by Henry James
‘Running low, are we?’
‘Desperately low. We’re five hundred off asking Coutts for an extension.’
Crumbs. If she discovered he’d drawn out money – even if by mistake – from their company account, the shock would straighten her shaggy perm in an instant. The phone at Niles’s desk beyond the glass wall trilled fractiously.
‘Might be your builder again, Dominic,’ said Niles, reaching for the window.
‘Eh?’
‘Your builder. He’s rung twice already.’ Emma was annoyed. ‘Go and see what he wants, will you, so that we might get on?’
Holland cursed but was relieved to be upright, and moved to answer the phone. ‘Holland and Beswetherick.’
‘There you are, at bleedin’ last. No readies, no tiles.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I can’t get ya yer tiles, without some cash; I thought we …’
‘I left it in the mixer, as you requested.’ He smiled at Emma, sitting nonplussed the other side of the glass wall.
‘Ain’t nothing there.’
‘It’s there,’ he persisted, ‘I left it for you yesterday afternoon before coming up to town.’
‘I’m telling ya, it ain’t.’
‘In a white Bejam bag.’
‘Ain’t no bag and ain’t no cash, so I’m offsky. Might—’
But Dominic Holland didn’t catch what Terry Todd might or might not be off to do as he was inconvenienced by the urgent need to vomit over a very carefully manicured and expensive imported bonsai.
PC David Simms had caught up with Rachel Curtis’s cleaning lady between jobs. It just so happened that Tuesday was her slot for Sandpiper Close and the ‘big ’ouses’. It was easily as hot today as it had been the previous day when he had stood in the same spot and elicited the woman’s timetable from a helpful neighbour. Standing before him now on the pavement was a shrunken woman, stiffness etched upon her joints from years spent on her hands and knees scrubbing floors.
‘So you kept the place spick and span while she was inside?’
‘Once a month I’d pop round with a duster.’
‘And then when she got out?’
‘I came round Tuesday before last and she was out … Then she asked me to come back weekly.’
‘What sort of state was the place in?’
She shrugged. ‘A doddle. Give the kitchen a quick mop. It’s a family-size house, she barely touches the sides.’
‘Was there any trace of activity?’
‘Beg your pardon?’ The woman scowled unbecomingly.
‘I mean, evidence that Miss Curtis had cooked, entertained perhaps?’
‘Not that I could tell; not one for cooking, that lass …’
‘So, all in all, it was a waste of time her employing you,’ he said, growing impatient.
‘I’m not going to knock a retainer, am I, what with me back an’ all …’
A white Lotus turned into the close, like the one in For Your Eyes Only. The driver slowed on spotting a policeman. A horsey-looking blonde stared at them before pulling into a driveway further down. The sight of the Bond car had distracted Simms, and abruptly he was of the opinion he was wasting his time. This woman would tell him nothing useful. He had to be back for the catch-up meeting at midday but after that had the afternoon off, and he was desperate to get out of this uniform.
‘… apart from the bathroom, which must have been a man.’
‘What did you say?’
‘A shave. Someone had had a shave in the bathroom.’
‘A man?’
She eyed him warily. ‘There’s not many lasses do their legs in a washbasin.’
‘Recently?’
‘Well, must ’ave been over a week ago. Typical bloke. Can’t be arsed to clean it afterwards.’
Curtis had lived there with her boyfriend Nicholson before they were arrested, so it seemed reasonable to think there would still be shaving equipment in the house … Was this evidence that she’d had a man back to hers since being released? This was something. He thanked the woman for her time and hurried back to the station.
Frost had dismissed Waters and Clarke, and now sat in Jane Hammond’s flat alone, clutching her diary, which the WPC had found. It was a child’s notebook; a colourful Little Miss Naughty beamed up at him. He’d already thumbed through it, but now it deserved closer scrutiny. There was only the one name that cropped up on Saturdays, and Waters had already dealt with him after checking her address book. All the remaining punters were identified with nicknames or codes: Mr Whippy, Mr Tickle, Socks-on-ears, and so on. She had also noted how much she charged them and what effort they required on her part at each encounter. ‘Socks-on-ears, £7 – quick’, or ‘Spanky – drawn out’. ‘Noisy – £23’. Illuminating, yes, but not much help.
How could he trace her movements?
She had to have had some punters calling at the flat or maybe even visited people in the same block. The old dear he’d left the boy with temporarily confirmed there had been frequent comings and goings during the day when the lad was at school. Frost walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The kettle was a new-fangled jobbie that had a bright light on its side to indicate it was heating up. He stood watching the white plastic object gently vibrate. The light reminded him of the new bleeper which he’d been issued and had promptly, conveniently, misplaced … The kettle pinged, the light went off. He lifted it off its pad and was about to pour water in a cup when … wait – the kettle’s red light, like that on an answering machine. Surely she’d have an answering machine? He hastened into the living room, still clutching the steaming kettle, in search of the phone. Right on cue, it rang a couple of times; an answering machine clicked on, and he heard the soft purr of the missing occupant.
He located the phone next to the television set just as the caller rang off. A red light flashed: six new messages. Hopefully, the previous callers hadn’t been as bashful. Frost pressed Play.
‘Message for Miss, from Dirty Dan. Danny’s been a very naughty boy, and deserves the rod,’ a well-to-do voice said softly, but enunciating the ‘R’ stiffly. ‘Yes, the rule of the rod must be observed. Firm and hard. No leniency for this dirty pup,’ the man rasped out, and then switched to a mannered and more controlled voice to add, ‘Thursday, if poss? Wednesday’s out, I’m afraid, the wife’s bingo’s canned. Six if it suits you? Pip pip!’ The call clicked off.
Frost considered himself a well-rounded sort of fellow, experienced in the world and familiar with the deviances of its inhabitants, but that message might as well have been in Mandarin for all the sense it made to him. ‘But one thing I do know, chum,’ he said to the answerphone as he rose from the settee, ‘is you are not the sort of fellow that lives in Clay House.’
Clarke entered the station through the front entrance. There sat Bill Wells, Eagle Lane’s front line, grimacing at a huge grey computer monitor. Two PCs in uniform stood to the left by the noticeboard, speaking softly. She instantly thought they were talking about her; this was her first official day back at the station. This morning in the field was different, and it wasn’t until she’d stepped into the building that the unfamiliar air of paranoia touched her.
‘Hello, Bill,’ she said loudly, marching up to the reception desk, ‘what’s new?’
She’d seen him yesterday but hadn’t really taken much notice of him. He was older than she recalled, worn and jowly. The inertia of the reception desk had not been kind.
‘Welcome back.’ He smiled softly.
‘Thank you.’ She loitered uneasily, she did feel different being here (yesterday didn’t count; she didn’t know where she stood then).
‘How’s the nipper?’
‘Philip? Oh … he’ll be fine.’ Unaware she’d answered in the future tense, she did however feel a twinge of anxiety – maybe a maternal pull? ‘He’ll be just fine. My mum’s looking after him.’
The station itself was exactly the same as ever; a bit grubbier – the magnolia wa
lls were now more a jaundice-yellow, the plants had shrivelled and died in the heat and the posters warning of rabies and beetles hailed from another age entirely.
‘Who the bloody hell is Inspector Jack Frost? And where is he?’
Clarke turned to see a striking young woman in a light floral summer dress march in. The woman stopped expectantly before them, confident in her manner, and unequivocally beautiful. Clarke shrank away feeling dowdy and inexplicably insecure.
‘Where is he?’ the woman repeated.
‘Inspector Frost is away from the station,’ Wells said dolefully, unmoved by the woman’s presence. ‘Can I take your name, madam?’
‘My name is Karen Thomas.’
‘May I ask what the matter is regarding?’
‘It is no concern of yours.’ She read his name badge and added, ‘Sergeant W. Wells. Tell your inspector I’ll be back.’ And with that she was gone.
Tuesday (3)
It was gone midday by the time Dominic Holland arrived back at Denton railway station.
He waited patiently for a taxi back to Two Bridges. Usually the type to grow exasperated at such inconvenience, he now discovered his anxiety had gone full circle: the desperation he’d experienced on the train home had now been replaced with a forlorn dread. What if Todd had exacted some sort of revenge for non-payment? Filled in the pool with debris, for example? What would he do then?
A car pulled up. An Austin Princess. He climbed into the back seat and gave the driver his address. How could everything swing from going so well to so very badly, just like that? He’d had a damn fine run of things until now. Last year’s Tightspots – in particular the coup of Dave Gahan wearing them on the front cover of The Face magazine – had revived the company’s prospects. They had started the year as a brand to be reckoned with – and Dominic had, in turn, rewarded himself with a rather nice bonus. A bonus he had used to engage the services of Todd, who would transform the place he’d inherited from his grandmother in Denton into his dream home.
All that seemed far behind him now. The results for the Drainpipe were not looking at all smart. Emma held him responsible; and maybe she was right – had he got too carried away? Too cocky after the Tightspots success? She had questioned him every step of the way, but he’d been dismissive, thinking her jealous of his success. She’d been snippy with him for moving out of London – said he’d been distracted. He stared out of the window; maybe she was right. The party last Saturday had been weeks in the planning and was intended to announce his glittering arrival on to the Denton stage. In fact it had done nothing more than upset the neighbours. And yes, he had to admit, the pool project had certainly grown into more than a distraction.
Clarke was horrified by the state of her desk.
‘What the—’ she exclaimed.
‘Jack needed room to expand,’ Waters said, busily typing at an adjacent desk.
‘Expand? Like his pot belly?’ Dear Lord. Finally evicting Frost from her flat only to be presented with his detritus at her place of work was too much. ‘God, I’m so glad he’s gone.’
‘Gone? He’ll be back.’
‘I mean, from the flat.’
‘How was that?’ Waters released the sheet of paper, and eased back in his chair. ‘I mean, Jack on the couch for what – three, four mo—’
‘Four months, two weeks, and five days. Not that I was counting.’ She pulled back her swivel chair; only to reveal a stack of files beneath the desk – she would not be able to sit down even if she wanted to.
‘I just can’t imagine that …’
‘You should try it, sure you’d get on fine. You’re like two peas in a pod as it is.’
‘That is out of order … We’re friends – that’s it.’ He laughed.
‘Hmm … Like Cannon and Ball this morning.’ She sat dejectedly, and picked up a crisp packet with thumb and forefinger. She’d not had a chance to catch up with John Waters other than a brief hello this morning. The man’s wedding was this coming Friday, and she hadn’t even enquired about the preparations. ‘Sorry, John. I’ve been absorbed in my own sad little world, haven’t I: how’s the big day looking?’
‘Almost there – three days to go.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘We’ve a final run-through this afternoon.’
‘How’s Kim?’
‘She’s fine. Not deterred by Sunday’s discovery, that was weird …’
‘I heard. Rachel Curtis.’ She winced. ‘I wasn’t a fan, obviously, but she didn’t deserve that. Where are we at with her?’
‘Close, but a step behind still … Only been out a coupla weeks, but she got around a bit, that one, and was seen all over town. Just last Saturday, tattoo parlour, pub, cinema, then seen arguing with some fella on a motorbike. Last seen on the Southern Housing Estate around seven thirty Saturday evening outside the Codpiece.’
‘Town is full of motorcycles right now.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Needle in a haystack.’
A phone began to ring from somewhere on the desk. She was momentarily surprised; who would know she was back?
‘It won’t bite,’ Waters said.
‘I’m sure,’ she replied, ‘but more a question of finding it, under all this.’
In desperation, she shoved aside several piles of paper, disturbing a layer of fag ash; after a scrabble she grabbed the receiver, which was sticky, and knocked over a can of Lilt in the process of bringing it to her ear.
‘Hello?’ she gasped.
‘Detective Clarke.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Clare, Clare Hammond. I’m sorry I was less than helpful yesterday. It was the boy in the room, I couldn’t think straight. I’m sure you think I’m cold-hearted, but Jane chose her own path. She liked the power over them …’ A sigh. Clarke glanced across at Waters, who was now also on a call and embroiled in a heated discussion. ‘Anyway, that’s not why I phoned. No, after you left I tidied up and threw away the tea cosy.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’
‘No, don’t be; it’s just that … I lied. About not knowing where she got it. One of them made it for her. I just couldn’t, with Richard there …’
‘What, knitted it? Are you sure?’
Waters hurried past her desk.
‘Yes, strange, isn’t it? I don’t know who of course, but she did say he was always trying to talk her out of it.’
‘Out of knitting?’
‘Prostitution,’ Clare said coldly.
‘Do you think there was anything between them, other than sex?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But why a tea cosy? And why give it to you?’
‘She gave it to me as a joke. The tea service is a family heirloom, you see, so she’d not expected me to actually use it. I can’t really explain why I did, to be honest, and it’s more than I know why on earth the man knitted it for her.’
‘Maybe she discussed her family with this man?’
‘Possibly.’ A silence hung down the line. Intimacy. ‘Anyway, I thought it was something you should know.’
Waters sat in interview room number 1 and heard the man out.
It was difficult to assess how serious this was; the guy – in fashion or something – would bluster one minute, burst into tears the next, then laugh manically. ‘Oh, how could I have been so stupid!’ he would lament, then rail against the builder, calling him every name under the sun.
‘What’s the name of the firm again?’
‘A bandit by the name of Terry Todd.’ Holland scowled. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
Waters shook his head. ‘And it was his suggestion to leave the money – cash – there?’ The DS had difficulty keeping the incredulity out of his voice.
‘The embarrassment!’
‘Did you tell anyone, your neighbours, for example, the money was there?’
‘Heavens, no! I don’t know a soul here.’
‘Didn’t you throw a party at the weekend? Didn’t you have a
whole load of guests?’
‘They were my friends, civilized people, from London,’ he said pompously.
‘So there was no one at your place from Denton or Two Bridges?’
‘Well, there might have been one or two that gatecrashed; I mean, it did get quite frenetic in the early hours.’
‘So much so that the police were called out.’
‘But what on earth has that got to do with it! The party was on Saturday night – Todd didn’t ask me for the money until Monday morning, and I left it in the cement mixer that afternoon, for heaven’s sake!’ he cried out in exasperation.
‘Please calm down, sir,’ Waters soothed, ‘I’m only trying to ascertain who you’ve come into contact with in Denton—’
‘Wait!’ Holland sat bolt upright in the chair. ‘The fellow that complained – I saw him at the bank, yesterday morning! He was in front of me in the queue – he saw me withdraw the cash.’
‘How did he manage that, if he was served first?’
‘That’s beside the point, Sergeant!’ He tapped Waters lightly on the knee. ‘Arrest him immediately!’
Waters left Holland with a glass of water and made his way to the front desk to request the call sheet from Saturday night. He really didn’t have the patience for this type of baloney …
‘Ah, Waters,’ said the superintendent as the detective approached reception. ‘What was all that frightful wailing?’
‘Man in Two Bridges has been robbed, sir – I say “robbed” in the loosest possible sense, he practically gave it away.’
The super tilted forward to catch the sergeant’s low voice as he ran through the details.
‘I see.’ Mullett processed the information, then said, ‘It’s not unusual, Sergeant, for people to leave items, money included, discreetly hidden; not everything must be under lock and key. This part of the county is not exactly a den of thieves, contrary to what people like to think, and certainly not what you’re accustomed to. I’m surprised, and not a little disappointed, that you’ve not shaken off your Bethnal Green roots by now.’ The superintendent considered the matter closed, and strode off from whence he came.