by Henry James
‘Hey, you look comfy. I’m done in.’ Waters walked between her and the TV, squeezing a stockinged toe as he passed. On the telly, he caught women dressed in ragged clothes exchanging words in hushed serious tones. Tenko. What better way for a policewoman to wind down after a late shift than immersing herself in the hardships of a bunch of women in a Japanese POW camp?
In the kitchen, he pulled open the fridge and, ignoring the Mateus Rosé upright in the door, opted for a can of Kestrel instead. He downed the ice-cold lager in a matter of seconds. My, he had a thirst on him. The temperature had eased but it would still be a stuffy night. The window was open, and a light breeze caught the net curtain. He took another lager. Next to a stack of beers was a bowl of potato salad that Kim had made that morning. As they both worked long shifts the couple took turns to prepare meals; though they seldom ate together, they did eat the same food, which was a togetherness of a kind. When the pair had started co-habiting it was fun to see what the other could rustle up. They’d stuck with it, which was sweet, and Waters enjoyed a dabble with a saucepan; he found it relaxing to prepare a meal, even in the summer when it was mainly chilled foods. He took another dish, a beetroot and tomato concoction, and lifted a Scotch egg from an open packet. He sat at the kitchen table and ate quickly in contemplative silence, enjoying the beer and food before returning to the lounge.
Side by side they sat and watched the war drama. It was grim viewing, but Kim and her pals lapped it up, recording every episode. John didn’t follow it and was almost asleep as he felt a nudge.
‘You’re late,’ Kim said quietly, her attention on the screen.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘All good?’
‘Uh-huh, just stuff going on.’ Where possible they both left their work on the doorstep. What was there to gain by Kim hearing of their failed stake-out? No need to disturb what little downtime they had together before bed by discussing an unpleasant murder case. Leave it behind for eight hours; he yawned. He hoped he had some reserve energy for Friday. The upside of them both working right up to the big day was it left little time for apprehension or anxiety; not that there were any doubts … There were some pre-wedding nerves, of course, but these were generally confined to worries of the job interfering; more ‘what if’ scenarios.
She snuggled closer. ‘Even so I’d thought he’d cut you some slack this week of all weeks.’
‘There’s stuff going on,’ he repeated. Kim viewed Frost in a dim light; she held him responsible for most things. Keen to avoid a conversation opening up about him (followed by doubts about his competence as a best man: he wasn’t allowed to look after her wedding ring for instance, that duty had passed to Kim’s sister), he said, ‘Jack’s bending over backwards to give me an easy time of it. We’re lucky to have him; he’s working flat out too – probably still in the office.’
‘I know, babe, I know, I just don’t want anything to go wrong, I’m sooo happy.’ She gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘It won’t, honey.’ Waters wondered if her wedding nerves were rubbing off on him: why then did he say that about Frost? He was pretty sure he wasn’t at work …
Voices rose on the television. The Japanese commandant was shouting at two women. Waters opened another beer, wincing as the women defiantly took their abuse, but for all the drama a small part of him was churning over what Jack Frost might be up to. Then he couldn’t help but think he should still be on surveillance on the Southern Housing Estate; that he’d left too early … he swigged from the can. A controlled gasp of wind escaped. He realized at this point he was overtired. Planting a sloppy wet kiss on his betrothed’s forehead, he said goodnight. He knew they’d be all right. He knew Jack would be all right. He just needed to reach the end of the week safely: he collapsed on the bed and was asleep in seconds.
Wednesday (1)
Clarke pulled her toast out from underneath the grill. Burnt to a cinder. Frazzled, like her. She had slept badly. Having returned late, her mind was too active to sleep, and when she eventually did she was plagued by dreams of bald women in baths. But her fears for her son had proved to be unfounded. She’d expected to arrive home and find him screaming for his mother; as it turned out, both grandmother and child were sound asleep by the time she walked in the front door.
She and Waters had finished the night having ‘officially’ discovered the body at ten. How Frost planned to explain that one away to Mullett she had no idea. She dumped her failed breakfast in the bin, flicked the kettle on, opened the fridge for milk. She was reaching for a mug when the telephone began to ring, too loud in the still peaceful flat. She dashed into the hall as her infant son woke and started wailing.
‘Yes,’ she snapped into the receiver.
‘Mornin’, love.’
‘Jack? You’ve a nerve.’
‘Missing me already?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Hold the fort, will you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ It was seven thirty, why was he even calling this bloody early?
‘I’m going to have a word with the last people to have seen Ben Weaver – other than your good self.’ He started to chuckle, which really grated.
‘Why the hell are you so chirpy this morning? What were you up to last night while John and I were sitting in a council flat with a dead woman in a bath?’
Silence.
‘Jack, you there?’
‘Er, yeah. Nothing. One thing, on the Curtis Case: the motorcyclist we’re looking for? It’s a woman.’
‘A woman?’
‘A woman, yes.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘There was a witness.’
‘Who? Who else have you talked to? John ran me through the whole case last night. The woman at Aster’s said a man in a red helmet.’
‘Yes, but the rider took the helmet off and, like I say, we have a new witness. A woman in her late forties was possibly the last person to see Rachel Curtis alive.’
A clean-shaven Frost appeared outside the Jade Rabbit. A second later a woman followed. Simms couldn’t quite see her properly at this angle, sitting behind the wheel of the panda car. She pecked the inspector on the cheek then hurried off down the street.
‘Morning, sir,’ Simms addressed the inspector as he opened the car door, ‘where to?’
‘High Fields Care Home, know it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, now then, back to yesterday and Martin Wakely.’
‘Sir?’
‘He was wearing a T-shirt, when you nicked him. Did he have a jacket, or more to the point, a helmet?’
‘No, sir, I checked in the pub after; he must have been riding a motorcycle illegally – without a helmet.’
Frost said nothing after that, and sat in thoughtful silence, presumably contemplating Wakely’s fate … Simms, however, along with the rest of Eagle Lane, was preoccupied with Karen Thomas. At the station yesterday the staff canteen was buzzing with gossip and speculation; was this a very public lovers’ tiff? Even Simms had found himself drawn to the drama; even outweighing his desire to see DC Clarke who was, it was said, back on the force. Simms had been cajoled by his colleagues into prying into the inspector’s private affairs, something he was reluctant to do … Now, however, he found himself unable to resist wondering about the blonde who had left the restaurant with Frost. He racked his brains trying to think of an opening line that wasn’t too obvious.
‘That’s it, then,’ Frost said. ‘I let Martin go last night, anyway. Helmets aside, you were given the wrong plate number.’
‘Sir?’
‘Bill needs his ears syringing. When I called it in, I said K-A-T as in KitKat, not C-A-T as in Top bleedin’ Cat.’
Simms was baffled; the phonetic alphabet was there for just such a purpose, the avoidance of such miscommunication. C for Charlie and K for Kilo.
‘Keep that to yourself, eh.’
‘Yes, sir. Why are we going to the care home? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Not at all, son. I’m all for an inquisitive mind. We are going there because it is where Ben Weaver works part-time as a care assistant.’
‘Oh? Does he work at High Fields? His name’s not familiar.’ And then realizing an explanation was needed he added, ‘My mother is in there.’
‘Really?’ Frost said, fidgeting in the seat and turning to face him. ‘Been in there long?’
‘A couple of years,’ he said glumly, ‘she had a stroke.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Can’t be easy.’
‘Not that old, forty-seven.’
‘Blimey, that isn’t old at all,’ Frost said, the surprise in his voice evident. Part of the reason David Simms had applied to come to Denton was to be closer to his mother.
‘Booze and fags.’
‘Your brother never …’ Simms stopped at some lights. Frost toyed with a cigarette packet.
‘Mentioned it?’
‘Not that there’d be any reason why he should tell me.’
‘I suppose it’s not something people like to talk about.’ They both watched a doddery old couple shuffle over the zebra crossing. Simms wondered what the odds were of him ever making that age. His father was still alive, somewhere, as far as he knew.
‘No, course not. She in there today, your mum? Pop by and say hello if you fancy?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, work is work. I’m seeing her tomorrow on my day off.’ The young PC didn’t know how to respond appropriately; the older man was being kind but Simms now regretted having raised the subject of his mother, and was uncomfortable.
‘Dad not around, I suppose?’
How could he know that? ‘No, not for some time.’
‘How is she? Talking?’
‘Oh, yes, compos mentis.’ He was unsure how to describe her.
‘There you go then, she’ll be pleased as punch to see you. I can tell her what a good job you’re doing, eh?’ Frost elbowed him lightly, as he shifted down a gear. ‘Mothers love to be proud of their sons.’
‘If you’re sure, sir.’ This really hadn’t gone the way Simms had planned; instead of getting the lowdown on the DI’s love life, he’d managed to divulge his own family history.
Frost pushed the panda car door shut. High Fields was named for its location, out on the North Denton plains commanding beautiful views. Before them, watching from behind a huge plate-glass window, were the residents, many in wheelchairs, a few standing, but all with a uniformly ghostly pallor; Frost, who considered himself hardy, was dismayed by the contrast between the pale faces within and the glorious summer weather outside.
‘Flamin’ Nora,’ he muttered, ‘why don’t they let them have some air?’ PC Simms didn’t answer, walking ahead in silence. It wasn’t only the deathly lot inside that troubled Frost; the story of Simms’s mother had worried him. There was no denying Frost was not as young as he once was. The stairs at Clay House were a painful reminder of the fact; his legs were stiff just from walking up and down three flights (he wished they’d sort the lift out). He remembered Sue Clarke had fixed him an appointment to see Dr Mirchandani about his back; he might check he’d not missed it – be useful to get the once-over while he was at it.
‘After you.’ Frost pushed the door open for the young policeman. At the front desk they asked to see Mr Baxter – Father Hill had passed on the name as a contact. Soporific music filled the atrium at an unobtrusive volume. Nurses soundlessly passed them by, paying no heed to their presence.
‘Inspector Frost, Mr Baxter will see you now.’
In a panelled office not dissimilar to Mullett’s, a bald man with Himmler-like spectacles sat behind a large desk. Frost did not give specifics as to the reason they wished to see his employee Weaver, other than for questioning in relation to a serious crime.
‘I did not imagine you would trouble us for a speeding ticket.’
‘If only it were so. Mr Weaver was in work yesterday—’ The door opened behind him, and a nurse entered the room. The woman in her fifties crossed the floor, and stood to the side of Baxter’s desk.
‘Sister, can you confirm Mr Weaver’s presence at High Fields yesterday?’
‘Certainly, Benjamin was here until three, he was with Mr Cassidy. They were chatting away.’
‘Mr Cassidy?’
‘Mr Cassidy, a patient, discharged from Denton General on Monday.’
‘May I have a word with the patient?’
Baxter and the sister exchanged glances.
‘Mr Cassidy’s speech has been affected by his illness,’ Baxter said.
‘But he’s the last known person to have spoken to Ben Weaver – “chatting away”, you said so yourself.’
‘The last person here, yes,’ the sister confirmed.
‘So, worth a try?’
Frost with Simms at his heels was led out across the atrium into a large day room.
‘There he is in the far corner,’ the sister said. Frost craned to see who she meant, the patients were indistinguishable.
‘Sir, do you mind,’ Simms whispered in his ear, ‘my mother is just over there.’ Frost turned to see an emaciated woman, struggling with a walker.
‘No, son, you go ahead.’ Frost couldn’t believe this woman was only seven years older than him.
‘Inspector, shall we?’ the sister prompted.
Frost followed, dodging a middle-aged couple trying to coerce an old lady away from a group watching a television. Three people in wheelchairs sat facing the plate-glass window. The sister tapped one of them on the shoulder, and pulled his wheelchair away from the view.
The man registered the DI’s presence and gave him a pleading stare. Frost could see how confused he was. With visible effort the man slowly opened his mouth to attempt speech, but no words followed. His gaze drifted lazily from Frost to the middle distance in disappointment.
‘No chatting today,’ the sister at Frost’s side remarked.
‘Give the poor sod a chance,’ Frost appealed, and knelt beside the man. The sister gave a slight shrug of impatience. Cassidy leaned forward in the wheelchair, gripping its arms with shaking hands, and moved to speak. A pained expression in his eyes accompanied the soundless fish-like jaw movements.
‘No chatting today,’ the sister repeated, this time firmly.
Wednesday (2)
‘So let me get this perfectly clear.’ Clarke felt Waters shift in his seat next to her in the super’s office. Mullett’s beady eyes flitted from one to the other. The wall clock behind them clicked to nine thirty. ‘You returned to Mr Weaver’s flat because the lady next door heard a noise and called you at—’
‘Called Jack,’ Waters said calmly. Clarke shot him a discreet look. That wouldn’t bear close scrutiny; Frost was nowhere to be found.
‘Telephoned Inspector Frost, who then in turn handed it over to you?’ Mullett prompted. Clarke could tell he smelt a rat. ‘At that time of night? Your devotion to duty is commendable, Sergeant.’
‘Yeah, the inspector has a lot on his plate at the moment, moving lodgings, I said no problemo, I’d scoot round there with Detective Clarke to check the situation out.’
‘Both of you?’
‘Ever been on the Southern Housing Estate late at night, sir?’
‘No.’ Mullett sat back. ‘No, most certainly not. So you turn up, and then what?’
‘There’s a weird noise coming from the guy’s flat, we tap on the door and it opens, just like that …’
‘I see, and what was the noise?’
‘We clean forgot about the noise, when the stench of meths hit us. Probably rats?’
‘In a third-floor flat?’
‘They get everywhere, sir,’ Clarke added, now caught up in the tale.
Mullett switched his focus on to her. ‘And you subscribe to this story, Detective Clarke?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I needn’t tell you both that if you entered a private property illegally it could jeopardize a successful prosecution.’ They both nodde
d. ‘Very well, have Frost come see me when he arrives. Where did you say he was – at a business breakfast? With whom?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Right. Moving on. Where do we think Weaver might be?’
They both shrugged. This much at least was honest; they had absolutely no idea where he was.
‘We better launch a manhunt pronto. Presumably this fellow is in the frame for Rachel Curtis too.’
The detectives looked at each other. Waters eventually said, ‘I can see why you would say that, but I don’t see the crimes as related, there’s no evidence to suggest Weaver ever knew Curtis.’
‘Except that he can be placed at the scene of the crime.’
‘He’s a lay verger, sir,’ Waters said, ‘but he’d not necessarily be there in the church in the middle of the night.’ The sergeant tried to dissuade Mullett from leaping to any conclusions.
‘That, I’m afraid, won’t be good enough. It’ll be the first question the press will ask.’
‘He has a point,’ Clarke said outside.
‘Yeah, but let’s not get drawn into it yet. Jack can deal with Mullett on that score. I’m not doing him any more favours. First thing this morning, I had a garbled message to collect the Vauxhall from outside the Jade Rabbit. He’d left the keys in the ignition. I nearly got a parking ticket, but you couldn’t see any yellow lines at all. Told the traffic warden to hop it.’ Waters sighed.
‘What’s your next move?’
‘Tedious. Seeing the super has reminded me: I’ve got to crack on with this case about the toff who left a pile of cash in a cement mixer. Hanlon has found the builder. Local man. Fancy that?’
‘Can’t. I’ve to officially identify Jane Hammond’s body with the sister at the morgue.’
Waters considered offering to come but thought better of it – he’d no doubt spook the bereaved once more. ‘OK, how about I pick you up at the General in an hour?’
‘That’d be good. Then I can send Clare Hammond home with the WPC.’
Waters saw the van first, emblazoned with Todd Builders. The children’s play area by Denton Primary School was being resurfaced. A heavy-set man, troll-like, was humping blocks of concrete from beneath the swings. A young skinny lad was levering up the slabs, freeing them for the other to move.