas; it was not the place to nurture dramas of its own. Then there was that child; fatherless, according to Miss Smith. Mullett didn’t care to know more, suffice to say the boy didn’t arrive out of thin air. Gossip and scandal had no place at Eagle Lane.
Just as the last man sat down Frost appeared at the back doors in a pink top, similar to those Mullett had seen at the golf club.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ Mullett said loudly. ‘Sergeant Waters, without further ado, an appraisal of the dead woman in the graveyard, if you please.’
The sergeant stood and flipped open his notebook. Waters, in a tight Starsky & Hutch T-shirt, was an impressive specimen – a formidable build and speaking clearly, he instantly commanded the room’s attention.
The circumstances were suspicious and unusual: the appearance of the body, the positioning, etc., suggested that the fatal wound itself might well have been sustained through a fall. That being said, a fall from the church roof would have been much messier. This was as much as he knew from Frost the previous day. The whole situation was odd, not to mention macabre. Waters continued: CID were intent on tracking the woman’s last movements; and there was the possibility of a lovers’ tryst that had gone fatally wrong. All of this would need investigating. The detective then touched on the details of her release, the history of mental cruelty, and that her behaviour might have been irrational due to an unstable mind.
Mullett thought this poppycock, psychological evaluations and the like. She should never have been freed, look where it’s landed her … he suddenly noticed Frost at the back of the room. The inspector, in a pink polo top and frankly ridiculous hat, was staring directly at him. Such was the intensity of his gaze, the superintendent immediately felt unsettled.
Waters had now concluded and Mullett became aware of an expectant silence. He couldn’t bring himself to ask Frost for his findings, and although he knew full well there was further business to discuss, he brought the session to a close.
The assembly filed out, but Frost remained.
‘A word, Super, if I may,’ he said, as Mullett was leaving.
‘I don’t have time; I have a meeting with Wallace now and then the press conference at noon and so forth – one can’t expect this to stay under wraps given the congregation,’ he said, trying to brush him off.
Frost was still at his heels though. ‘The press, yes. I’m sure they’ll have a field day. I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, abstractedly, as though thinking of something. He had an agenda.
The super pushed open his office door, ignoring Miss Smith trying to catch his eye. ‘All right, you’ve got thirty seconds.’
Frost tapped the door shut. ‘Detective Clarke, sir. I believe you had a meeting this morning.’
‘Ah, I might have guessed. Indeed I did. Though it’s no concern of yours.’
‘She’s a highly valued member of the team.’
‘Really? Well, you’ll just have to soldier on without her.’
Frost stepped closer to the desk. ‘I’m prepared to do anything to have her back.’
Mullett reached for a Senior Service. ‘Bold words, Inspector.’ Mullett was, he thought, ready for this confrontation. ‘To go to what lengths, exactly?’ He smiled sarcastically. He really did loathe Frost, only now did he grasp quite how much.
‘Oh, anything,’ Frost said casually, ‘but in the first instance I’m keen to reopen that hit-and-run case – you know, your paperboy, the one who was killed last autumn?’
‘Have you time? Being as we’re stretched as it is.’
‘Oh, I think we’d wrap it up pronto.’
‘Really now, how so?’
‘New evidence.’
‘I see.’ Mullett sucked hard on the cigarette. Frost, oddly, was not smoking. ‘Before you do, I might mention there’s an audit under way investigating expense claims. Technology is a wonderful thing. Yes, a thorough investigation. And I’m afraid to say you have already been highlighted for particular review. Any officer under investigation for false expenses claims is unlikely—’
‘Really? That’s great.’ Frost smiled.
‘You’re pleased?’ Mullett said, surprised.
‘After the old lady died, the bank froze the account. I’ve not been able to cash a single cheque; be handy to know what I’m owed?’
Mullett was crestfallen. He could not believe it. If Frost had not actually cashed the cheques – however enormous the sum involved – he’d slip off the hook.
‘You’ll remember, sir, I’m sure,’ said Frost, ‘that I’m without a car at present and that you personally sanctioned me to use the wife’s Metro? It has cost a small fortune to keep on the road, as your new technology no doubt tells you. But back to Detective Clarke …’
With that, Frost puffed on a newly lit cigarette with relish.
Monday (3)
Detective Sergeant Waters closed the door to the incident room behind him. With the morning briefing out of the way, the real work could begin. Frost was buoyant – whatever had transpired between him and Mullett after the briefing had evidently gone Jack’s way; the energy with which he was berating Hanlon at the far end of the room could only mean he’d won a battle with the super.
Three uniform, including David Simms, were seated patiently waiting for Frost to finish lambasting Hanlon and issue directions on the Curtis case. Behind Frost a WPC was pinning photos and newspaper articles relating to the Gregory Leather case and Rachel Curtis’s release to the incident board.
As Waters approached, the heated conversation subsided.
‘What gives?’ he said amicably.
‘Would you believe this … this arse-head has come back from the bleedin’ Midlands empty-handed!’ He waved absently at the indignant Hanlon.
‘Is Yorkshire in the Midlands?’ Waters asked doubtfully.
‘I don’t care if it’s north of flamin’ Greenland; I give him a simple task, to bring ba
ck Rachel Curtis’s mother. And even that was beyond him!’
‘She’d not seen the girl recently, so she didn’t see any reason to come all the way down here,’ Hanlon said defensively.
‘And I said she has to identify the sodding body!’
‘Wait a sec – the probation officer said it was a condition of her release that she visit her mother once a week’ – the two men turned to stare at Waters – ‘help keep her out of trouble.’
‘That so?’ Frost said, his attention piqued. ‘Interesting … what could that mean, I wonder – to break the conditions of her release so early …’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Hanlon said, ‘the old dear was a right spiky misery.’
Frost rolled his eyes. ‘Do me a favour; it wouldn’t matter if the woman’s mother was Medusa herself. If it was a matter of risking getting banged up again I’m sure she’d take the trouble, don’t you think?’
Hanlon shrugged.
Frost shook his head and turned to address the remainder of the room. ‘Right, you lot: we will assume Rachel Curtis did not leave Denton since her release a fortnight ago. This is her,’ he said, banging the board behind him. ‘I want you in every pub, shop, bookie’s, you name it, until I have a minute-by-minute account of her movements over the last few days. And Wallace, I want a list of all the roads resurfaced in the last three months.’
The beefy sergeant started to protest.
‘Cobblers, traffic’s your responsibility. And traffic runs on roads last time I looked, so find out from the council. Albeit flamin’ slowly at the moment with all the blasted roadworks. Now go, the lot of you.’
Waters leaned in and whispered Jane Hammond’s name in his ear, prompting Frost to add, ‘And another thing – a little boy’s got a missing mum. So while you’re at it …’
Frost filled them in on this as well; it was going to be a busy week.
Dominic Holland stood in a lengthy queue at Bennington’s Bank, tapping his foot impatiently. He would miss the midday train to London at this rate. Not for the first time he wondered who on earth all these people could possibly be – why weren’t they at work? They couldn’t all be unemployed, surely; the unemployed had no money. He scrutinized those in front of him. A man in dungarees. Awful. A woman in a red-striped sundress, which the sun caught, rendering the garment see-through. Tacky. A middle-aged fellow with a comb-over in a bomber jacket … hold on, wasn’t that one of the dreadful neighbour bores that had a pop at him about the devastation he’d wreaked on the landscape? There can’t be that many looking like that around here … The man, sensing Holland’s gaze, turned and caught his eye … Yes, that was him, sporting the additional aesthetic challenge of buck teeth. The fellow didn’t seem to recognize him and moved up to the counter. Meanwhile, another till had just opened in anticipation of a lunchtime surge, perhaps. Holland reached inside his blazer for his cheque book, and slapped it lazily against his palm. His turn came eventually and he pulled out his gold Cross fountain pen and commenced writing a cheque for £1,000.
‘Damn,’ he muttered to himself. In his haste he’d brought the company cheque book.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ the pimply clerk asked.
‘No, no,’ he said, signing above the Holland and Beswetherick Ltd account name – though there would be if Emma, his glamorous business partner, found out. The company cashflow wasn’t too healthy at present. He’d have to transfer the money back soonest when in town tomorrow. That reminded him – he ought to call her this evening, to confirm their meeting in the morning. He’d not seen her since she’d come down for the party, where she’d laughed herself silly over the state of the garden. Wait until he told her about the pool tiles! Bet she didn’t have this problem in Surrey.
Frost and Waters stood in the lobby at Eagle Lane. Frost had just recounted his visit to the tattoo parlour and the Kate Greenlaw connection to Rachel Curtis.
‘Are you sure it’s her?’
‘More or less, just need to check her birthday. She’s selling lipstick at Aster’s according to Harry.’
‘That’s a damn good lead – why keep it to yourself back there?’ Waters indicated the briefing room behind them with his thumb.
‘Was preoccupied: Hornrim Harry had turned down Clarke’s appeal to return.’
‘Yeah, I heard – Bill saw her leave in tears.’
‘Sue’ll be back tomorrow, don’t you worry.’
‘How so?’
‘Haven’t got time for that now …’Ere, what’s that sorrowful-looking bugger want? Chap from St Mary’s that found our Rachel, ain’t it?’
Waters looked round and saw the St Mary’s verger sitting on the visitors’ bench underneath a peeling public information poster warning of the dangers of the Colorado Beetle. The man had a finger raised in a timid attempt to attract their attention.
‘Psstt! Bill! What and why?’
Wells was frowning at the computer monitor. ‘Ah yes. Sorry.’ He beckoned them over and slid them the form with the man’s details. ‘Everything takes twice as long with this blasted thing.’
Frost picked up the card. ‘I see,’ he said, and handed it back.
‘A man of the cloth living on the Southern Housing Estate? Unusual,’ Waters remarked.
‘Maybe he’s doing missionary work – saving fallen women.’
‘As good a place as any.’ They ambled over to the verger; he appeared as nervous as he had the previous day. The man had clearly had a rough time of it.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Weaver, if you’ll follow us.’
Waters loved the way Frost’s manner could turn on a sixpence. One minute irreverent, bordering on crude, the next professional, polite and deeply concerned for a member of the community. The Frost who led them to the interview room now was an entirely different character to the one five minutes ago bragging about a date with a lady with cherries tattooed on her chest. No wonder a jobsworth like Mullett found him so exasperating.
‘Thank you very much for coming forward, Mr Weaver,’ Waters said, closing the door behind them.
‘It’s the least I could do.’
‘If only everyone thought like that, it would make our job far easier,’ Frost said, trying to put the man at ease.
Weaver tittered lightly. ‘She has a hard time of it, I think.’
‘Miss Hammond?’ Frost said. ‘Yes, I bet. I imagine you know how she makes a living.’
‘Err … Yes, I’m sorry that is so.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about.’
The man looked confused.
‘We all have to make ends meet,’ Frost added.
‘Jane hates the way she’s forced to live.’
This remark surprised Frost. ‘Really? I’m sure that’s the image she’d like to project to a respectable man such as yourself, but from what I gather she rather enjoys it – or at the very least is proficient,’ he said, straight-faced.
‘What Inspector Frost means is, she has quite a few clients,’ Waters clarified.
Frost watched Weaver take this in. His bottom lip dropped a bit, as though he might just have been rendered speechless, but maybe that was just his general demeanour. He always found religious men hard to read – were they naive or innocent or both? Both qualities seemed at odds with the intelligence required to enter the Church … not that he had any idea how bright one had to be to get in, he’d just assumed this to be the case from the few conversations he’d had with Father Hill himself, a brainy bloke, who knew Latin and had read any amount of books.
‘I see,’ the man said eventually.
‘Anyway’ – Frost suddenly felt a wave of guilt at affronting the man in this way – ‘that’s neither here nor there, except in helping to trace her last known whereabouts – the fact that she’s missing is what’s important. When did you last see Jane Hammond, Mr Weaver?’
‘On the stairs, to the flat, with some shopping, I think.’
‘And that would have been when?’ Waters asked.
‘Yo
u know, I can’t recall when exactly … Saturday morning?’
‘And was Richard there?’ Frost asked.
‘Richard?’
‘Her son.’
‘Oh, yes – of course.’
‘You know the kid?’ Waters asked.
‘Yes, Miss Hammond was keen I put him forward for the choir, but the boy wasn’t interested. No, he wasn’t with her on Saturday. How is he faring? Must be awful for him, his mother vanishing like that,’ he said quickly.
‘The lad is going to stay with his aunt.’
‘Aunt?’
‘Yes, one in Rimmington; Jane would often stay there herself on a Saturday.’
‘I see.’ Weaver seemed lost in a world of his own.
‘The one fact we know is that Miss Hammond’s sister was expecting her this Saturday evening but she didn’t make it.’
‘She was visiting a relative on Saturday?’ Weaver said.
‘Yes, we believe so. Tell me, Mr Weaver, how well do you know Miss Hammond? If she approached you to get the boy into the church choir, one imagines more than a passing nod good morning?’
The man frowned.
‘You say she hates her work? Is that something she said over a cup of tea?’ Frost prompted.
‘She … I … can only assume she is unhappy, leading a sinful existence. We’ve never discussed it. I don’t know her that well. A chat at the bus stop on the way into town; over the years one gets to know someone from a distance. I’ve been round for tea, yes, but I can’t recall what was discussed …’
Frost didn’t have time for this, nice as the fellow was. Aster’s department store on Market Square and Kate Greenlaw beckoned. ‘Did she ever appear frightened or mention receiving threats?’ he said sharply.
‘Good heavens, no.’ Weaver’s expression changed from one of confusion to one of horror. Frost thought the man simple.
‘Well, thanks for dropping by, Mr Weaver.’ Frost rose, and ushered the man, who cowered slightly, towards the door.
‘Maybe vicars are like policemen, John,’ Frost said as he and Waters parted company in the corridor.