by Henry James
‘Japanese, all of ’em.’
‘Haven’t you got anything made in Great Britain? My old man rode a BSA during the war, he’d turn in his grave if he thought I was on a machine from the land of the rising sun.’
‘They are the best. British bikes, like British motors, are basically a pile of crap.’
‘Wait a mo, what’s that over there?’ Frost pointed to a black bike to one side.
‘That? That’s a trade-in. Nah, not what you’re after. Now take this Z250, a good entry-level bike for such—’ But Frost had wandered off.
‘Tell me about this one.’
‘Well, it’s made in India for a start.’
‘Hmm, that’s good enough for me.’ He ran his fingers along the worn seat. ‘I like it.’
Frost had not returned to Eagle Lane. In truth, he thought it extremely unlikely Darren Tandy had anything to do with the death of Rachel Curtis; but it was an avenue that needed to be investigated, and would occupy Clarke while he checked out a hunch of his own.
He stopped the newly acquired motorcyle in the communal parking area outside Baron’s Court, the block of flats behind Market Square. His legs were a shade wobbly; the old bike vibrated like hell, but the sensation itself while riding was not an unpleasant one.
The elegant Victorian building before him was a stark contrast to the ugly concrete blocks on the Southern Housing Estate where Jane Hammond and Weaver had lived. No, a different class of people resided here, mainly retired folk with a few bob tucked away, or younger professionals with respectable jobs in the community. However, here as with the housing estate over the canal, Frost sensed darkness.
The flat he wanted was on the second floor. And the resident, a single man, was working out of town today. Donal Fergusson, a fifty-six-year-old probation officer, had been in the district for over ten years, and today was at Rimmington. On the occasions Frost had come into contact with the Scotsman, he had found him charmless and brusque. How the fellow had ended up here in Denton was a mystery. A solitary individual who kept himself to himself; the consensus was he had fled his native Glasgow following an acrimonious marital break-up. Frost was no judge of others’ domestic circumstances, but a man’s history was a consideration when fathoming an inexplicable situation. Gary Benson’s throwaway remark had led Frost to think Fergusson’s relationship with Rachel Curtis unusual enough to warrant scrutinizing the public servant a little more closely. But it was tricky to get a handle on, the very nature of their relationship being confidential, with no witnesses to their meetings. No, Frost had to chance it, and delve into the man’s life if he was to glean anything at all. The final nudge had been Rachel’s mother’s description of her daughter: that she had always been susceptible to a man with power … one that might make her leave a party early at nine and not midnight?
Frost checked the walkway was clear, before hurrying to Fergusson’s door. Not a soul. This was CID’s second illegal entry this week, and as such he’d undertaken this operation solo; it was extremely dicey, because if Fergusson caught him here, there would be all hell to pay. Frost needed to be nimble. Fortunately the locks to these doors were ancient, and he’d been in other flats in the block before. He deftly picked a master key from one of many hanging from an enormous bunch that he yanked out of his jacket pocket (a new leather number he’d bought at a discount with the Royal Enfield). The door gave easily and he was inside the cool apartment in seconds.
Fergusson’s place was clean and neat, with not much in the way of ornaments on the G-plan furniture. There was a bookcase and record player. The books were fiction; nobody he recognized, the swirling type and period costumes on the cover led him to believe they might be romances. He flipped up the smoked-plastic hood of the turntable – Robert Schumann: Fantasie in C. Classical, Frost sniffed, his knowledge of such music did not stretch much beyond what he’d read of the tastes of Napoleon (which was Italian opera. Not that Frost had listened to that either), with whom he’d been fascinated for years. He replaced the lid, and not wishing to hang around any longer than was strictly necessary, moved into the bedroom at the back of the flat. The room was in semi-darkness with thin curtains half drawn, possibly to keep the room cool. Beyond the window would be the well-maintained courtyard down below. The bed, of wrought-iron construction, was immaculately made.
Opposite it was a heavy free-standing wardrobe; so large that the inspector wondered how Fergusson had managed to get it up the stairs and through the flat entrance. Frost pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and gently pulled open the wardrobe door. Drab-coloured suits hung lifeless, with winter coats at one end. Beneath the clothes lay a mixed array of shoes; large feet, size eleven or twelve, quite a few pairs, too. At the back, partially hidden, was something with a patent-leather finish. A dress shoe? Unlikely. He bent down and parted the long winter coats to reveal a woman’s stiletto. There was nothing else in the wardrobe, or indeed the whole flat, to indicate a woman’s presence. Frost slowly leaned inside and delicately, as if retrieving something incredibly fragile, lifted the shoe. Size four. Rachel Curtis’s size. He gently put the shoe back, and exited the flat as quickly as he could, heart pumping as if about to break out of his chest.
Thursday (6)
He wasn’t at the churchyard entrance where they’d agreed to meet. Clarke paced the cobbled street and breathed in the scent of recent rain on the trees. Maybe he’d gone ahead alone. The DS walked round the side of the church, weaving through the wet grass and in between wonky headstones. But neither was Frost waiting for her at the grave where she understood the body had been discovered. She glanced at the headstone: Norah Elizabeth Wilkins, 1860–1892. There was more, but she couldn’t make it out, the lettering eroded and faint. Why this became Rachel Curtis’s final resting place was a mystery. It did seem peculiar, she had to admit. She stepped closer to get a better look at the stonework; she was curious about Norah. A movement to the right caught her eye. Under a yew tree towards the back of the church, she saw a silhouette.
The portly figure was one she was familiar with. Frost turned to face her in the greying light. He raised a hand and fluttered his fingers. He’d not mentioned Mary once to Clarke in the whole time he’d stayed with her. Clarke knew Frost’s wife was buried here and now she felt she was intruding. He made his way over.
‘Sorry, Jack. If you wanted some time to—’
He dismissed her apology. ‘Just checking she’s still there, don’t want her creeping up on me unannounced,’ he joked chirpily. ‘I wanted to forget she was here, to be honest. How did you get on?’
‘Darren Tandy is dead,’ Clarke said flatly. ‘Died years ago.’
Frost nodded. ‘Hmm.’
‘Just “hmm”?’
‘What do you want me to say? Excellent, another dead end?’
‘No …’ She was at a loss for words.
‘But I wonder all the same if Rachel being left lying here might be significant – that incident with Tandy from her past …’
‘But who would know about that, other than her mother – it’s not public knowledge …’
‘We found out soon enough. Since we discovered she was at Holland’s party, I haven’t stopped thinking that her body being here is meaningful.’
‘How, though?’
Frost turned full circle, slowly surveying the grounds. ‘Look around you, what do you see?’
Clarke scanned the churchyard, not sure what she was looking for. ‘A load of old headstones.’
‘Correct. But how many are this ornate, with both the headstone and slab intact?’
‘None that I can see … maybe at the front?’
‘Nope, there is only the one. Belongs to a rich widow.’
‘I saw, aged thirty-two; is that the age Rachel was?’
‘Yep.’ He slapped the moss-covered stonework and started off down the path. He was grinning.
‘Wait!’ She hurried after him. ‘What’s going on?’ She’d seen that cheeky smirk before. He was on to somet
hing.
‘This was premeditated. The murderer saw this slab, and earmarked it for Rachel.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ They’d reached the entrance. ‘I haven’t a clue why. But this is the place to start looking for an answer.’ He handed her a piece of paper listing three sets of names and dates. Two dates were from earlier that month, and one was from July.
He surprised her by mounting an old motorcycle parked by the church’s stone wall.
‘What’s this?’
‘The list of recent burials. Poor sods.’ He gave the bike a kick-start, to which it responded by roaring into life and emitting a cloud of black smoke. ‘Speak to the next of kin.’ He pulled on a pair of old-fashioned goggles.
‘I thought you were staying, to visit Mary’s …’
‘Nah, told you, I forgot the old lady was even here … Pretty bad form, eh, given her mother has finally coughed up.’
Clarke didn’t get the reference and Frost chose not to elucidate.
‘What about a helmet—’
But it was pointless, her words were drowned out as he revved the engine, pulled out and rode away.
‘And then he just roared off on an old motorcycle.’
‘I didn’t know Jack Frost had a motorbike,’ Kim Myles said, topping up Sue’s wine glass. They were having a cheese and wine night at Kim’s sister’s house on Bath Hill before Kim’s big day. The six women sat in a circle in the spacious front room.
‘Nor did I,’ Clarke replied.
‘Does it come with a sidecar?’ A woman with sandy-blonde hair that Clarke didn’t know asked. ‘Frost likes to be chauffeured around, so I heard.’
‘Me too,’ confirmed another. ‘Heard he likes a drink or two.’
Apart from Kim’s sister Lorraine they were all on the police force and based at Rimmington. The conversation inevitably turned to work – with most questions being directed towards Clarke and the goings-on at Eagle Lane, a perennial source of interest at Rimmington.
‘He likes a drink as much as the next man. He likes to think, too,’ Clarke said casually, not wanting to be seen to be leaping to his defence. ‘Can’t drink and drive, can’t think and drive either. Typical man, I guess, terrible multi-tasker.’
‘Poor lamb,’ said a woman Clarke didn’t know, ‘but a woman would never get away with it.’
‘A woman would never make inspector, full stop,’ another said.
‘Sue had Jack Frost sleeping on her settee for a couple of weeks,’ Kim said, sensing an awkwardness, smiling at Sue. Clarke didn’t correct her on the timescale – she thought the other woman was being tactful by making their connection clear without raising any eyebrows.
‘Really? What was that like?’ asked Jenny, the quieter bridesmaid. ‘He’s a bit of a ladies’ man.’
‘Wouldn’t know … I’ve got a baby, and they didn’t quite hit it off.’
‘Didn’t he have two girlfriends when his wife was ill?’
‘Not that I know of.’ She prayed she wasn’t blushing. ‘He’s always on the job.’
‘Exactly!’ They laughed. The double entendre lightened the mood.
Sue watched them all giggling but didn’t have the heart to join in. The conversation quickly returned to the other infamous Eagle Lane character.
‘Is Mullett really that much of a stiff?’
‘He runs a tight ship, no question,’ she said, thinking of her own recent predicament and that of poor Wallace, the super’s latest victim.
‘But a good policeman?’ Kim said, pulling a dubious face.
‘Just dry …’
‘… as sandpaper.’
‘He’s not his usual chirpy self at the moment, it has to be said,’ Clarke conceded, ‘he suspended Wallace and then went home sick.’
‘What’s the wife like? Word at our nick is she’s a bit of a looker, but well-to-do, like Jean Simmons.’
‘The actress?’ Clarke said, aghast. ‘Really? I have no idea! Nobody’s ever seen her.’
‘Like Arthur Daley’s “’er indoors”.’
‘Men: always a woman behind the scenes clearing up. Like children, they need looking after.’
‘And all hell to pay when they’re kept tied down.’
‘I wonder how the boys are getting on?’
PC David Simms was not used to drinking.
Detective Sergeant Waters’ send-off at the Eagle was well under way, with policemen from all over the district, many still in uniform, filling the spacious pub to capacity. Cigarette smoke hung thickly in the air, obscuring the ceiling, absorbing the laughter and banter of the assembled crowd. Simms’s head was starting to spin. Nevertheless he took another swig of his beer and turned his attention back to the conversation between two men from Bethnal Green. Both were detectives Waters had worked with before moving to Denton eighteen months ago. The taller of the two, in his fifties and now retired, was talking at length about ‘Nipper’ Read, the Met’s Murder Squad superintendent who had arrested the Kray twins. Simms had never met anyone who had actually worked with Nipper or had come into contact with the twins themselves. Simms had hoped the two coppers might share some little-known fact, some intimacy kept from the public, but after twenty minutes of listening he was starting to think they were both full of hot air.
He was growing restless and eager for conversation with someone his own age. Though it was his day off, he’d been determined to come to the drinks. He’d never been to a proper policemen’s bash before. The first disappointment was that it was to be held at the Eagle, the pub across the road from the station where every copper spent their spare time and money as it was. The second and greater disappointment was that it was to be a ‘men only’ affair. Simms was single, and he had hoped this would be an opportunity to chat up girls, especially after the week he’d had. A roar of laughter reached him from the bar, catching his attention. He made his apologies and moved on.
‘Down it! Down it! Down it!’ Waters slammed the glass on the bar, and let rip an enormous belch to huge applause. He was, there was no denying it, completely smashed.
‘I think that’s my lot,’ he gasped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Nonsense!’ cried a rosy-cheeked Frost, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. ‘We’re only just getting warmed up.’ Frost was very jolly indeed.
Waters had completely lost track of time; they might have been in here forty-five minutes or four hours. ‘I can’t get too bladdered, Jack, I’m getting married in the—’ Before he could finish his sentence he was greeted with a raucous rendition of ‘He’s Getting Married in the Morning’. At which point Waters realized several things at once. Firstly, that they’d serenaded him with that song twice already this evening because, secondly, he’d made the mistake of uttering the trigger phrase twice, ergo, thirdly, he must be well and truly smashed to have been dumb enough to set them off on a third round.
God help him.
Frost was kicking with all his might just to keep his head above water. Why in hell’s name did he agree to go for a midnight dip? He couldn’t even swim. What a ludicrous idea! A figure appeared at the water’s edge.
‘There you are,’ a woman’s voice called softly. He looked up. The clouds parted in the sky above, allowing moonlight to reveal the ex-dancer Karen Thomas.
‘I’m so sorry you lost your job,’ Frost spluttered.
‘Don’t worry about that. Shall I join you?’
‘I was rather hoping you’d help me out of here …’
‘Nonsense. I’m coming in.’ She started unbuttoning her blouse, moving seductively. Frost kicked harder, but his feet were caught, tangled in something. Perhaps he was in a lake, not a swimming pool, as he’d first thought. He struggled to see beyond the lapping water. He could just make out stone slabs to his right. No! Beyond the girl’s silhouette loomed the unmistakable bell tower of St Mary’s Church. A pond in the graveyard?
‘Wait! Wait!’ Frost shouted, panic causing his voice to tremble.
Out of nowhere, a loud noise sounded and drowned out his cries for help. Mullett appeared next to the girl, holding a long fireman’s hose.
‘He’s mine,’ he said and grinned maliciously, shoving the woman aside.
The awful noise grew louder and louder – what was it? – but Frost had no time to consider it further as the superintendent unleashed a high-powered jet of water down on his head. The force thrust Frost deep underwater. He was helpless to resist. He couldn’t breathe …
The gagging sensation woke him from his nightmare. His face was pressed hard against a cushion and his feet were tangled in the blanket at the end of the sofa.
A sofa?
It all came flooding back. He was in Sue’s flat. He’d shown up late last night, three sheets to the wind and clearly under the impression he still lived here. He had woken up all three of them. Rudely.
Mrs Clarke fidgeted in her camp bed underneath the window, the springs gave as she settled, and after an enormous sigh she commenced to snore profoundly: the noise, from his dream!
‘Flamin’ heck,’ he said, pulling the cushion over his head to muffle the sound. He lay back on the couch. Rather a nightmare than listen to that all night! Then he had an idea. ‘Where’s that little crumpet gone? I reckon I could forgive her for fancying fatty Hudson, just this once …’ And with that, he was asleep in a flash.
Friday (1)
‘You cannot go into work this morning, Jack!’
‘I’ll just nip in and out, won’t be five minutes,’ Frost said, still groggy on the sofa. ‘Some loose ends to tie up.’
‘What do you mean? There’s only a skeleton staff on today and whatever it is, it will all still be there for you tomorrow. And tomorrow’s Saturday, you can have the whole place all to yourself. Jack, you can’t give us all time off for the wedding, then go in yourself, for heaven’s sake. You’re his best man!’
‘No, you’re all right. There’s something I have to … oooh, flamin’ Nora, I forgot how uncomfortable this bloody sofa is.’
‘Nobody forced you round here at one o’clock in the morning, and certainly nobody asked. You can leave the bloody key on the side when you leave.’