Frost at Midnight

by Henry James

  He nodded guiltily.

  ‘And I’m guessing that it was you leaping out of the first-floor window when I arrived the other day? Stop me if I’m very much mistaken, but you weren’t there to water the plants, were you. You went to pick something up, something that might incriminate you.’ Frost couldn’t think what. Something small and personal, that would fit in a jacket pocket. ‘What was it?’

  The bouncer remained silent.

  ‘Come on!’ Frost glanced at the window again. ‘I haven’t all day.’ He had his money on a lighter, stuffed away somewhere they’d overlooked.

  Benson mumbled a word Frost didn’t catch.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Pants. I was looking for my Y-fronts,’ he said meekly.

  ‘You what? What on earth? How could you leave without your grundies? I know it’s been a bit on the hot side, but all the same …’ Having said that, Frost had mislaid his spare pair himself. He’d left Sue’s wearing the only pair he now had to his name.

  ‘She … errr, wanted to keep them, as a souvenir, like.’

  ‘Jimmy Hill!’ Frost rubbed his chin in distaste – ‘What the flamin’ heck would a girl – even a nutter like this – want with your pants?’ Gary was embarrassed. ‘Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose. You gave me the right runaround.’

  ‘Yeah, but you can see why I didn’t want to stop.’

  ‘Why’d you even risk it? It’s not that we could identify a man from his underwear … not unless he had his name written in them.’

  Gary blushed to his roots. ‘It’s Mum,’ he said. ‘She always gives me personalized pants for Christmas, since I was a nipper.’

  Frost looked at the hulk of a man sitting next to him. There was no explaining the relationship between a mother and son, but this took the biscuit.

  ‘Go on, get out of here.’

  ‘What about this phantom taxi driver then?’ Frost said, watching Benson shamble off down the corridor.

  ‘Well, the old boy at Castleton’s said he’d not sold a flat cap like that one since Terry Todd bought his at the beginning of August. Not much call for them in the summer.’

  ‘Is he sure?’

  ‘He’d done a stock-take the other day.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘There was one missing though.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘His daughter sometimes minds the shop for him during the holidays. It’s possible she sold it – his records aren’t great; the till was prehistoric. Trouble is, she’s now on a French exchange with the school. He’ll try and call her tonight though.’

  ‘Hmm, schoolgirls on a trip to France doesn’t sound promising.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Waters added.

  ‘It’s not your fault. I’m going back to the churchyard later. Whoever killed Rachel must have had a reason for leaving her there.’

  ‘How do you arrive at that?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but since we have established she was at Holland’s party – regardless of the time she left – the simple fact she ended up in the churchyard must have some explanation. Originally I had thought she might have been the victim of some horseplay that had gone drastically wrong, you know, a bit of hanky-panky in the graveyard.’ He caught Waters’ eye. ‘Now I’m thinking maybe she pulled a posh London type at the party and left early to take him home – nice big house and comfy bed, who wouldn’t rather that than get a sore arse banging up and down in a cemetery.’ Frost paused, giving the possibility some further consideration. ‘No,’ he pronounced, ‘there has to be a reason for it: it’s not on her way home.’

  ‘But we don’t know that she left the party with anyone. We think she left with some geezer purporting to be a taxi driver, who came to collect her early.’

  ‘Granted. The question still stands though – there has to be a logic to the churchyard. Look at the map. St Mary’s is so far out of the way, between her place and Two Bridges, it has to be significant.’

  The pair stood in the corridor, considering the next move. Footsteps approached, and along came the large silhouette of Arthur Hanlon. ‘Where the bleedin’ hell have you been?’ said Frost.

  ‘Sheffield!’ the man shouted back.

  ‘Right, the mother, at last.’ Frost puffed out his cheeks. ‘OK, I better attend to this. But you go get ready for your big day … wait, there was one thing. Fergusson, the probation officer.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Gazzer said that old Fergie was a bit of a pain in the arse, demanding on Rachel’s time?’

  ‘Funny, that’s exactly what the woman I saw this morning on Sandpiper Close said – “a pain in the arse”.’

  ‘Which woman?’

  ‘A neighbour of Rachel’s that used Tête-à-Tête – reckoned Rachel got an earful about staying out late … so Clarke checked it out. Went to the probation office. Fergusson wasn’t there but she saw the file, there were no curfew restrictions.’

  ‘“Curfew”?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Waters paused. ‘You sure I can go off now?’

  ‘I insist. But remember: back at the Eagle for six thirty sharp.’

  ‘Ah, wait – is this your way of making sure I come, by letting me get the preparations out of the way?’

  ‘You’ve caught me out!’ Frost clapped his friend on the back. Frost had chosen not to tell Waters of Mullett’s moratorium. His pal would get a station send-off tonight, marry at noon and then jet off on his honeymoon to Barcelona if he had to fly him there himself. In any event, if he did not communicate the super’s edict to CID officers under his command, then the only person who’d be for it would be him and him alone.

  ‘I’ll be at Kim’s. You’ll call if you need me?’ Waters hesitated.

  ‘You can count on it,’ Frost called over his shoulder.

  Thursday (5)

  Generally, when he remembered, Frost would always have a woman officer in the room whilst interviewing a female suspect. He had long since realized that he was ill-equipped for deciphering the mysteries of the female mind. Still, there were some occasions, like with Maria Benson, when he forgot. He had to concede that the outcome might not have been so long drawn out if he’d had some help at hand. So, given Mrs Curtis’s very vocal reluctance to travel down to Denton, he was not taking any chances this afternoon and had two female officers present; DC Clarke and a WPC. Thus far, Mrs Curtis had answered every question in a straightforward fashion, which was a blessed relief after the aggro of Maria Benson. He could only assume her initial resistance was down to Hanlon’s incompetence. Though Frost loved the ageing detective dearly, he was proving himself less than useful as time moved on. Or, to coin the super’s phrase, the older he got, the more he turned into ‘an absolute cretin’.

  ‘And Rachel’s father?’ he said, hearing his voice growing hoarse. Too much talking and shouting.

  ‘Pah, he was never there,’ the woman answered as the WPC placed a cup of tea before her. Frost was struck by the parallel with the murdered prostitute and her orphaned son, and wondered if the outcome might have been different in either case if there had been a man on the scene. He was firmly of the view that one had to lie in the bed one made for oneself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Frost said, ‘it can’t have been easy, raising a kid on your own. I’m all for castrating the wandering male of the species.’

  Clarke shifted in her seat. Frost felt himself prickle with embarrassment; he was a thoughtless oaf, at times. He coughed a smoker’s hack to cover his shame.

  ‘Huh, no, it wasn’t that,’ Mrs Curtis said after taking a sip of her tea, ‘though, sure, legging it would have crossed his mind given ’alf the chance. No, he was in Strangeways for thieving. When is anything ever easy? Better off without him anyway, he was completely useless. Always disappointing the girl.’

  ‘Thank you for coming down, Mrs Curtis,’ Frost said, not wishing to dwell on absent fathers any longer, ‘what we need help on is fleshing out Rachel’s character, to help us work out
her tragic final hours.’

  ‘What she hankered after was discipline. Unlike most little girls, Rachel wanted guidance, to be told what to do, but her father was useless, vain and arrogant, only interested in himself … still is.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard that an authority figure was lacking in her life.’

  ‘But she always picked rotters, see; that Robert, and before him, Darren. Making her do things that were … unseemly.’

  ‘We know about Robert Nicholson, Mrs Curtis,’ Clarke said, moving closer, ‘but tell me about this Darren … What sort of things?’

  ‘When she was still at school.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know she was only a youngster, and he was a lot older, but she should have known better.’

  ‘What happened, Mrs Curtis?’ Clarke asked solicitously.

  ‘Always taking risks, doing silly dares. It’s ironic she ended up in a churchyard: that was just like the first time she was in trouble with the law. Broad daylight too, indecent it was.’ Frost had known it had to be significant.

  ‘I’m sorry’ – Clarke leaned forward – ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Well, put it this way. Her reputation in ruins at fifteen. Vicar caught her and Darren at it. In the churchyard. Called the coppers.’

  ‘Did she …’ Frost didn’t know how to phrase it carefully, so didn’t bother trying. ‘Like a bit of kinky stuff, you know.’

  The woman was aghast. Luckily Clarke intervened. ‘She was easily led into doing silly things, is that right, Mrs Curtis?’

  ‘Yes, always looking to be led and wanting to impress at the same time, a fatal combination for a pretty girl,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘This lad that led your Rachel astray, what did you say his name was? Darren?’

  ‘That was all of seventeen years ago,’ Mrs Curtis said, surprised, ‘besides, as you said at the start, she’d not, you know …’

  ‘Quite, Mrs Curtis,’ Clarke said calmly. ‘Don’t you worry, we just need to rule out all possibilities. We will get whoever did this.’

  ‘Leave no stone unturned,’ Frost said, and then added quietly to himself, ‘Grave or otherwise.’

  ‘Call West Yorkshire Police, get on to them to find this Darren Tandy.’

  ‘Really? I see from the path report she’d been sexually active recently but there was no sign of her putting up a struggle,’ Clarke said as they entered the CID general office. ‘Besides, Rachel has not seen the man in over fifteen years?’

  ‘Think about it. Tandy sees Rachel’s name splashed all over the press and thinks to himself, maybe it’s time to get reacquainted?’

  ‘What, after she’s released on mental health grounds? It’s not exactly winning a gold medal at the Olympics, is it,’ Clarke said doubtfully.

  ‘Benson died from a heart attack in hospital.’ Sue Clarke watched him scratch around for his cigarettes. ‘Maybe Tandy was curious, likewise our Rachel about him, but when they met up things got a bit out of control.’

  ‘That’s not your desk any more, Jack.’ She had binned a pack of stale Rothmans earlier. ‘Do you think you’re going to change that polo shirt any time soon? You’ve been in it all week,’ she said, noticing an unsightly stain.

  ‘Will do. Tomorrow, for sure. Anyway, we won’t know what happened until we speak to him, will we?’ he said, giving up the search. ‘It’s a lead and we’re not getting anywhere with the mystery taxi driver. By the way, where was the probation officer this morning?’

  ‘Fergusson wasn’t there,’ Clarke said. ‘I saw the conditions of release and there were no curfew restrictions, only distance.’

  ‘I heard. Where was he?’

  ‘He works out of Rimmington and County most of the time, apparently.’

  ‘Of course, I forget we see him around as he lives locally … Right, there’s two other murdered-prostitute cases we’re reopening in the light of Ben Weaver’s capture – well done on that, by the way. Still got it, ain’tcha. I need an hour or two to run through the files down in Records and then I’ll meet you at St Mary’s churchyard. Have a meander round the graveyard while you’re waiting, see if we’ve missed anything.’

  ‘Why don’t we go together from here?’

  Frost shook his head vehemently. ‘No, no … I’ve to make a stop on the way. Personal matter.’

  ‘Personal’ was not a word Jack Frost had used before, at least not with her. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe she’d been too dismissive. Maybe the doctor had bad news. He didn’t look too clever, but then again he never did … ‘Are you all right, Jack?’ Her phone started to ring. Frost reached out on reflex, but caught himself in time and stepped back, gesturing for her to answer it. ‘Detective Clarke speaking.’ It was a woman asking for Frost. She held the receiver out. He took it without comment.

  ‘Ah … hello … how are you? Good, good.’ He turned his back on Clarke, but she could hear him mutter that now was not a good time to talk. After a brief apology he hung up and left the office without another word. Clarke instantly grew concerned and a wave of guilt washed over her for turfing him out of her flat.

  The superintendent paced his office.

  He’d been marching up and down for the best part of an hour. Frost had really wormed his way under his skin this time. Mullett was overcome with a feeling of faintness. He stopped to loosen his tie, something he would never normally do – usually the Windsor knot remained secure beneath his Adam’s apple until he crossed the threshold in the evening – but needs must. His breathing had become laboured, the room felt airless and yet the temperature had cooled significantly.

  He was absolutely right to hold steadfast on the leave issue; Frost had no right, no right whatsoever, to dictate how he ran his station! The capture of Ben Weaver had absolutely nothing to do with it. And as far as that was concerned Frost wasn’t even involved in the arrest. Mullett eyed his pills in the small container on the desk. He’d had today’s dose already, another might do more harm than good. He needed a holiday, desperately, that was all. The golf-club chairmanship was a setback, but not the end of the world. He looked to Margaret Thatcher on the wall, noble and resilient. She’d not be thwarted by the kind of morons he had to put up with … Not for turning and all that. All the same, he might go home early for a lie-down.

  Frost thanked the WPC for the lift to the motorbike garage. He gave a crafty wink to a pretty blonde and alluded to her riding pillion. She tittered and said her dad used to run her to school on a bike. He wondered if that was a brush-off – was he old enough to be her father? He watched her pull away. Not that he’d know where to start with a girl that young any more. Shame. A wisp of a thing like that on the back of a bike tearing through the countryside was an appealing thought … She was similar in build to Karen Thomas, in fact. He still couldn’t get her out of his head. Karen had called him at Eagle Lane unexpectedly just now, wanting to meet up on Friday. But Frost’s enthusiasm had dwindled after learning of her entanglement with Hudson. She was obviously a gold-digger, how else to explain the banker. No, Julie was more his speed, a bit broader across the beam; he’d need to have a bike with some oomph there, he chuckled, thinking of her cherries as he ambled across the forecourt.

  Yes, his mood had altered significantly. The rage he felt for Mullett only lasted while he was cooped up at the station. Anyway, since he’d resolved to disobey the super, there really wasn’t anything to get worked up about. Indeed, now he was out of there, he felt rather perky. En route Frost had even nipped into Topman and bought a clean shirt, discarding the filthy Fred Perry one in the store bin. He’d dabbed on a bit of Blue Stratos at the till on the way out. He had to host John’s booze-up tonight and after Clarke’s comment on his attire he thought he should make an effort to be presentable. He did listen to her but didn’t like to let on – any more than he’d tell her what he was really up to now before meeting her at St Mary’s churchyard …

  For the last six months all Frost’s personal mail had been directed to Eagle Lane, and this morning Bill Wells
had handed him a solicitor’s letter, which for once he’d opened straight away. To date all envelopes marked with a Thwaites and Co. frank he’d parked under the computer keyboard, the contents undoubtedly pertaining to all manner of sad and grim reports in relation to Mary’s estate. But this one he knew to be different; this envelope contained a cheque. For all her bitterness, Mary’s mother had conceded that Frost’s income had paid for the upkeep of the house, and though not a handyman himself, he had at every turn paid what was required when necessary, from a new boiler, to roof insulation, to recarpeting. The house had been well maintained, and as such it had fetched a good price. After his trip to Topman he’d banked a cheque for £2,000, withdrawn £250 in cash, and now he was going to buy himself a motorbike.

  The imminent purchase was not necessarily something that required secrecy, but he’d not told a single soul; not that he usually cared what anyone thought, but the fact that he was still technically homeless might draw scorn, a bike seeming frivolous in comparison. The truth was, he felt he deserved a treat, and given he was without a car it struck him that a motorbike had its merits. Especially with the traffic in town this summer – he’d certainly get about quicker. Besides, he thought as he perused the rows of brightly coloured fierce-looking machines, he was hardly going to blow the whole whack.

  ‘All right there, buddy’ – a slender long-haired salesman approached him – ‘what can I interest you in?’

  ‘I’m after a bike,’ he said openly.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place.’ The salesman waved across the array. ‘What you after?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can ride but not been on one in ages.’

  ‘That’s all right, lot of blokes your age decide they fancy a bike.’

  Bleedin’ cheek, Frost thought but secretly he was pleased the boy recognized his seniority. ‘Talk me through what you got.’ The guy happily delivered chapter and verse on an array of foreign bikes with names he’d never heard of – Suzuki, Yamaha, Kawasaki. ‘Gordon Bennett, these sound like Chinese to me.’