by Henry James
‘And the parents think it was an accident?’ Simms nodded. ‘OK, that frees you up for the rest of the day … You come with me.’
‘On it, guv …’
Frost watched Simms grab his cigarettes and stuff them inside his leather jacket, muttering something in Clarke’s ear as he did so. Whatever it was made her smile briefly and nod.
Clarke turned to Frost. ‘So who’s handling Baskin?’ she said stonily. Surprised by her tone, Simms stood looking at both of them, intrigued.
‘Me and Arthur. I was just about to go and see one of Harry’s mates – Hanlon will have to go on his tod.’ He gestured to the overweight detective, who was finishing off a pasty in the corner of the room, oblivious.
‘But Derek and I were at the crime scene,’ Clarke insisted. ‘Wouldn’t it make sense—’
‘While I was at a funeral,’ Frost reminded her gently. Although she was confronting him he couldn’t help loving her spirit. ‘And you and Derek are required elsewhere. Besides, Arthur knows the manor and characters better than anyone.’
‘Right, I’m off to see the super!’ Hanlon announced as he walked past, wiping his lips with satisfaction.
‘What the bleedin’ hell are you on about?’ Frost exclaimed, spinning round in surprise.
‘Got to see the super at three,’ Hanlon replied.
‘Hornrim Harry? What business have you got with him?’ Frost asked in exasperation, to which Hanlon accorded him a brief tap to the side of his nose. The DS rolled his eyes; he could hazard a guess – Arthur Hanlon would have only one use to someone like Mullett …
Friday (6)
An armed robbery on the industrial estate – what next? And a woman gunman at that! Mullett dismissed the duty sergeant with barely concealed irritation; how would Denton ever regenerate and attract new business with a crime rate like this? Snatching a factory’s weekly payroll of all things; it was like the Wild West out there. He shook his head and popped another two Disprin into his water glass. At least he was beginning to feel human again. He picked up the phone and dialled internally – where was Hanlon? It was gone three. The phone rang and rang, which was odd, as he knew that following the briefing most of CID were still in the building. He sometimes suspected them of knowing it was him calling and purposefully not answering. He sighed; perhaps they were all out on the street, hounding criminals, which is exactly where they should be, given the current crime wave. He prayed that at least someone was on verge of a breakthrough and they hadn’t all just skulked off to the pub as was often the case once the Friday briefing was over. Then he recalled that he had just deployed a five-mile-radius search of Sanderson’s farm – well, at least that partly explained it.
October’s crime stats were still in front of him; the situation was going from bad to worse. There was a rap at the door.
‘Come.’
‘Detective Constable Hanlon for you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Miss Smith.’ His secretary stepped aside to give the portly detective room to enter. Strewth, he must be eighteen stone at least! Odd, Mullett thought, that he didn’t recall noticing it last night. Then again, there was an awful lot about last night he was unsure of … hence this follow-up meeting. Hanlon’s purported position in the Lodge seemed so outlandish in the cold light of day that he simply had to get clarification.
‘Ah, Arthur, please take a seat.’ Hanlon did so without uttering a word. ‘A hive of activity in CID?’ Mullett opened tentatively.
‘Rushed off our feet.’
‘Really?’ Mullett felt his eye twitch involuntarily; he’d never seen Hanlon rush anywhere. ‘And where is everybody rushing to?’
‘Payroll job on the industrial estate.’
‘Of course … well … no, no.’ Mullett paused; no need to get sidelined – he was anticipating progress on the rape case, but Hanlon wasn’t the man to assuage his worries on that score. ‘Let’s leave that for now. Right then, Detective, about last night.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you were hammered,’ Hanlon said, deadpan, without even a flicker of a smile.
Oh lord, what is he thinking? Mullett wondered, cursing inwardly. Engaging with this fellow would prove difficult.
‘We’d all had a few.’ Mullett smiled tightly. ‘Very touching affair, and such a good turn-out … I was a little surprised to see so many attend …’
‘Jack’s a popular man,’ Hanlon said, crossing his arms defensively.
‘But, with all due respect to Frost, it was his wife’s funeral … and apart from a number from the force, there were a surprising number of civilians there … in particular a wide range of dignitaries. Frost, for all his popularity, is not a social animal. They were perhaps there out of respect for the girl’s father?’
Mullett’s attempt to draw Hanlon on to the subject of the Masons by mention of Frost’s father-in-law was met with silence. ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ he pressed on. ‘There was a sizeable representation from the Denton and Rimmington Lodge there. Now, I understand that George Simpson, the deceased’s father, is quite a bigwig, and that you yourself—’
Hanlon held up his hand. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t discuss the business to which you allude.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Mullett said unctuously. ‘However, Detective, we are in private … and if one wishes to be admitted one must start somewhere.’ Mullett squirmed in his shoes; to think that he, the station commander, should humble himself – grovel almost – to this, this overweight …
‘Your approach has been noted.’ Hanlon sniffed. ‘All in good time.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mullett said impatiently, ‘but this is the police force, damn it – it’s my right. And, and … you, as senior warden, must let me in!’
Hanlon looked at him blankly, and then to Mullett’s surprise yawned noisily. ‘We’ll have to see. There is one thing that might move things along favourably.’
‘Yes?’ Mullett asked cautiously.
‘Bill Wells is a very good man.’
‘Wells? He’s adequate on the front desk.’
‘Has a nose for things, you might say,’ Hanlon said archly. ‘Detection and the like.’
‘Wait.’ Mullett stood up. ‘Are you suggesting that if Wells gets a position in CID, it will pave the way for myself gaining entrance to the Lodge?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but it might give your application the necessary edge, sir.’ He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
‘What? By circumventing the examination procedure? The procedure the officer in question has failed no fewer than three times?’
Hanlon shrugged.
‘I hardly think we’d be doing the force a service there, do you, Detective? Though’ – he gave Hanlon a piercing stare – ‘the system is not all it’s cracked up to be, I must admit. Go on, out with you, I’ve work to do.’
This was not going as planned, Mullett fumed to himself as he watched the large detective leave the room. To think he would need to be subservient to that great oaf. He had his pride. Stuff the Masons.
While Frost chatted with a big, bearded sergeant from uniform, Simms ducked under the police tape and approached the crime scene. Crouching down on the stained pavement, Harding’s assistant lifted something with his tweezers. Shell cases, presumably.
‘There we go.’ He held up a small brass casing.
‘Any idea what was used?’
‘Pistol. Nine millimetre. We’ve found three cases.’ He retrieved a tiny transparent bag, shells glinting within.
‘Well done,’ Simms muttered to the young Forensics man, before walking over to the orange Maxi with the window shot out. The hysterical owner was fifty yards away, being comforted by a WPC. Another empty vehicle, bumper hanging limply, sat behind the Maxi. Simms looked over his shoulder – the Forensics guy was still scuttling about on the pavement – before opening the door of the Maxi and slipping inside. Glass was everywhere, but there in the door was a small nick. He pulled out a Biro and stretched over.
In a matter of seconds he easily dislodged the lead bullet, which plopped into his open hand.
Outside the car he fished from his pocket an empty envelope covered in scrawled notes and placed the lead inside it. He knew it was unorthodox to remove evidence from a crime scene, but his curiosity had got the better of him. Feeling pleased, he slipped the envelope into his back pocket. Simms surveyed the quiet street. It comprised in the main a row of disused warehouses, set back from the road. Further off were a garage and a fruit wholesaler. It was clear to Simms that the area would not attract much in the way of through traffic, and certainly not on foot. Ideal for a grab-and-run like this. Unbelievably, this was the second shooting in as many days by a female gunman. Simms shivered; it was getting cold.
‘She went that way.’ Frost appeared at his side. ‘Crossed the road about there and that was it, gone. Uniform are canvassing. But as usual, early afternoon, broad daylight, nobody saw a thing.’
‘Apart from her,’ Simms insisted, nodding towards a woman who had now returned to the orange Maxi, the passenger window shattered.
‘Figure of speech,’ demurred Frost. ‘According to our witness, the person who shot out her car window was a woman dressed as a granny.’
‘What, an old biddy? You’re having a laugh!’
‘I said, dressed as. Grey hair – probably a wig – headscarf and granny mac. But she wielded a gun like Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde, and had roughly the same amount of makeup on, so we’re not exactly looking for a master of disguise. Anyway’ – Frost pulled out his notebook – ‘you need to check in with the Gregory Leather general manager – chap by the name of Sutherland.’
‘Me? Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to call in on one of Baskin’s mates.’
‘But innocent people have been shot at here – Baskin brought it on himself – and look …’ Simms gestured towards the damaged cars.
‘Baskin’ll live, but someone’s kid, younger and spottier than you, is on a ventilator. Whoever did this will have gone to ground; screaming around all over the county with sirens blazing like a blue-arsed fly won’t do any good now.’ Frost turned to go. ‘Until we at least have some idea of who we’re looking for.’
‘The super likes action, though.’
‘Well, you get over there and find out what you can, and tell Hornrim Harry I’ll be asking around in town. I’m heading there now.’
Simms found Frost baffling at times. He had a point, though; the kid shot at the Grove had been somewhat overlooked. Anyway, with Frost out of the way, there was more of a chance for him to get his teeth stuck into this case. He blew into his hands to relieve the chill and strode off in the direction of Gregory Leather.
Gavin Cribbs sat in silence. Frost was surprised that a man of this apparent stature was on Baskin’s radar; but hats off to Harry if he could get someone this well-heeled into his club for a night of card-playing. Fleece him a few times a month and the bills would be covered. Cribbs’s suit was of a class that even Mullett could only dream of wearing. Not that Frost knew much about clothes, but from the tailored fit and smooth cloth he could tell it wasn’t off the peg at Marks and Sparks. Looking around, the solicitor’s office had a similar air of affluence, with elegant furniture and a thick carpet. Here was a man used to money, one who could easily wave goodbye to fifty or sixty pounds over a poker game.
Beyond the plate-glass wall was a sudden flurry of activity as several of the staff tidied their desks, signalling the end of the working day and the beginning of the weekend. Laughter was heard as two secretaries, donning coats, teased an office junior. The disturbance caused the senior partner of Cribbs and Mayhew to stir.
‘Well, that is a blow, I must say.’ Cribbs linked his fingers and pushed his palms out towards Frost, joints cracking. He sighed. ‘Swine was on a winning streak, too. Be a while until I see my five hundred quid back, then.’
Frost tried to hide his surprise at the stake involved. ‘Tell me, Mr Cribbs, how frequent were these card games?’
‘Not very – in fact we’d only just got into a routine; previously I would host the odd occasion at mine …’
‘Where would that be?’
‘Mount Pleasant, Rimmington. But Harry being Harry, he insisted on things moving to his grubby little club.’
The solicitor had a sallow complexion and dark, unfathomable eyes. He struck Frost as the sort of successful person who grew bored very quickly.
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he saw it as a way to make a quick, mid-week buck. By getting a game going for large stakes he could push some money through the club; attract a wealthier clientele and get them spending at the bar.’
‘Really?’
‘Either that or the poor soul was too idle to go out,’ Cribbs said without the hint of a smile. ‘Probably both.’
‘And did it work? Did he attract a wealthier clientele?’
‘As I said, it was early days. It takes a while for the word to get around that there’s a big-money game in town. There were a couple of chaps from Rimmington the week before. I think H was hoping for further afield.’
‘Did Harry play a straight game?’
‘Ha! Sergeant, you surprise me – Harry might be strapped for cash but I doubt he would be daft enough to try and rip off his own punters. You don’t really imagine that Harry was shot over a card game?’
‘I don’t know, but it was someone who knew he’d still be there early in the morning, so they must’ve known there was a card game on.’
‘Yes, good point. Well, you’re the detective.’ He glanced at his watch, boredom beginning to show on his face. ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment at five.’
‘Just a couple more things.’ Frost generally hated it when well-to-do types like Cribbs adopted that jaded ‘you’re inconveniencing me’ manner, but having had a gutful this week he felt much the same. ‘Did Baskin always sleep over at the Grove after a game?’
Cribbs rubbed his pointed chin and sighed. ‘You know, I really have no idea. This week I called a taxi at three, and the other two – Jeremy Tile and Evans – left by car at about the same time. Shooter had left much earlier, having lost nearly all evening. What Harry does after the games, I really couldn’t care less.’
Frost, clearly unimpressed with the answer, shifted in the leather and chrome chair and said nothing.
‘I’m sorry if I appear flippant …’ Cribbs offered.
‘You mentioned cash-flow difficulties?’
‘It’s no secret Harry was strapped – the sauna and manicure place in Market Square was burning a hole in his pocket.’
‘The Pink Toothbrush?’ Frost said, surprised. ‘It’s not been open much longer than six months – and he practically runs it on slave labour.’
‘Indeed so, but, still, I’m not surprised.’ Cribbs shrugged. ‘It’s not the labour, it’s the rates. Why do you think the Chinese laundry went down? I’m not saying Harry’s a slouch, but if those fellows couldn’t make it work as a busy commercial laundry, how does he expect to make ends meet, painting the few toes that can afford it in Denton?’ Cribbs raised a finger and mouthed something to a secretary gesturing in the doorway. ‘Is there anything else? I’m terribly sorry, but I really do have an appointment waiting.’
Frost left the Cribbs’s office at the top of Gentlemen’s Walk; all around him jovial people bustled as they headed into the weekend. A breeze had suddenly got up, so he sheltered in a doorway to light a cigarette and stood there, pondering. Was Baskin in financial trouble? He was always so confident, almost to the point of being smug. How much trouble must one be in to get shot? Frost pulled up his collar and jostled along with the crowd. Maybe that’s why he was gambling?
‘Detective Frost, now there’s a stroke of luck!’ He’d been tapped on the shoulder by a flushed, weaselly-looking man in an ill-fitting suit and battered hat.
‘Sandy,’ Frost said, ‘nice to see you again so soon.’
‘My condolences
, Jack. Been hard, I know. Didn’t get the chance to say anything yesterday, all those other punters there.’
‘Thank you, Sandy. What brings you out this way? You seem in a rush.’ Behind him Frost noticed a skinny lad with dishevelled hair, looking vacantly down Gentlemen’s Walk – the Echo reporter’s photographer.
‘Armed robbery in broad daylight – word’s all over town.’
‘Word soon gets out,’ Frost agreed.
‘What can you tell me?’ Lane pleaded.
‘What do you know?’
‘Not a lot – had a bit of luck on the gee-gees, so we’ve been having a few in the boozer.’
Frost could well imagine; no wonder he had the look of panic about him – missing out on a story. ‘Gregory Leather. Weekly payroll,’ he said; he found Sandy useful sometimes if only for his reaction to such titbits.
‘Only a matter of time,’ Lane said dismissively, ‘walking down the street with a bag full of cash.’
‘You know about it?’
‘Of course, everybody does! There’s not been much new business round here to speak of, has there? They were queuing up for jobs when that place opened up on the industrial estate. Any idea who pulled it off? Desperate times – surprised it’s not been nabbed before now.’
‘A granny with an automatic pistol.’ Frost lit another cigarette.
‘Ha! Good one, Jack; like all that cobblers about a combine harvester yesterday. Tell me something useful for a change? We are pals.’
Frost shrugged. ‘Like what?’
‘A little bird at the hospital told me Harry B was in the General.’
‘Really? Why don’t you take him a bunch of flowers, then?’
‘Can’t get to him – in a private room. How about a quick snifter?’ Lane gestured over his shoulder.
Though dying for a drink, Frost declined. Not that he had anything against Sandy – he quite liked him in small doses – just that the hack was already three sheets to the wind, which would make him hard work. Frost felt tired at the mere prospect. True, Sandy was sometimes a good source of information, but for the moment Frost had enough on his plate. Besides, he’d promised Hanlon a catch-up later.