by Henry James
Simms stopped at the end of the garden path, realizing he’d not told Frost about the lost forensic evidence: the bullet. He turned to see the upstairs light go off. It could wait; the sergeant had aged years since his wife’s illness and his eyelids were drooping by the end of the evening; he’d be sparko in a matter of minutes.
Unlocking the Cortina, with a warm feeling from the cheap wine and the relief of a burden shared coursing through him, Simms, although dog-tired, was happy. He was reconciled to the thought of a future with Sue, and the prospect thrilled him. He planned to propose when she arrived back in Denton tomorrow afternoon. This was the last thought Detective Constable Derek Simms would ever have. His body, in such a relaxed state, barely registered the blade entering, and not until it was twisted did he become aware of what had happened to him. Unable to cry out he slid down out of the car and slumped on to the wet cold pavement.
Sunday (1)
Detective Sergeant John Waters rubbed his bleary eyes, to snap himself awake. It was 3 a.m. and he was down in the cells at Eagle Lane police station, yet again.
‘Any more out of either of you and I’ll slap you both with a breach-of-the-peace charge.’
‘How’s that work, then? We’re banged up already – whose peace are we breaching?’ The football hooligan was less drunk but more red-eyed than six hours earlier.
‘Mine!’ Waters snapped. He held up the other man’s head; the wound appeared superficial. The man sneered at him through bloody teeth.
‘He started it,’ the other said limply.
‘I don’t give a damn,’ Waters said angrily. ‘Jesus, how old are you two – seven?’ He could curse Bill Wells for putting supporters of opposing teams in the same cell. That was simply asking for trouble. Waters turned to the duty officer standing in the cell doorway.
‘Constable, if there’s so much as a peep out of the children, cuff them, OK?’
‘Cuff them?’
‘Yeah – arms behind their back, in the most uncomfortable position possible.’
Waters, limbs aching, made his way wearily back up to the CID office. The big detective sergeant hadn’t realized the lateness of the hour until he’d been summoned downstairs again, so lost had he been in cross-referencing rape cases. He returned to a pile of witness statements and sipped his lukewarm coffee. He had something here, though: two teachers had reported attacks in the West Country by a man with a description similar to the one Joanne Daniels had given – below-average height, slight build. But did it tally with the Roberts girl’s description? He looked to Clarke’s notes – which said nothing. Strange; the attack took place in broad daylight – Roberts must have made out something, colour of his hair, for example. All Clarke had pencilled in was: Victim seems vague – shock?
Waters switched back to the other file; one of the teachers in the West Country had noticed a yellow sports-watch strap; she’d not recognized the watch brand itself, but as her attacker had pinned her to the wall she’d caught a flash of bright colour. The method of attack was similar to the Joanne Daniels case, outside a pub in an alley, but Daniels had not identified any such article—
‘Sergeant Waters?’ Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson’s appearance made him jump.
‘Johnny, you spooked me!’
‘Sorry, mate – didn’t know there was anyone here, I just tried to patch a call through – saw the light on.’
‘I was downstairs.’ He sighed. ‘Think that’s my lot – I’m off home.’
‘There’s been a body found in Vincent Close. I just sent an area car.’
Waters put his coffee cup down. ‘Vincent Close? That’s Jack’s street.’
‘So it is. Knew it was familiar. Just called him, but got no answer, then I tried Simms, no answer, then Clarke …’
But Waters was no longer listening. He belted out of the office and down the darkened corridor.
The knock at the door was loud and purposeful. Frost jolted awake. He was not a deep sleeper, more prone to hovering in a dream hinterland that could be easily punctured, especially after drinking late. He had thought he heard the phone but it was a sound he heard all too often in his sleep, so he’d rolled over. But the noise at the front door was very real and unmistakable.
The brass knocker thudded again. Was that Simms returning? Could he have only just left? He may have forgotten something, though Frost recalled he’d arrived empty-handed. It must be the motor. Frost groaned; the cheap wine had done its job, leaving his head dutifully foggy. He rolled over in the bed and opened his eyes. Beyond the nets – the curtains themselves had not been drawn – a familiar sharp blue whorl was rotating in the darkened street below, indicating an area car on his doorstep. Frost was not unused to being disturbed late at night, or in the early hours like now, but he sensed that something wasn’t right. Why, he couldn’t say, but his heart had begun to pound. Instinctively he knew something bad had happened. He flung off the counterpane and scrambled out of the bed. In nothing but pants and vest he stormed out of the room, kicking over a half-empty wine bottle on the landing in his haste to get down the stairs.
He opened the door, his booze-fettered mind unable to remember why his feet were wet – to be greeted by a sombre PC.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant Frost, but there has been an incident of the most serious nature,’ the uniform said. Frost didn’t recognize the officer; his features were in shadow, obscured by the lip of the Custodian.
Frost stepped out on to the path. Beyond the skeletal tree bathed in blue light was an area car parked behind his own Cortina. But he’d lent the car to Simms? He hurried towards the garden gate, ignoring a cry from the PC imploring him to clothe himself first. The road was still, the far reaches of it bathed in an orange glow afforded by the occasional street lamp. As he approached the area car, his feet prickling on the sharp, cold ground, he could see a figure crouching over the pavement next to his own vehicle, which was dusted with a morning frost – the car had clearly not been moved from where he’d left it, hours earlier.
Frost dimly perceived his next-door neighbour – still in her nightie – holding huddled against her her fully clothed teenage son; she was talking softly to a WPC. As he came up to his car the PC stood up and stepped back from the body. Frost knew that before him lay DC Derek Simms. He knelt towards his fallen colleague and took hold of his lifeless, bloody wrist, just as a screech of brakes pierced the icy silence with such severity that Frost thought his own heart might give out and he would join the dead man on the pavement.
Superintendent Mullett was having difficulty processing everything that had occurred over the last twenty-four hours. He’d slept badly as it was – worrying about all manner of things – only to be woken just before dawn with the news that the CID officer in charge of the dead paperboy’s case had been stabbed to death outside Frost’s house. It was vexing in the extreme.
He hadn’t managed to ask his wife directly whether, on her way in on Friday (why on earth did she still insist on shift work at the hospital?), she had accidentally clipped the lad on his bike. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it, for a variety of complex reasons that weren’t yet clear to him. He knew it was a possibility, and for now that would suffice – his ratiocination did not call for further probing. Mrs Mullett’s driving record was far from unblemished; prior to his arrival as superintendent in Denton he had had to brush under the carpet several embarrassing incidents. Until yesterday evening, when a uniformed officer rapped on the white-gloss door of 7 Wessex Crescent, Mullett had been unaware that DC Simms had instigated a further scour of the area. And now, bizarrely and alarmingly, Simms was dead, knifed whilst getting into Jack Frost’s vehicle outside the latter’s home on Vincent Close. What the devil was going on?
As if he hadn’t enough to contend with. Mullett’s mind had churned restlessly throughout the night. Should he promote Bill Wells to get into the Lodge after all? It might be very useful if he did subsequently find himself in a tight spot thanks to his wife. But that could
wait at least until Monday. Mrs Mullett bustled into the kitchen. He realigned his thoughts to the events of the small hours of this morning – the murder of Detective Constable Derek Simms.
Waters had already been assigned the case – Frost, due to his proximity to the crime, could not investigate it, and as a matter of procedure he would have to be formally ruled out of having any involvement in Simms’s demise.
The Sunday papers were placed silently on the kitchen table in front of him, and his tea was dutifully topped up; his wife was tiptoeing around him this morning, but he was too preoccupied to acknowledge her. Simms and Frost. Simms murdered. Was the maverick sergeant in some way implicated? Could it be that what had started off as a sociable evening between two off-duty policemen had turned into a horrible drunken row? Frost’s neighbour’s inebriated son had stumbled on the attack after a Saturday night in Denton boozing with his pals. He’d been in no state to identify the attacker, who had pushed the boy over and disappeared into the dark. The boy, who had hit his head on the kerb and passed out, had eventually staggered up out of the gutter and woken his mother, who in turn had gone to summon Frost, but it was not until an area car had arrived on the scene that he’d opened the door.
Mullett knew in his heart that Frost, even at his most volatile, had never so much as raised a hand against a fellow officer, not even Jim Allen, whom he loathed, and to suspect that Frost was in any way involved was just wishful thinking. But there would have to be an investigation, a very thorough investigation. During which time the ACC couldn’t possibly insist on promotion for the detective. In the meantime, he would put pressure on Frost to close the paperboy case; to say he simply fell off his bicycle, or something.
‘More toast, my love?’
Mullett eyed his lady wife furtively. ‘Yes, my dear, I could manage another slice after all.’
The superintendent bit smugly into his toast, not for a moment troubling to think why Simms might really have been killed, so lost in his scheming was he.
Sunday (2)
‘So, am I under suspicion?’
‘Hey, man, you know the drill,’ Waters said calmly, glancing at Mullett who stared out of his office window, not rattled in the slightest, a paragon of self-control. And controlled was the only way to do this; it was a matter of form, but it needed to be done delicately. Mullett was right, Frost had to be questioned and ruled out of any possible involvement in Simms’s death before they could move on. It required the finest skills of both men to pull this off swiftly. Waters watched Mullett sip his tea. Being the new man, he’d been surprised that Mullett had wanted him to handle this, and not his old favourite DI Allen, who would take extreme pleasure in trying to pin something on Frost.
‘The guy was killed beside your motor, and you were the last one to see him alive. Man, you gotta answer some questions.’
‘Yes, quite,’ Mullett huffed. ‘The teenage boy has no idea what he saw,’ he added pointedly.
‘Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Frost retorted.
‘Nothing,’ Waters soothed. ‘We just need to ascertain Derek Simms’s frame of mind when he left you, you know that.’ Waters was concerned for Frost, but reassured himself that there’d been no positive ID from the kid next door. Mullett had grilled Waters on the phone earlier a little too excessively; Waters had repeated to Mullett that there actually was a witness, but in the end had had to say point blank, There is no way this is Jack, to silence the divisional commander.
‘I know,’ Frost agreed. ‘I’m gutted for the poor lad. It’s odd – we never quite hit it off, but we had a nice evening, you know?’
Frost, who looked as though he’d been up all night – and more or less had – went into detail about how the evening had panned out in a matter-of-fact, measured fashion. Waters made the odd note.
After ten minutes, Frost had concluded his account. Mullett sniffed and nodded his approval, but Waters had the nagging feeling that Frost was holding out – not lying as such, but leaving something unsaid. Waters didn’t know the ins and outs of their relationships with Sue Clarke, but given the past connection between the three, it seemed very unlikely that Simms would stay for nearly two hours just chewing the fat or assessing the Marie Roberts case, as Frost had suggested, and not mention Clarke. It struck him as a strange omission.
As if reading his mind, Mullett chimed in, ‘And where is DC Clarke?’ The super was always anxious about his top female officer, but in a somewhat detached way.
‘It’s the weekend,’ Frost said. ‘Her whereabouts are anyone’s guess, young girl like that.’
‘No doubt,’ the super replied. ‘DC Clarke is also on the Marie Roberts rape case. If there’s any credence to this story that the victim might be lying, as per your conversation with Simms, it’s one less case to worry about. What do you think, Frost?’
‘If you’re asking if I think it’s possible she was caught having a quickie in the loo, then yes, I’d say things are pointing that way.’
‘I wouldn’t put it in such base terms as that,’ Mullet said sharply. ‘Wait until Clarke is back and then confront the girl. Clear this one up.’ The superintendent sat down behind the desk and, craning around the edge of the huge computer screen, leaned across towards them both. ‘But Simms’s murder requires a position more quickly.’ Waters could read between the lines at the intent directed towards Frost. ‘A comment will be required; “mindless thuggery” or “premeditated murder” of a member of the force.’
‘Maybe robbery was the motive; the attacker was interrupted before swiping Simms’s wallet or Jack’s motor.’ Even as he said it Waters didn’t believe it. He felt sure it was deliberate murder, but was Simms really the intended victim?
‘Cobblers,’ Frost interjected. ‘Vincent Close is a quiet cul-de-sac full of respectable punters who don’t make a habit of strolling about after midnight, weekend or not. The attack was targeted. The killer was lying in wait for Simms.’
‘Not necessarily Simms,’ Waters said.
‘Explain?’ Mullett prompted.
‘It was a dark, murky night. Derek was getting into Jack’s motor. Could be mistaken identity.’
‘Mistaken for who? Me!’ Frost exclaimed. ‘Why me?’
‘Come off it, Jack, it’s far more likely to be you than the boy, he’s barely out of short trousers. You’ll have offended far more people over the years.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Mullett agreed, brightening. ‘Indeed, it will be difficult to know where to start.’
‘Charming.’ Frost blew out his cheeks.
‘It’s got to be someone you’ve banged up. Someone with a grudge, who recognizes the motor but not you at close quarters – a hit man?’ Waters suggested.
‘I’ve only had that motor three years – I’ve not changed that much, put on a few pounds maybe, but certainly not grown six inches …’
Mullett pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Waters. ‘Yes, but think of all the people you’ve annoyed and irritated over the years.’ Mullett exhaled wistfully, warming to his subject. ‘Ex-cons, wrongful arrests, harassments; and that’s just the lowlifes. Think of all the respectable members of society you’ve offended with your brash, uncouth manner. And that’s without considering the vast number of members of the opposite sex you’ve abused over the years.’ Mullett whistled. ‘That’s quite a list there.’
‘Where were you late last night, sir?’ Frost asked, eyebrows raised.
The superintendent smiled an indulgent smile.
‘Well, if that’s all, I’ve an urgent call to make,’ Frost announced after a silence. ‘A plumber.’ Waters and Mullett both looked surprised. Waters wondered for a moment whether he meant a solicitor.
‘OK. Dismissed,’ said Mullett, his normal stern demeanour returning. ‘There’ll be the usual press conference tomorrow afternoon.’ Waters rose, anxious to be out of Mullett’s office.
‘Who’ll notify the boy’s parents?’ Frost asked.
‘I shall. As Divisional Superi
ntendent, the matter falls to me,’ Mullett said, deadpan. ‘And need I remind you both that a police officer’s murder is the most heinous of crimes and will undoubtedly make the national news.’
‘In general, I’m not a supporter of drinking in the morning,’ Frost announced as he opened his office door, ‘but today, I will certainly make an exception.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Waters said, following him in.
‘Out!’ Frost barked at the computer technician who was sat at his desk.
‘But it’s Sunday!’ he whinged. ‘How am I supposed to do this when you’re always here!’
Frost had a sudden twinge of empathy; after all, the man was only trying to do his job. ‘Give us half an hour, son, and it’s all yours, OK?’
Placated, the technician left them in peace. Frost pulled the bottle out of the filing cabinet and poured two large measures into empty coffee mugs.
‘Thanks, John,’ he sighed as he flopped into his chair.
‘For what?’
‘It didn’t occur to me until we were sat in there’ – he thumbed in the direction of Mullett’s office – ‘that if it became general knowledge about us and DC Clarke, Simms’s demise might be viewed altogether differently.’ He didn’t want to spell it out but Waters understood – the facts could easily suggest a drunken squabble over a woman.
‘Jack, it is general knowledge to the world at large – but unless it reaches the pages of the Telegraph it’s not going to trouble the super. And anyway, Jack, wasn’t that all over ages ago?’ Waters asked hopefully. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t have been spending your time playing chess with me if you had a better alternative …’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ Frost said amiably. ‘I’ll have you know I value our intimate evenings very highly.’
‘Well, don’t get too cute on me,’ joshed Waters, lighting a cigarette. ‘Mullett is right on this one – we’ve got to find out who did it, and be snappy about it.’