by Henry James
Charles shook his head confidently. ‘As far as the bereaved were concerned, I left comparatively early. Around eight I made my farewells. However, unknown to anyone I went to the walkin cupboard under the stairs and dozed until all was quiet. They even forgot to set the alarm, which was also under the stairs; a piece of luck, as both front and back doors were wired. So simple! I lifted the painting, like so, and slipped out of the back door, leaving it unlocked.’
The little man moved away, picking up from a bureau cluttered with English knick-knacks and a peculiarly ugly ceramic toby jug, regarding it with curious distaste. They had acquired this gloomy place through a friend of Charles’s mother. ‘This painting, if genuine, is worth a fortune, even on the black market; it’s probably ten times more valuable than this collection of junk we have assembled.’ He replaced the toby jug, and tapped his toe petulantly on the creaky floorboard. ‘We could go home for the winter. Shelve our activities here. My contacts could place the painting with an oil sheikh, I’m sure. Consider it seriously, Charles; I fear we are too unfamiliar with this country and its ways.’
Charles knew of these concerns; a cultural barrier hampered their varied business activities. ‘Gaston, you worry too much. Fear not; we have some coffee now, oui?’ Just at that moment a flushed young girl appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Jennifer! I told you, we are not to be disturbed!’ Pierrejean snapped, angrily.
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Pierrejean, but there are two policemen downstairs …’
Gaston shot him a worried glance. Charles felt his pulse quicken.
‘Come, Gaston’ – he touched his friend lightly on the elbow – ‘maybe we have coffee with the policemen, eh?’
Pierrejean ducked under a beam as he entered the main foyer of the shop. The building, which was mock-Tudor, had low ceilings, and rather than remove their somewhat comical dome-shaped hats, the two English bobbies stood crook-necked. They looked ridiculous.
‘Good morning, sir,’ a lad of about twenty said. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Not at all.’ Charles was aware of Gaston nervously hovering behind him, and was momentarily worried he would lose his nerve and make a run for it. ‘How can we help?’ he effused.
‘We’d like your permission to leave this in your window.’ The PC unrolled a pencil sketch of a woman’s face, attractive but heavily made up. Pierrejean’s immediate thought was of the woman who had looked in his window yesterday. Could it be the same one? If so, it didn’t do her justice. ‘Perhaps you’ve seen this lady? Visited your shop?’
‘Let me take a closer look.’ He couldn’t tell, he’d been so preoccupied with her beauty he hadn’t really taken in the details. The high cheekbones were there but the luscious mouth and hair were all wrong. ‘May one enquire in what connection this lady is sought?’
‘Robbery, sir.’
Pierrejean raised an eyebrow. ‘I am afraid this means nothing to me …’
‘The window?’ The PC gestured.
‘But of course … Jennifer, please help the officer.’
And within the space of two minutes, all fear of the law had vanished. The doorbell tinkled as Gaston pushed the shop door firmly shut, with a look of bewilderment.
The phone rang and rang. Frost sighed and reached for a cigarette, then remembered he had smoked his last one. Blast. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. And for now he was alone in Eagle Lane; Simms had a lead from a milkman on the One Tree Hill paperboy – the dairy had put them in touch and the milkman had confirmed seeing him at the start of his round. Frost drummed the desk, anxiously. Where was she? He had finally come to terms with Sue Clarke’s situation – it had taken a day or so to sink in; he had no idea what he was going to do, but they could at least talk through the possibilities. If he was indeed the father – which he doubted. This doubt had given him the courage to make the call.
Strange couple of days, he mused, hanging up the phone; as one life ebbs away a new one comes into being – when you thought about it like that, there was a beautiful symmetry to it; maybe fatherhood could be good for him. So why did he feel like scarpering in the manner of a teenage lad? Perhaps he was on the brink of a midlife crisis? He looked at the mounds of paperwork strewn everywhere – nah, he didn’t have time for a midlife crisis with all this stuff going on …
‘Ah, Jack, still here, I see?’ The superintendent appeared from around the corner.
‘Flamin’ heck, sir, you gave me a fright.’
‘Glad to see you’re all wired up.’ Mullett regarded with approval the ominous grey console, then smiled and said, ‘Apologies for this morning’s little outburst.’
‘Forgotten it already.’ Frost was immediately on the alert – apologies from the super were to be regarded with extreme caution.
Mullett continued: ‘Getting caught out with a fake five-pound note might not seem serious—’
‘Get away with you, sir.’ Frost waved the apology aside. ‘Simms should’ve been on the ball more. And Bill too.’
‘Yes, well, it’s been a trying week for us all – especially you – but we do appear to be in the middle of a crime wave … yet again.’ Mullett paused hesitantly. ‘The Assistant Chief Constable has just been on the phone again.’
‘County HQ? To you, here?’ Winslow would have been impressed with that; Mullett in on a weekend. The super should be pleased, but he looked more shifty than ever. Frost felt a smile cross his face; what would Mullett make of Winslow’s rumoured homosexuality? His sense of order would certainly struggle with that one.
‘Yes, he’s up in arms about the rape at the school. A blight on the community, and so forth. Nobody is safe.’ His brow creased.
‘Understandably so.’ Frost rocked backwards on the chair. He was bursting for a cigarette. Perhaps Mullett sensed this; he took out his Senior Services and offered them up. He certainly did want Frost onside.
‘I need you to give the rape case top priority. I know there’s a lot going on – the Gregory Leather wages, for one … but nobody was seriously hurt.’
‘A man was shot! He’s on a ward on the same floor as Baskin as we speak.’
‘Yes, but he’ll live. And as for Baskin …’ Frost was about to interrupt but Mullett motioned him against it. ‘I know, I know – but just put this on hold until we have the rapist, OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, good.’ Mullett remained in the doorway, a strained look on his face, as if on the verge of either collapse or elation. Something was bottled up in there.
‘Anything else, sir?’ Frost prompted.
‘No, that’s it.’ He made to go, then paused. ‘No more limbs in fields, thankfully. The area has been combed.’ Frost knew Mullett had orchestrated the search himself with uniform.
‘Well, that’s something, eh?’ Frost said, cheerily.
‘I suppose,’ he said, but didn’t seem convinced. ‘But the rape case, Frost. Remember: the rape case is number-one priority.’
Mullett felt his colour rising as he walked at a clip down the corridor, such was his almost physical aversion to what he’d been asked to do. Though he was now in breach of orders, he’d found he couldn’t, he simply couldn’t do it. Having got wind of the school rape, Winslow had called fifteen minutes earlier; surprised to catch Mullett there, he’d insisted on the need for some positive news for the press conference on Monday morning: he’d repeated his instruction about Frost’s promotion; however, the superintendent was to do it then and there, that very afternoon. Mullett had scoured his mind for some recent example of Frost’s unworthiness, but he couldn’t think of a thing, not a single thing, to pin on the wayward scruff. He was cornered.
He thought back to Frost, sitting there in his reindeer jersey in that disgraceful office. Was he being unkind? The man had, after all, just buried his wife. No, his total lack of discipline and disregard for authority outweighed any sentiment. If Mullett could just hold back until they had the computers up and running he’d have him for sure �
� there was no way on God’s earth that buffoon would cope with the rigour of the IRIS system. It was the very definition of precision and order – or so he hoped. Maybe that was it: surely computer non-compliance should be made a disciplinary offence? If Frost failed to post his case movements on the system in accordance with the new ruling, he could be severely reprimanded and be made an example of to all the staff. But the system didn’t go live until Monday, and Mullett was already overdue in granting Frost’s promotion. He had to think of something …
Frost shook his head and picked up the phone. Something was niggling the super, and it was more than too much starch in his shirt. Nor was it this current crime wave – he knew how Mullett behaved under pressure, and this was definitely different. Maybe Mrs Mullett is making unreasonable demands in the bedroom, he snickered to himself. Anyway, he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Now Mullett had decreed the rape case should take precedence, he had to do some hasty regrouping. He wished he’d not sent Simms off fly-posting with uniform. If only he could get hold of Clarke – she was working the Marie Roberts case, along with Waters. And where the devil was he? Blast it! Frost moved aside the moulded-plastic computer keyboard. Forget the rape case for the moment, he was certain that the right thing to do this afternoon was to bother Hudson, the Bennington’s bank manager, about Baskin, and he knew he was right in not telling Mullett his plans.
He flicked the Rolodex round to H. Since the incident with Hudson’s nephew and a domestic-violence case last year he’d had the manager’s home number.
A mousy voice answered.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Hudson. I wonder if I might trouble your husband?’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘Detective Sergeant Frost of Denton CID.’ Frost heard her muffle the phone.
‘Frost?’ Hudson barked abruptly, forcing him to hold the phone away from his ear. ‘Frost?’
‘Steady, sir, we’re not all deaf. At least, not yet.’
‘What news on the five-pound notes? More have been found; I knew it – well, there’s more than one bank in Denton, you know, I—’
‘Hold your horses – it’s not about the forgeries.’
‘What the devil is it, then?’ he wheezed, having worked himself up into a state.
‘It’s about Harry Baskin.’
‘Wha— Harry Baskin? Why the bloody hell are you disturbing my Saturday afternoon to talk about bloody Harry Baskin?’
‘I’m worried about his financial affairs.’ Frost assumed an air of concern.
‘What would I know of his financial affairs?’
‘You are his banker, are you not?’
‘I …’
‘And would therefore know plenty about his financial affairs.’
‘That sort of information is confidential between the bank and the client—’
‘And the police when the client is in hospital with a gunshot wound.’
‘I heard about that.’ His tone was now more measured. ‘But what does that have to do with his dealings with Bennington’s Bank?’
‘That’s for me to find out, isn’t it? Was Harry brassic?’
‘I’m not sure this is orthodox. It’s certainly not information I wish to divulge over the telephone line. I’ll have to run this by Stanley. Call me back on Monday.’
‘Yes, I could do that,’ Frost agreed. ‘In the meantime, I could have a pint with my friend Sandy at the Denton Echo; just the one, mind; wouldn’t want to get too juiced and spill the beans on Bennington’s dishing out funny money—’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Non-cooperation is enough to drive a policeman to drink, you know – a policeman with no leads is …’ he pondered, ‘… easily bored.’
A deep sigh came down the line. ‘Baskin has an extended overdraft facility.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning, Sergeant, he owes the bank money. It’s no secret that the construction arm of his operations went under just after he opened his sauna.’
‘“Construction arm of his operations”? You mean that bunch of Irish layabouts who pretended to rebuild Eagle Lane last spring?’ Frost snorted in derision.
‘The very same – the withholding of payment by the police authorities was, I believe, a contributory factor … and that’s as much as I’m going to say.’
‘Thank you, sir. One final thing – was he making the repayments OK?’
‘Business has improved – where and how, you’ll have to ask him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will continue to enjoy my weekend.’ And the line went dead.
Imagine that, thought Frost, replacing the receiver; Mullett holding out on paying the builders caused Harry to get plugged. He shook his head woefully and chuckled to himself.
‘Gordon Bennett, what a tip!’
Frost looked up in surprise – it seemed his mention of the shady journalist to Hudson had conjured up the man himself. ‘Talk of the devil. Chuck us a smoke, would you, Sandy?’
‘And that jumper – get away! Are you some sort of grotto elf on the weekends?’
‘I’ll damage your ’elf in a minute, cheeky bleeder.’
As he took a cigarette from the pack held out by Lane, Frost winced – a thumping headache had crept up on him. He figured he needed to eat something. The Eagle did pasties – maybe they’d still have some left over from lunch. ‘Flaming hell!’ he cursed, almost tripping over the Smith Corona, which for some unknown reason had been chucked on the floor amidst a stack of papers. Did the arrival of the computer age mean the typewriter was consigned to the museum? Jesus, things were worse than he thought.
‘How did you get in here, anyway? We’re not a public convenience for every Tom, Dick and Harry to wander into when they feel like it.’
‘I’m not just anyone, Jack. Told Bill Wells we had an appointment, didn’t I.’
Frost reached behind the door and pulled his mac off the peg. ‘All right, all right, let’s get out of here and nip into the Eagle, and you can tell me all you know about Harry Baskin.’
‘Me tell you?’ Lane exclaimed. ‘You’re the copper.’
‘Granted,’ he said with a yawn, ‘but despite an in-depth investigation, I’ve come up with bugger all, so a change of tack is required – indeed, I need to start raking through the squalor of gossip and hearsay … and what better place to start?’
‘I resent that.’ Lane sniffed.
‘Oh come off it, Sandy.’ He held the door open. ‘You’d be mortified if I’d said anything less.’
DC Derek Simms stood on the patio as Toby Clunes forked the earth energetically in the last of the afternoon sun, watched by his five-year-old son. The boy wore a look of wonder, as though his father were performing a task of biblical proportions, such as unearthing a tomb, and not just digging manure into the veg plot. Could this be him in five years, with Sue Clarke and their child, in a terraced house in North Denton? The milkman was in his late twenties perhaps, so would have been around the age Simms was now when his son was born, and he looked contented enough. Simms examined his feelings … Was there a tug of longing there? He shivered involuntarily.
‘That’ll do.’ Clunes wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘Run along inside to Mummy, Thomas, there’s a good lad, while Daddy has a chat with the man.’ The boy regarded Simms with caution, then, sidestepping him, scooted off behind him into the house.
‘Sorry to keep you, but it’s been stinking the place out all day,’ apologized Clunes, spearing the ground with his fork and striding over to greet him. ‘Dreadful shame.’ He sniffed. ‘Not an accident, you think?’
‘We’re exploring a number of possibilities,’ Simms said non-committally. Frost had warned him to be careful how he phrased the paperboy’s death so as not to bring about a panic and, as Frost had crudely expressed it, ‘the total cessation of paper deliveries in Denton because mums are keeping their cherubs at home’.
‘I see,’ said the milkman. ‘All I can really tell you is I saw the lad most days, but only
to exchange a nod or a “wotcha”.’
‘Around what time?’
‘Like clockwork – about ten past seven.’
‘So it would’ve still been dark?’ Clunes nodded. The boy must have been killed not long after the milkman saw him. ‘And where was this?’
‘The top of One Tree Hill, Wessex Crescent – all round there.’ Mullett’s road, Simms knew that much.
‘Why would the lad hoick a full bag all the way up that hill?’ Simms mused aloud. ‘Why not do the flats at the bottom of Wells Road first?’
‘He’d do a circuit; up around the town hall and past the hospital. I saw him sometimes up over that way.’
‘Gotcha.’ Simms cursed himself for not properly checking the route. The newsagent had merely told him it was very spread out.
‘They certainly make those kids work hard for their two quid,’ Clunes commented, smiling at his boy who was waving through the kitchen window.
‘Yeah, they do,’ Simms agreed. ‘Is there anything you can recall that was out of the ordinary that morning? A speeding car or bike, the sound of screeching brakes, something like that?’
‘Not really.’ Clunes shrugged. ‘I’m on auto-pilot, really, in my own little world. It’s starting to get really cold now – that morning frost has a bite to it – so I’m all for getting round as quick as possible. And at seven I’m at the end of the run and starting to feel it.’
‘I understand, Mr Clunes, but, you do realize you were the last person to see Philip Chilcott alive – ten minutes after you saw him, he was found dead.’ Simms waited for this to sink in.
‘I’m racking my brains, honest. It’s horrific … It was dark, you know?’ he protested lamely. Simms felt for him: how could a milkman who’d got up way before dawn be expected to be alert for anything out of the ordinary.
‘Well, if you do think of anything, give me a ring.’ He handed over a card.
The man acknowledged it and said, ‘The thing is, if anyone was going to do the boy in deliberately, they’d have seen my float beforehand, wouldn’t they? So they’d wait until I was gone?’
‘Maybe.’ Simms sighed. Be that as it may, someone must have seen or heard something. He’d get uniform to canvass the whole area again.