Frost at Midnight

by Henry James

  ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘Is this relevant?’ Smythe interjected.

  ‘Yes, very. So, you’re the happy owner of a bike with the number plate KAT 93N?’

  ‘Well, I was. But it got nicked, didn’t it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘June twenty-fourth – check your records, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘So what were you riding on Saturday afternoon then?’

  ‘I had one for the day to try out.’ The woman had an answer for everything. ‘Ask the garage if you don’t believe me. I went back and paid for it on Monday.’

  Wednesday (6)

  ‘Coincidence?’ PC Simms asked.

  ‘It would look that way, wouldn’t it?’ Frost said. ‘Having the flamin’ machine nicked in June, but not buying a new one until late August?’

  Maria Benson claimed to have acquired a new motorcycle only on Monday morning, despite the theft of her previous one back in June. Frost wanted proof. Not of the new bike, no, that they had, but evidence that the other one had been stolen in the first place. She could still have done it, used the old bike and ditched it following the pursuit across Denton. There was an insurance claim outstanding, but there appeared to be a problem. In order for her claim to be validated, the theft would need to have been reported, and she would need the relevant incident number. And the insurance company had yet to obtain confirmation from the police records department that the crime had, indeed, been processed.

  All of which confusion meant that now, on this stifling hot afternoon, Simms was hunched in front of the computer terminal in Frost’s claustrophobic office, searching for this same confirmation. The inspector was hovering uneasily behind him, making it difficult to concentrate. A cloud of cigarette smoke washed across the screen, rendering the flickering green digits even harder to read than usual.

  ‘Flamin’ heck, there can’t be that many motorcycles get nicked in Denton, can there?’ Frost exclaimed.

  ‘It’s not as easy as that, I’m afraid,’ Simms said.

  ‘Nothing’s ever bloody well easy since these bleedin’ things arrived!’ he exclaimed and banged the large grey box to emphasize his point. ‘I mean, is it even in here? The theft was apparently in June – are you sure it’s there? I thought all records up to June had been transferred.’

  ‘Yes, right, everything from January to June has been input so there’s just the one system in operation. So, yes, it should be on here.’

  Finding it, however, was proving impossible. Frost groaned loudly. Simms understood the man’s frustration; he needed proof her bike had been stolen – the insurance claim wasn’t enough on its own. How embarrassing not to be able to find the incident report in their own files.

  ‘Would you mind if we opened a window, sir?’ There was a distinct tang in the room, and Simms wondered whether the inspector had access to washing facilities at the Asian restaurant where he was staying.

  ‘The window’s buggered. The only reason we’re suffocating in here is that DC Clarke’s not got one of these wonders of technology on her desk.’

  ‘Where is it … damn, come on.’ Simms hit the carriage-return button again, then over and over. The keyboard was sticky, resistant. He turned his attention from the flickering screen to his fingertips and suppressed a grimace. ‘Do you use the machine often? It seems … seems reluctant to cooperate.’

  ‘It’s no bleedin’ reason to,’ Frost puffed, ‘this is the first time the bastard has been on.’

  Simms raised the keyboard to eye level. Various keys were afflicted with congealing substances – viscous, sticky matter mixed with breadcrumbs, coated with what he assumed to be cigarette ash; substances that were not conducive to the efficient operation of any computer.

  ‘Err … would you have spilt coffee on the keyboard, by any chance?’ He blew down the keys.

  ‘What?’ Frost snapped.

  ‘It’s slow going because the keystrokes are not always connecting with the CPU, so I am wondering if you might have knocked liquid over—’

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault? Flamin’ typical!’

  ‘It’s not waterproof,’ Simms offered, pulling out his Swiss Army Knife from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Is that my fault too?’

  ‘Not at all, sir – you weren’t to know.’ Simms probed underneath the unyielding keys, repressing an exclamation of disgust.

  ‘Quite right,’ Frost said, ‘forcing this technology on folks is just plain rude, without a by-your-leave.’

  In his role as Technology Liaison Officer, Simms knew Inspector Frost had not attended a single computer training session. He tapped the return button repeatedly until it was freed up. ‘There, no harm done.’ A stream of green asterisks flew across the screen. ‘Right, let’s begin again.’

  Frost pushed a pile of paperwork off the visitor’s chair and scraped it across the floor. The pair sat down and laboriously went through the various routines to access the incident database.

  After half an hour Frost stood up. ‘This is bollocks!’ he pronounced.

  ‘The program runs its search on surname, and there is no Benson. If it ran on incident number it would be—’

  ‘I don’t care if it runs on Castrol GTX, it’s all bollocks.’ He got up. ‘What’s more, I’m running low on lubrication myself and fancy a trip to see Taffy and quiz him on—’

  ‘Am I interrupting anything important?’ DC Clarke entered the room, eyes sparkling.

  The cocktail stick from Dominic Holland’s kitchen was the same grade of wood as the sliver extracted from Curtis’s foot. Clarke was delighted with this evidence; it reassured her she was back in the game – her wits had not been dulled by the endless nights of broken sleep, feeding her infant son.

  Now the police desperately needed someone who could confirm Rachel was there, at the party, and who she was with. Martin Wakely had been ruled out, but Maria Benson was under suspicion. Would this play out right? If Rachel Curtis was at Holland’s party, did it mean Benson was there too? It seemed unlikely …

  And then there was the mystery of how Rachel’s body had ended up in St Mary’s churchyard over in Denton – a matter Frost was keenly aware of. The evidence from Forensics and Drysdale supported the theory that the death had taken place elsewhere.

  He had a map of the county open on the desk and was working out the possible routes from Holland’s place in the village of Two Bridges to the Denton church.

  ‘The only way Rachel Curtis would have got wind of the party would have been through gossip over in town,’ Frost said, scratching his forehead.

  ‘Do you really think Benson went too?’ Clarke asked.

  Waters slid off the desk. ‘I can’t imagine her tearing up his lawn on her motorbike, can you?’ he said.

  Frost was using a ruler on the map. ‘The woman’s practically insane with grief,’ he countered.

  ‘She’d have to be,’ Clarke said uncertainly, ‘to risk such a public display, then carry out a murder. I mean, she’s an obvious suspect …’ She’d not met the woman but it struck her as a bizarre hypothesis.

  But Frost wasn’t listening. ‘What do you make of this neighbour, Stirling?’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Sound, and unconnected to this,’ Waters answered quickly. ‘Stirling knows the builder that’s putting in Holland’s pool, but I don’t make him for stealing the guy’s cash. I’d rule him out for now … he knew about the party but didn’t go. His wife was sick.’

  ‘We need someone who was actually there, and compos mentis enough to make any sense of it,’ Frost mused, stepping back from the map. ‘What did Holland supply by way of witnesses? Surely some of his London pals weren’t completely blotto?’

  ‘He gave us two names.’ Clarke consulted her notebook. ‘Bruce Reynolds and Matthew Noose.’

  ‘Noose? What sort of name is that?’

  ‘A Somerset one, apparently. They run a flower shop.’

  ‘What, together? Are they, you know …?’

  �
�That’s right, Jack, leap to conclusions,’ Clarke said.

  ‘It’s my detective’s brain. Can’t help it. Get on down there, only a couple of hours’ drive. Take Arthur Hanlon.’

  ‘Me,’ said Sue, ‘why me?’

  ‘You’re forging the trail on this – scoop with the toothpick?’ He winked playfully but this only annoyed her.

  ‘Hanlon’s in Sheffield,’ she snapped.

  ‘Someone’s got to go. I agree, it’s a bloody nuisance: a big party in the middle of Two Bridges; the host passes out and there’s not a single local guest.’ He looked to Waters. ‘Run back up there first and see if Mr Holland has any recollection of Rachel, I mean if he was conscious until nine—’

  ‘Sorry, Jack. I can’t, I’ve got to split, pay for the cake.’

  ‘Cake? Oh, err, yes, sorry, for the big day. Well, get your cake first?’

  ‘What about Maria Benson?’ Clarke asked. ‘If we have her in custody, should we not be building the case against her?’

  ‘Once we’ve looked into her alibi,’ Frost mumbled. ‘I need to check it.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘She claims to have been out Saturday night with her son who’d just got back from Spain.’

  ‘Is it solid?’

  ‘No alibi that can only be corroborated by family and mates is solid. We’ll need to check it out. The Cricketers had a lock-in Saturday.’

  ‘Taffy’s straight?’ Waters queried.

  Frost grunted. ‘Yes, but he’s also a publican, and we all know that he’d rather not be asked – it’s bad for community relations to be on the side of the Old Bill, and it’s not in his interest to see anyone behind metal bars when they could be propping up a wooden one.’

  ‘But we still need to check it,’ Clarke insisted. ‘Maybe they went on to Two Bridges after the pub? Holland said there weren’t meant to be any locals at the party, but that doesn’t mean the word didn’t get out.’

  ‘Smart thinking,’ Frost said. ‘Maybe Maria Benson knew Rachel was intending to crash the party and planned to lie in wait outside the house, but having too much to drink in the pub beforehand, she lost her cool, and tore over there …’

  ‘What about the churchyard?’ Waters asked. ‘How’d she end up there? Why? That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No murder makes any sense,’ Frost said, sparking up. ‘We’ll map out the possible routes from Two Bridges to Sandpiper Close as well.’

  Frost had dispatched Clarke and Waters to Somerset, and remained alone in CID with the map. How on earth had the victim’s body ended up in the churchyard? The body had obviously been moved but there were too many loose threads and nothing pulling them together. But there was one person he’d not questioned yet – Kate Greenlaw’s boyfriend, Adam King. With all the fuss surrounding the prostitute in the bath he’d forgotten to follow it up.

  As it happened, King was a mechanic in the Eagle Lane garage right next to the station; it was where Frost’s Metro currently resided. The DI left the office. A light breeze was blowing and he hoped the weather would hold for Waters’ big day on Friday. He must work on his speech tonight. Can’t let the man down. He approached the large open doors from the garage forecourt and was greeted by a pair of feet protruding from underneath a jacked-up orange car. He wondered briefly where the Metro might be.

  Adam King slid out from underneath a Hillman Imp, got to his feet and wiped his hands on the thighs of his oil-stained boiler suit. Frost was surprised; the man was in his early forties, short, about five foot four or five, and quite slight. He had a beaky nose. Not the sort of chap he’d expect to be courting a feisty woman like Kate Greenlaw.

  ‘You here about Rachel? Kate said you might come by. How can I help?’ Polite too, that made a change.

  ‘We’re looking for anyone that might have seen Rachel Curtis on Saturday.’

  ‘Other than Kate?’

  ‘Specifically anyone male. Kate mentioned that Rachel had men swarming all over her, and she was available, as it were, once she was released; thing is, we haven’t a single name.’

  ‘Not me, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not suggesting that, I only want help putting together a picture of what she was like as a person, so I can know where to look. Kate said you’d known her ages.’

  ‘Yep, I introduced them.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Years. From school.’

  ‘Ah, the formative years. She was quite a looker. Did you and her …?’

  ‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘Not my type.’

  ‘Hard work, I’d imagine. Bit of a tearaway?’

  ‘She had her moments. Complicated maybe, but not hard work, just always made dreadful choices in men.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Frost said, thinking of Robbo Nicholson.

  ‘Huh, they were all like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Controlling.’

  ‘Why’s that, you think?’

  ‘Her dad died when she was eleven,’ King said and shrugged. ‘She was always in and out of the doctor’s after various prescriptions. Maybe talk to them?’

  ‘I will.’ Frost remembered his own appointment tomorrow. ‘Can you think of anyone that might have leapt in since she got out? An old boyfriend or someone she might have hooked up with?’

  ‘There was the fella at the club.’

  ‘Gazzer Benson?’

  ‘I don’t know his name, but he was pretty persistent, though they only went out once or twice.’

  ‘Young, early twenties?’

  ‘Yeah, he was a bit younger than her … she wasn’t that keen, but he was persistent.’

  Maybe the link with Maria Benson was right under his nose! Would explain why the widow would not say anything – mother protecting her son. It was plain as day. The gentle giant on Harry’s door. Powerful and protective. Frost didn’t know why he hadn’t made the connection sooner.

  ‘By the way, Adam, had you heard about a big party at Two Bridges on Saturday night?’

  King scratched the back of his head. ‘Posh London arty-farty type? Designs clothes?’

  ‘That’s the chap.’

  ‘Yeah, I did hear about it.’

  ‘Really? Who from?’

  ‘Me sister. She’s a hairdresser. Want the local gossip, she’s the one’ll have it.’

  Wednesday (7)

  The police seemed no nearer to catching the thief. Indeed, they didn’t seem that concerned at all; after he’d offered them a snack they promptly left, with not so much as a suggestion that the cement mixer would be examined (not that he knew what it could possibly reveal beyond caked mortar, but still …).

  Holland sighed and poured himself a generous Bacardi and Coke; it was the weather for it, all right … It was a very pleasant evening, the temperature had dropped sufficiently and it was blissfully quiet. He’d never imagined he could endure near silence like this – nothing apart from the odd tweet from a bird. He sank into the luxury patio chair. Could he grow to like the place? Probably not – he was tired and stressed and easily bored without distractions. The harmony was broken by the sound of a motorcycle, but it soon passed.

  As he contemplated the unfinished pool he grew maudlin. He knew they’d never recover his two thousand. Maybe the police’s lack of interest was in fact self-interest. Maybe they were in cahoots with that rogue of a builder? One heard of these things, on the television. They’d probably split the cash? This would never happen in the anonymity of London; but out here everyone was crooked, even the vicar … Hello, was that the side gate? He swung round, spilling the Bacardi, to confront a man in a flat cap and sunglasses.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Holland rose from the chair. ‘Wait a minute!’ He stepped back. ‘You’re not … who …’

  But before he could say another word, Dominic Holland toppled backwards into his unfinished swimming pool.

  ‘But that was the name on the computer print-out you gave me,’ Sergeant ‘Wally’ Wal
lace complained.

  ‘That was the name in the log book,’ Bill Wells replied defensively, though it was the night sergeant’s handwriting, Johnny Johnson’s, so he couldn’t vouch for anything more than what was on the page.

  The uniform sergeant was in a flap; the traffic in town was severely congested, and as the officer responsible for traffic he was answerable. It had transpired that illegal parking was a major cause. The yellow ‘no parking’ lines in some areas were no longer visible and when quizzed the council said they had been stymied by the theft of paint from the depot five weeks ago. A theft they had reported. The night security guard at the depot had been napping on the job, and hundreds of tins of what was known as ‘hospital green’ and ‘mellow road yellow’ had vanished. Suspicion was at first levied at the guard – but further investigation uncovered an empty Teacher’s bottle in the wastebasket in his hut. The old boy had been sozzled.

  Wells huffed as he reached under the desk for the records he’d typed up on Sunday.

  ‘Can you believe it,’ Wallace, a beefy man in short sleeves, moaned, ‘I twig there’s a problem with the markings – after the traffic wardens complain about getting more aggro than usual when dishing out tickets. So I get on the blower to the council and get a right earful! There’s naff all they can do because the paint has been nicked and we’ve done shag all to recover it!’

  Until last week that is, when an area car reported finding a damaged tin of said paint on Foundling Street.

  ‘Nobody’s heard of a Rick Corner on Foundling Street,’ Wallace continued. ‘Right, what you got there?’

  Wells placed an A5 index card on the counter. ‘’Ere you go.’

  Wallace held the card up and adjusted the distance until the words written on it came into focus. Found on Brick rd. corner. He looked at Wells in disbelief.

  ‘It’s his bloody handwriting and this bloody machine, and it’s bloody impossible to concentrate, somebody reporting something every five minutes!’ Wells stuck to his guns defiantly. But it would be a different thing altogether if Superintendent Mullett got wind of it. Clearly he’d cocked up – mistaking ‘Found on’ for ‘Foundling Street’, and reading ‘corner’ as the name of whoever had reported it, when in fact there was no mention of any name whatsoever, only a location: Brick Road on the Southern Housing Estate. He picked up the phone. ‘I’ll ask Control to send an area car or two down the Southern Estate for you …’