by Henry James
Telling Simms she was pregnant had not been part of the plan – after what had happened with Frost she didn’t think she was ready to – but on the way back to her flat the mood felt right. Simms had livened up and seemed to relish her company, making her laugh with affectionate jibes about her music taste and jokes about Mullett, Hanlon and Waters. They even stopped for a bottle on the way, such was the party mood. She’d worried he might freak out, but Simms’s reaction was surprisingly mature and level-headed. Clarke smiled to herself. He really was a good boy and well-intentioned.
She glimpsed the bedside alarm clock and saw she had to get a move on. Though CID were chronically busy, and the rape case troubled her, there was something she had to do that couldn’t be put off any longer, so for one weekend Eagle Lane would just have to do without her. No, the priority this weekend was to tell her parents, before it became general knowledge. It was the thing she most dreaded. Her parents were Catholics – lapsed, but pretty moralistic all the same – so of course a child out of wedlock was akin to a pact with the devil. Ditto an abortion, something she’d not even contemplated. Should she? In secret? She wouldn’t mess up her career then. No, she couldn’t, wouldn’t think of it …
And what would she say of the father? Neither of the two men in question had doubted their culpability – not out loud, in any case. One had said practically nothing, no surprise there, and the other seemed thrilled at the prospect of fatherhood. In her own mind there was much confusion over the situation, and every time she tried to marshal her thoughts she found herself fretting wildly, so she chose, for now at least, not to think about it. She did, however, have a lengthy journey to Colchester to work out what exactly she would say to her mother.
At last, a possible lead. Detective Sergeant Waters slammed down the receiver, delighted at the prospect of hitting the streets. His eagerness to head off was due to more than just hope of a breakthrough; Mullett had forbidden the use of the heating until after midday at weekends, and Waters, who’d arrived at Eagle Lane at 8 a.m., had been crouched at his desk in a donkey jacket and was stiff with cold.
It was the landlady from the Bricklayer’s who’d called. This was the pub Joanne Daniels had been drinking in prior to being raped. The attack had happened in the alleyway that ran across the back of the premises, and whilst the bar staff all had alibis – the rape had been before closing time – and were not under any suspicion, they were invaluable mines of information about the male clientele who frequented the pub, and had been interviewed earlier that week. All lived in North Denton, off the far-flung reaches of the Green Lane area. As well as the regular staff there were a couple of casual workers – two students – they used at weekends who the landlady had no addresses for. At the time Waters thought little of it as they hadn’t been working a shift when the girl was attacked. Nevertheless, the landlady, an amiable West Country matron in her late forties, who seemed to have taken a shine to him, made a point of obtaining their details when the two had turned up this morning. She’d called him to pass these on. One lived on the Southern Housing Estate, on the very road where the crank calls had originated. Waters immediately thought it worth checking out.
Before leaving he’d called his girlfriend, DC Kim Myles, and arranged to meet her for lunch at the Bricklayer’s. All this week Myles had been at Rimmington Division fiddling with computer cables and was there again this morning.
Waters heard the fax machine surge into life. He sprung from his chair excitedly. One of the reasons he’d come in, aside from the fact that Kim was working, was to pick up a fax from a pal at Scotland Yard. A convicted rapist, Frank Bates, had been released from the Scrubs last week, and the man had family in Rimmington. Waters had been promised his prints and address. As he tore off the glossy paper the phone rang for a second time.
‘CID, Waters speaking.’
‘John, it’s Superintendent Mullett,’ Desk Sergeant Bill Wells said urgently. ‘He’s in a right lather – something about fake five-pound notes and complete humiliation in the newsagent’s on London Street.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Waters drained the dregs of a mug of coffee.
‘DC Simms is handing out fake fivers and stoking up shopkeepers, apparently.’
‘Again, Bill, what’s that got to do with me?’
‘He wants to speak to someone urgently. I don’t know what he’s on about. It’s nothing to do with me either!’ Wells had clearly borne the brunt of Mullett’s anger and was agitated – unusual for the generally unflappable desk sergeant.
‘OK, whack him through …’
The pips went. Waters heard cursing and the subsequent banging of small change into a payphone.
‘Hello?’ he ventured.
‘Who’s there?’ barked an exasperated and distant-sounding Mullett.
‘Waters, sir.’
‘Where’s Simms?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea.’
‘Well, you’ll have to do then, I suppose. Now listen carefully …’
But Waters quickly zoned out from Mullett’s rant as he scoured the Denton area map for the address on the fax, the home of Bates’s parents. A twitch of irritation fluttered through him; the address was in the very block of flats he and Kim had looked at on Thursday. He’d be damned if he wanted to live next door to a pervert, or a pervert’s parents at that. Mullett was still sounding off, but Waters had missed half of what he’d said. The super stopped; he was waiting for a response.
‘I could lend you a couple of quid if you’re strapped, sir?’ Which was the wrong answer.
‘We were like brothers. I’m gutted.’
Gutted indeed, thought Frost; well, you could do with shedding a few pounds. Martin ‘Pumpy’ Palmer had the build of a retired heavyweight boxer. Easy living had softened the big man, but he could pack a punch if necessary, of that Frost had no doubt. He was sat opposite Palmer in his office above the Dirty Penguin hall. The room was in almost total darkness.
‘Really, that close, were you?’ Frost said cynically, leaning over to grab Palmer’s lighter. ‘Well, you’ll be delighted to hear he’s on the road to recovery.’
‘Figure of speech,’ Palmer replied. ‘Is he on the mend? Glad to hear it.’
‘But the same can’t be said of the nephew. Not looking good.’
‘Didn’t know him … Phyllis’s boy, isn’t he? Shame.’ Palmer paused as if thinking, but Frost suspected it was for effect; eventually he continued. ‘Not too sure that I can help you, Sergeant.’
‘Well, do you know anyone who might hold a grudge against Baskin, for instance?’
Palmer leaned forward into the light, his pockmarked face ghostly pale and doleful, as befitting someone whose days were spent mouldering away in semi-darkness. ‘A grudge? Why would someone hold a grudge against dear old Harry? Upstanding pillar of the community that he is …’
‘Rivalry, perhaps?’
‘Why would I be envious of that grotty little club, the Coconut Grove?’
Frost had not aimed the question at Palmer personally, but that was how he’d taken it. He came across this sort of paranoia time and again from those on the fringes of legality. Despite professing friendship, Palmer clearly had one eye on Baskin’s empire, and Frost was more than happy to pursue this line.
‘You may recall that in May there was some upset around Harry’s new venture, a sauna place. Then somebody left a dead man in the car park there. Harry thought someone was out to besmirch him … and mentioned you. So what exactly is it with you and Harry, Mr Palmer? Are you friends or enemies?’
‘Are you pulling my plonker, Mr Frost?’ Palmer grinned, revealing yellowing teeth. ‘If I have issues with someone I don’t pussyfoot around making obscure gestures – this ain’t The Godfather.’
There was a snigger from the far corner of the room. The gloom was such that Frost hadn’t noticed the presence of anyone else and was taken aback. ‘I didn’t realize we had company.’
‘Robbo, show yourself,�
� Palmer commanded without turning round. A tall, bespectacled figure with a shaven head stepped into the light and nodded. He looked the type that Waters would call ‘a right hard geezer’.
‘And you are?’ prompted the DS.
‘Robert Nicholson,’ Palmer answered for him.
‘And what do you do? Chalk the cues?’ Frost asked.
‘Makes the tea,’ Palmer said stonily. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more … I’m a busy man …’
‘Quite.’ Frost shuffled to his feet, stubbing his cigarette out carelessly on the dainty, saucer-like ashtray. ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking … just for the record, of course – where were you on Thursday morning at approximately nine a.m.?’
‘Denton Golf Club, with some business associates.’
‘And your teaboy? Caddying, presumably?’ Frost didn’t let on, but whilst he’d never set eyes on Nicholson before he knew him by reputation, which was one of extreme violence. As a pair he and Palmer were a notoriously brutal double-act that went by the name of ‘the Pumpy and Knuckles show’, a comicsounding tag that would instantly bring a shudder to anyone in the know. Pumpy himself, in Eagle Lane parlance, was Teflon: nothing would ever stick. If the stories were to be believed he was an out-and-out villain on a grand scale, in a quite different league to poor old Harry. From stolen electrical goods to contraband cigarettes, Palmer was alleged to be involved, but never put a foot wrong. Frost had had Clarke staking out that Rainham warehouse that was said to be owned by Palmer, but he’d never set foot within a five-mile radius of the place.
‘Maybe’ – Nicholson stepped forward and reached for the gold cigarette case on the desk – ‘it was the boy they were after.’
‘How do you mean?’ Frost asked.
‘Good point, Robbo. The boy’s in a critical condition, right?’ The leather squelched complainingly as Palmer leaned forward also to take a cigarette. ‘Maybe Harry was winged just to put him down, and really the boy was the object of the hit. You’d be surprised what the youngsters of today get up to.’ He shook his head woefully.
‘Well, it’s a possibility,’ Frost said. As if, he thought. Cecil Rhodes? An effete, gormless lad of eighteen, whom Harry had been nagged into giving a job by his sister and the wife, because the poor kid had been on the dole since he dropped out of art college.
‘Don’t dismiss it out of hand,’ Palmer continued, as though reading Frost’s mind. ‘He may look a wet blanket … but even wet blankets can misbehave.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Weed. Today’s kids, they go for the soft option: can’t get work, so they smoke grass, get into debt …’ He paused. ‘Don’t get involved with drugs myself. Filth. Leave that to the coloureds. But it wouldn’t be the first time a kid has got behind with payments or, worse, thieved for their habit – even one as useless as this.’
‘All right, I’ll look into it.’
‘Now you must forgive me, Mr Frost, I got a club to run.’ The leather gave a sigh as Palmer pushed himself out of the chair. ‘If anything comes to mind, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
‘Very good of you.’ Frost offered his card, which was waved away.
‘I know where to find you,’ Palmer said, dismissively.
Saturday (3)
Simms spun the Alfa Sud around the car park of Eagle Lane Station and pulled in tightly next to the green Vauxhall, from which Waters was grinning mischievously. What’s tickled him? Simms wondered, popping open the door.
‘Wotcha, what’s happening?’
‘The super has been seriously humiliated’ – Waters wagged a finger mockingly – ‘and you’re in the frame.’
‘Eh? What you on about?’ Simms was bemused.
‘Know anything about dodgy fivers?’
Simms thought for a second. His mind was a blank – but after a moment he remembered. ‘Yeah, I do. Got a wad here,’ he said, patting his leather jacket.
‘Seems you’re the only one around here who does; you and the newsagent on London Street, that is.’ Waters tapped a Bic lighter playfully on his car door. ‘The one who refused our very own Mr Mullett when he attempted to settle his paper bill this morning …’
The fact hit Simms suddenly – there had been no mention of the Scotland Yard brief at the meeting on Friday. ‘Jesus, that Noddy Johnny Johnson must have forgotten to pass the instruction from the Yard on to Bill.’ He shook his head. ‘Am I really the only one who knows?’
Waters smiled in confirmation. ‘Sure are. If you would sort it out, the super would be ever so pleased.’ He started to wind up the window.
‘Wait – what’s it got to do with me?’ Simms frowned, annoyed. ‘I’m not responsible for some communication cock-up on the front desk!’
A car horn tooted. Frost’s filthy Cortina groaned to a halt alongside Simms’s pristine Alfa. Why did he have to park so close?
‘Have a nice weekend,’ Waters said.
‘Wait, where are you off to?’
‘Off out of here before Mullett comes in … A sound thrashing puts me off my tea.’
‘Aye aye, bit parky for a mothers’ meeting out here, isn’t it? Or have we lost our keys, boys, is that it?’ mocked an annoyingly chirpy Frost.
‘Err …’ Simms was momentarily thrown and didn’t know what to do first. He couldn’t run off just because the super was on the warpath. It wasn’t his fault and he really ought to clear himself. ‘Guv, can I have a word? Oh shit …’ A navy-blue Rover turned into the car park.
‘Full house,’ Waters quipped, starting up the Vauxhall.
‘But it’s on the noticeboard …’ Simms whined to his unimpressed superior.
Mullett had not glanced at the noticeboard in months. Alerts about Colorado Beetles and Rabies were all it ever displayed as far as he was concerned.
‘The noticeboard is for notices,’ he replied gravely, flinging open his office door. ‘The arrival of counterfeit money in the county, is, is it not, an incident – and after being reported at a briefing in accordance with procedure, it should find itself on the incident board.’ The three accused men trooped into the oak-panelled office, first Simms and Frost, followed by Desk Sergeant Bill Wells, who had been caught napping on reception and started babbling excuses. Mullett ignored him and continued. ‘Though this is all immaterial; as of Monday the incident board will be consigned to the museum. This is the computer age, gentlemen. As of Monday the IRIS system will be fully operational.’
The officers regarded the super warily as they seated themselves opposite the expansive desk. Mullett flung his Barbour down on one of the guest chairs. It promptly slid to the floor and he didn’t bother to pick it up. He slunk down into the plush leather comfort of his own chair.
‘Incident Resource and Information System,’ he pronounced reassuringly, patting the lifeless grey box that took up a surprising amount of space on his desk. ‘But that can wait until Monday.’ He shot a look at Wells. ‘Now, Sergeant, please explain to me the reasons for this total breakdown in communication.’
As Wells burbled on Mullett felt his interest evaporating and his anger waning. He regarded the other two: Simms – who seemed remarkably complacent considering his involvement, with rather bleary eyes and a misbuttoned checked shirt; and Frost – with at least a week’s beard and wearing, for reasons best known to himself, a high-necked pullover with a prancing reindeer on it. What a dismal state of affairs, the superintendent concluded, looking again at the blank monitor; no amount of technology could improve this rabble.
‘… wife said he won’t wake up,’ Wells bleated, clutching several sheets of letter-headed paper.
‘Quiet, man, you’re giving me a headache. Hand me that,’ Mullett snapped and grabbed from him the Scotland Yard instruction. He started to scan-read the formal paperwork, muttering to himself, but on hearing the faint sound of Simms whispering to Frost he paused and looked at the young DC icily. ‘You, Detective Constable, have enough to contend with, without adding bad manners to the list.’
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br /> ‘DC Simms has just informed me of another possible murder,’ Frost interjected. ‘A young lad found dead at the bottom of—’
Mullett raised his hand abruptly in protest. ‘One thing at a time! Have the good grace to allow me to digest this important missive from Scotland Yard, hmm?’ He continued reading the communication. A number of fraudulent banknotes had been picked up in the Home Counties, some as far west as Reading and Slough; fake banknotes were not rare but there were two unusual features here. Firstly, the notes were of uncommonly high quality – only discernible as fakes by the feel of the paper and serial numbers. The Yard suspected a printing press on the Continent might be responsible. Secondly, the notes had been seen only in semi-rural areas, never in a major city, which was a uniquely cunning way of releasing them by stealth into the economy. Mullett absorbed all this but was again distracted by whispering.
‘Right.’ He looked up at the three of them, as if for the first time. ‘What are you all doing here today anyway?’
‘Most of us work weekends – Saturdays, at least,’ Frost answered, looking, Mullett thought, fresher than he’d seem him look in months, notwithstanding the need for a shave and a less seasonal-specific jumper. ‘We have two possible murders, two rapes, two gunshot victims in the General, and two unclaimed limbs. Remarkable how everything seems to come in pairs … Only a matter of time before your dodgy fiver finds a partner …’
The phone began to ring and flash simultaneously and all eyes turned to it. ‘Mullett here,’ he said tentatively. It was Ridley on Control.
‘It’s Mr Hudson for you, sir.’ Mullett groaned and glanced at Frost. ‘Put him through. Michael, how are you?’
The bank manager wheezed down the line: ‘Stanley … thank God. I’ve got a customer up in arms – claims we’ve given him a fake five-pound note!’