Frost at Midnight

by Henry James

  ‘Design trousers like our friend back there? I don’t know … not police work, anyway.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a toothpick for the lab. Rachel Curtis had a wooden splinter in her foot. Strikes me that this fits the description.’

  ‘Wow, smart thinking – back on form, Detective Clarke.’ Waters gave a whistle

  PC David Simms was fast becoming resigned to the fact that he was now Frost’s driver. Either by random allocation or, as he hoped, because the detective actively wanted him. The inspector sat beside him now chortling at the photographs, occasionally flashing one into Simms’s field of vision. But pictures of topless girls by a pool did nothing to lift his mood. It wasn’t just his mum who had been unsettled at the home; the staff were off with him, too. He felt as though he’d been deceitful or something equally stupid. He wasn’t intentionally hiding from them that he was a policeman, for goodness’ sake – it’s just that he only came in on his days off. Why should it matter, or why should they know how he earned his living? It was of no consequence. He’d take it up with them tomorrow; he was off on Thursday …

  On top of that, it transpired his drama with Martin Wakely yesterday had been pointless – according to Frost, the assailant on the motorcycle was a woman. Wakely was just a waste of time. Simms was sullen. He was much better suited to tinkering with the station database. And the young PC was very dubious about their next port of call.

  He broke the silence: ‘So … if we think we know who the woman is, why don’t we just arrest her?’

  ‘Good question. The suspect is, let’s say, fractious – or excitable – and could react badly. We need to be a hundred per cent sure … so a word with Harry first might be useful.’

  ‘You seem to have that effect, beg pardon, sir, if you don’t mind me saying, on ladies this week.’ Simms blushed as he said it.

  ‘Hazard of the job. And this one is no Karen Thomas.’ Simms took his eyes off the road and shot the inspector a glance. ‘Though her flabby son does work for Harry Baskin, as did Karen until recently, but that’s as close as they get. Right, here we are. Nearly eleven, the old porker should have opened up shop by now.’

  Simms had never been to the Coconut Grove nightclub but had heard many a tale from the lads about crazy times in the strippers’ bar. Simms followed behind the inspector. The place didn’t look like much from the outside. The club was shut during the day, but Baskin worked at his office inside in the mornings. The front door was open. A large thickset man was talking to a girl a fraction of his size in the club foyer. The girl was wearing a scanty sequinned dress and nodding obsequiously.

  ‘Ah Jack, can’t keep away, can ya!’ he growled.

  The girl took this as her cue. Darting Simms a glance, she hurried away underneath an illuminated neon pink BAR sign into the dark club interior.

  ‘Which of my girls are you going to ask me to fire now, eh?’

  ‘I’m not after the girls, Harry.’ So this was the legendary Harry Baskin. A squat, hairy hulk of a man, who wouldn’t look out of place minding Don Corleone. ‘Good job, too. After the slapping you got yesterday!’ he guffawed. ‘Come down to the office.’ The man waddled round the corner of the ticket booth and down a dimly lit corridor. ‘Didn’t I say she was a spunky one?’

  ‘I can’t remember, you might have said something along those lines.’ Frost rolled his eyes, and nodded for Simms to follow.

  ‘After you, lads.’ Baskin pushed the door open. The office was small and cluttered; golf clubs, boxes of spirits, and as Simms noticed as he stepped further, the pungent body odour of a man who drank and smoked a lot. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘We won’t, if it’s all the same.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Harry lowered himself carefully into a leather chair; Simms recalled he had a bullet wound from an attack last November. ‘All formal in front of young spotty here.’

  Simms felt himself blush. His skin was bad for a man of nearly twenty-one but he did his best to leave the thought of it behind in the mirror of his Fenwick Street bathroom when he departed for his shift.

  ‘Young spotty, as you call him, has the makings of a great policeman, so I’d be careful how you address him – he might hold it against you down the line, when you’re even older and less mobile than you are now. Now, your Gary Benson, tell me his story.’ Frost winked at Simms, who was touched by the remark and started to feel better about things.

  ‘Gazzer? What’s he done?’

  ‘Who’s saying he’s done anything? How long has he been on your payroll?’

  Baskin sniffed. ‘Two, three years.’

  ‘Any bother?’

  ‘Bother? He’s the bleedin’ doorman – it’s his job to prevent any bother.’

  ‘When his old man had a heart attack after being shot by Rachel – another of your employees – how did he react?’

  The club owner reached up for a crystal decanter from a shelf behind him. All lightheartedness evaporated as he began to pour. ‘Gaz is a muscle man, he’s not going to go to pieces when his old man goes, is he? C’mon, Jack, you seen him – hardly likely to be blubbing in the bogs, is ’e?’ he said coldly.

  ‘So, no visible signs of distress? The old boy didn’t even come up in passing conversation?’

  ‘Eh? Do me a favour with the colourful talk. Look, I sat the lad down and give him the best advice I could – we all got to go some time. Old man Benson was as strong as an ox; a shot from her peashooter weren’t enough to kill him. I mean, take me – I’m the same age Bert was – I took a plug at the same range, eh? Right here in this bleedin’ office.’ He beat his chest, but lightly. ‘The fella had a dodgy ticker.’

  ‘How did Gary take your warm words of consolation?’

  ‘He understood.’ Baskin took a gulp of brandy. ‘And he held nothing against Rachel.’

  ‘That’s very understanding of him. Why not?’

  Baskin shrugged. ‘Maybe he listened to what I said, young fella of twenty-three might credit me with a bit upstairs’ – he tapped the side of his head, a heavy gold ring glinting as he did so – ‘just cos you don’t.’ He grinned. ‘Ask him, he’s a nice enough bloke, just back from a week in Spain. Nah, it was his old dear who took it hardest. Sent her loopy.’

  ‘Loopy?’ Simms said, annoyed that his voice sounded croaky from not speaking.

  ‘Yeah. Swore she was goin’ to kill Rach. Poor Gazzer didn’t know what to do. Told him to take her to my place in Marbella.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He should. Mind you, I’d not want my mother there, with all that totty about.’ Frost smiled lasciviously.

  Baskin frowned, not comprehending.

  ‘Have you ever met Mrs Benson yourself?’

  ‘Once, when she came screaming down here on that bike of hers.’

  ‘Bike?’

  ‘Yeah, great big thing it was. When Rach was first arrested last year. I met her at the front door. Raging away, blaming me. Not nice. Not nice at all.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Told her to clear off. Scaring the punters.’

  ‘Did Rachel come back after she was released?’

  ‘I already told you on Sunday night, she came looking for Kate. Bleedin’ shame. Someone shoulda looked out for her, got her away from that scumbag Robbo Nicholson.’

  ‘All right, all right. Tell me, Harry, in your opinion, would Maria Benson have it in her to kill?’

  He paused. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  Wednesday (4)

  ‘Clear off!’ The door slammed in their faces.

  ‘That went better than expected,’ Frost said to his young companion, pulling down the brow of his panama hat and stepping back into the sun.

  ‘How?’ Simms muttered quietly.

  But Frost had wandered off back down the path and started examining the motorbike on the concrete drive. This machine wasn’t anything like the vehicle he’d seen shooting away from Sandpiper Close, but he had her son�
��s photos now. So that had been her arguing with Rachel outside Boots. Maybe she had two bikes?

  The front window opened. ‘Oi, get away from that!’ Mrs Benson screeched.

  ‘New, is it?’

  The door was flung open again, and the woman, a vein throbbing angrily in her neck, rushed at him. ‘This is harassment!’

  ‘I have a witness who saw you arguing with Rachel Curtis Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Go on then, arrest me!’ she spat.

  It was tempting. He could, for lying. ‘If you’re innocent, why not admit it? You stopped on your motorcycle on Market Square.’

  ‘I don’t care whether you catch the person who killed that bitch or not. I’m glad she’s dead.’

  Frost was unsure of his next move. He looked at the young policeman next to him.

  The press would have a field day if he was wrong; it was a punt. But he did have a witness, and Harry had reckoned she had it in her. Sod it. He’d have to bring her in. ‘Call for back-up, son.’

  At one o’clock, in the blazing heat, Maria Benson was forcibly taken from her house. The arrest had been an unpleasant affair; the widow’s protestations had brought the whole street out to watch. She went defiantly, foul-mouthing Frost before mums with babies on hips. Ironically, it was only the return of her son Gary that had calmed proceedings. Not that Gary, himself on a motorbike, thought his mother was guilty – far from it. But he knew it was futile to resist arrest. As they bundled the mother into the back of the panda car, cuffed, the bouncer son said solemnly, ‘I just want this over with quickly, the sooner you try and charge Mum the sooner you’ll realize she’s innocent.’

  And maybe that would be so, but for now the woman, presently at Eagle Lane, refused to speak until her solicitor arrived.

  ‘I hope she is innocent, I don’t want to inflict any more pain on your family, Gary,’ Frost said as Benson left his next-of-kin details at the front desk, ‘but she needs to cooperate.’

  The larger man’s temples throbbed as he hurriedly squiggled out the family address.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s been like for her, Mr Frost. Her and Dad were together since they were kids. Dad was her world. It’s not the same place to her any more.’ He paused, then said, ‘Have you ever lost someone special?’

  Frost reached and patted Gary Benson on the shoulder supportively but did not answer. Benson ignored the gesture, slid the paperwork and pen wordlessly back to Desk Sergeant Bill Wells and walked towards the front doors.

  ‘Be in touch, Gary,’ Frost called after him.

  ‘Don’t feel bad, Jack. She’s not helping herself,’ Wells said from behind the desk.

  ‘I know, Bill, I know.’ Frost felt momentarily adrift. He scanned the empty reception area. ‘Water that before it expires, will you?’ He pointed to the sorrowful rubber plant in the corner, Eagle Lane’s one remaining concession to the natural world, before moving in the direction of the canteen.

  The station itself was quiet; he knew Clarke and Waters were out, but there was nobody else around either. It was lunchtime. Many would be outside enjoying the last days of summer, if indeed they’d not taken holiday. His stomach nagged. He’d not had anything to eat since last night’s Chinese. Billy had left a double portion of Kung Po on the side. He and Julie had tucked in by candlelight. They’d had a good time; whether it was to be more than ‘a bit of comfort’, as she put it, remained to be seen. All the same it had given him an appetite. He sorely missed breakfast at Sue’s; her fried bread was to die for. Since moving to the Jade Rabbit, he’d not managed so much as a bowl of Kellogg’s in the mornings. It didn’t feel right to start messing around in someone else’s kitchen; he didn’t mind borrowing the odd lager, but dipping into Mrs Fong’s Alpen felt as wrong as it was unappealing, especially when he had a guest.

  Fortunately the station canteen was, he discovered, deserted, and he picked up a sausage sandwich at a reduced price before heading to the general CID office.

  He had just settled down at Clarke’s desk, out of habit, with the Curtis autopsy report, when the phone sounded, alarmingly loud in the empty office. The surprise caused him to squirt brown sauce all over the desk.

  ‘Knickers!’ he cried into the receiver.

  ‘I knew you were a pervert from the moment I saw you,’ said a female voice down the line.

  Frost saw the woman sitting on a bench in the shade of the poplar trees. The recreation area, or ‘Rec’ as it was known, was the largest area of public green space in the town. The grass was teeming with children screaming out the last week of the summer holidays. Dogs, frisbees and footballs added to the scene.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ he puffed as he sat down.

  ‘I don’t have a lot else on at the moment,’ Karen Thomas said without turning to face him.

  He removed his panama hat and fanned his face. ‘No, quite,’ he conceded. ‘I’m sorry you’re out of work.’

  ‘So you said.’

  Now he was actually here, Frost could think of little to say. He’d agreed to meet without hesitation, eager to see her again, but hadn’t thought through any conversation. Mullett had been so furious with him yesterday and not in the mood to offer any reasonable explanation as to why he wanted Karen Thomas fired from her job. This indicated to Frost that the super had acted in haste, without considering the implications of the order.

  ‘Someone wanted you out of there, can’t you see that?’ He regarded her profile, elegant and noble.

  ‘What were you doing yesterday?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I meant in front of the TV cameras.’ She turned to face him. ‘Was it important?’

  The question was unexpected. ‘Yes. Yes, it was important. A woman had gone missing, but we found her now.’

  ‘Oh, is she all right?’ Her eyes were intense. He couldn’t hold her stare.

  ‘No.’ He turned away. ‘She’s dead. We found her in a neighbour’s bath.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Karen bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your broadcast. I was angry. Jobs aren’t that easy to come by. But it’s fine.’

  A frisbee landed on the ground to their right. A boy roughly the age of Jane Hammond’s son scampered over to pick it up. Frost became acutely aware he was here for the wrong reasons and didn’t have time for this: he should be doing everything he could to find the killer.

  ‘I mean, how would you feel if someone took your job away just like that?’

  ‘It’s a daily worry, I assure you.’

  ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’ He could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘Yesterday you said …’ She trailed off.

  Frost watched the little boy with the frisbee. He struggled inwardly: he didn’t want this woman to leave, but couldn’t think of any reason to detain her. He felt his bleeper go off in his pocket, and this time he was grateful for the excuse it offered him.

  ‘Look, someone wanted you out of the Grove. Maybe for your own safety?’

  She turned sharply. ‘Wait, you think I’m a hooker, don’t you? How dare—’ She made to go.

  ‘No – wait – of course I don’t!’ He reached up and caught her wrist. ‘But maybe somebody else does.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘For your own good, worried about you.’

  Karen Thomas stood, sizing him up.

  ‘There is no cause for concern there. Working at Harry’s is insurance against that sort of thing.’

  ‘I know,’ Frost conceded, ‘maybe a jealous boyfriend?’

  ‘Pah. Jealousy is for children,’ she said flatly. ‘I thought I saw something in you back there, in the police station. Here is a good man …’

  ‘I’d like to help, honestly, if I could.’

  ‘What would you do, seriously, if someone took your job?’

  ‘I dunno.’ He stretched his legs out in front of him. He’d never thought about getting fired
as a real possibility. True, there’d been plenty of close shaves, but what if Mullett really did get shot of him? He couldn’t do anything else half as well as policing, except for drinking and smoking.

  ‘You’re good at your job,’ he said, ‘and I’m good at mine. But if someone had it in for me and caused me to lose my job – well, I’d get my own back.’

  ‘How?’

  He was aware she was watching him intently. ‘Hit them where it hurt.’

  ‘Where it hurt,’ she repeated quietly.

  He had to go, this train of thought was doing nobody any good. He fished his card out on reflex.

  ‘I already have it,’ Karen Thomas said. ‘I phoned you, remember?’

  He turned and met her stare. ‘Maybe I want you to phone me again.’

  ‘There were bikers present at Holland’s party in Two Bridges on Saturday night,’ Clarke said.

  ‘So?’ Frost said, gulping down a Coke greedily. ‘There’s motorbikes flamin’ everywhere. I’d be suspicious if there wasn’t.’

  ‘You’ve lost your chirpiness,’ she said acerbically. ‘I think I prefer the grumpy you, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ He belched mightily and picked up his cigarette packet.

  ‘God, you are disgusting.’ He was really annoying her, and she couldn’t put her finger on why.

  Waters pretended not to hear, which made her suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘But so what?’ Frost waved a cigarette in front of them carelessly. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the money go missing on Tuesday? Who cares what Mister Tight Trousers got up to the previous Saturday night?’

  ‘Sue’s right,’ said Waters, ‘you have lost that cuddliness. We thought it might have been gatecrashers that came back a couple of days later when the place was a bit quieter?’

  ‘Not one of those posh twerps he invited? Laying the blame on the locals, are we, like Hornrim Harry? Tch, tch.’ Frost shook his head. ‘What a disappointment.’

  ‘It’s just a theory, Jack,’ Waters said quietly.

  ‘We have two young women, both dead, and one little boy who’s now an orphan, forgive me if I don’t weep over Mr Holland’s two grand.’