by Henry James
‘I know, I know.’ Frost ran his fingers through his unwashed hair.
‘Think, Jack. Is there a connection with Baskin? Were you two up to something?’
‘What, someone wanted to bump us both off? Nah, we weren’t – aren’t – up to anything … And we’re not even close to resolving who did the hit on him.’
‘Anyone who might have a grudge?’
‘Can’t think of anybody – after all, my clear-up rate is rock bottom, even the super would testify to that,’ he joked lamely. In truth, Frost knew of a number of people who might have it in for him, but he had never allowed it much head space; how could a policeman do his job if he constantly agonized over potential reprisals?
‘OK. I’ve never seen the super that excited about anything, though.’ Waters sighed. ‘Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe somebody did have it in for Simms. Knew it was him getting into your motor – was following him, knew he was with you?’
‘Thanks, mate – nice to know that as a last thought, after, one, me killing him; two, somebody wanting to kill me; that three, it crosses your mind that Simms himself might have been the target.’
‘C’mon, Simms is much less obvious. Awkward sod like you, guaranteed to rub everyone up the wrong way. But maybe Simms just upset the wrong person. Think – what’s he been working on?’
‘The paperboy, which is probably just an accident or hit-and-run, and the robbery at Gregory Leather.’
‘Nothing conclusive there, is there? Have a serious think, will you, Jack?’ Waters looked gloomy. ‘I’m off to the lab now. Simms’s post-mortem.’
‘Yes, off you scoot. And you can tell Drysdale I’ll be along later – official or not. I don’t care what Hornrim Harry says, the boy was my responsibility.’
‘If you’re sure it’s a good idea.’
‘It’s never a good idea,’ Frost admitted, suddenly deflated. ‘Listen, what are you doing this afternoon? Fancy a ramble through the countryside?’
Waters rolled his eyes. ‘My cup runneth over,’ he groaned.
‘What’s up, sunshine?’ Frost teased, trying to lighten the mood. ‘You seem a little fractious this morning.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Waters stood up and stared. Frost blinked back at him, unmoved. ‘The job, man, it gets to me – especially when a copper takes a dive. I’m not as tough as some.’
Frost knew this was levied at him, but chose not to respond; it wasn’t that he was heartless, but he firmly believed that emotions added nothing to the job. At the same time, he was aware that trying to hide his own feelings, such as while his wife was ill, had made him disagreeable to work with.
‘Hey, you’re right. Apologies.’
Waters waved it away. ‘Forget it. I’m a lightweight when I don’t get much kip – had drunks fighting in the cells in the middle of the night before I was called out to your gaff.’
‘Leave them to it, I would.’
‘Me too; never mind.’ Waters smiled wanly. ‘I would dearly love to go for a ramble with you this afternoon but I got a lead on the Joanne Daniels case.’
‘Joanne Daniels?’
‘The girl raped outside the pub, Monday night – remember, you had me on a stake-out by the call box on Brick Road?’
Frost topped up his Scotch. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’d forgotten about that. What you got?’
‘This kid – also lives on Brick Road – works in the pub where she was raped; reckons his landlord’s a bit of a perv; he’s been caught going through a girl’s knicker drawer. Thought I’d check it out, given the origin of the phone calls.’
Frost grunted his approval. He liked the way Waters worked – relentlessly and clutching on to everything there was in the way of leads. He’d worked practically a forty-eight-hour weekend. Unlike some, he thought, his mind flipping to Clarke, who’d gone away for the weekend and who had yet to learn of Simms’s murder. He winced at the prospect of informing her of the death of her colleague and lover. From what the boy had said before he died, he figured she’d take it pretty badly.
‘You go easy on that, you hear?’ Waters said, pointing to the bottle. ‘Get something to eat.’
Frost ignored him; instead he picked up the phone and dialled Arthur Hanlon’s number – a number he knew by heart; the pair went back a long way. Good old solid, dependable Hanlon.
‘Arthur, it’s Jack. Meet me at the Coconut Grove at midday.’
Louise Daley had slept like a log; long, deeply and peacefully. Waking at close to ten, lucid and surprisingly clear-headed, she realized what she’d done last night was risky; but she’d done what she’d set out to do.
Admittedly, she’d had a drink or two and that had fuelled her enthusiasm, but hell, she’d have broken into that bastard’s house and knifed him in his own bed, if necessary.
Daley played the events back her mind, with a smile on her face. On hearing Frost’s address reeled off at Palmer’s dinner table, she’d felt compelled to act. She’d been harbouring a burning desire to slay Jack Frost – in revenge for shooting her uncle Joe Kelly dead in Denton woods, and leaving her half-brother Blake Richards crippled for life – so when this crucial information was tossed in her lap it was too good to resist. She propped herself up in bed, her hands itchy. She looked at them with distaste, and in the half-light saw dark patches of dried blood.
Having left Palmer’s at near midnight, Daley had driven back from Rimmington to Denton and parked round the corner from Frost’s road, Vincent Close. She knew Denton like the back of her own blood-encrusted hand and had no problem finding the street. Daley couldn’t recall Frost in person – she’d seen the odd press photo but had barely glimpsed him in the flesh – but that bloke at the dinner last night, the brash car dealer with the bust nose, had been ridiculing Frost’s motor, so she knew which car to look for. The dealer was Frost’s brother-in-law, and clearly hated him as well … Little did he know what his slip of the tongue had given rise to!
Daley went into the bathroom and filled the cracked basin with water. She picked at the dried blood covering her hands. As the brown flakes swirled in the scalding water she thought of the murder weapon – a bayonet lifted from Marty’s cabinet. (She had not banked on such good luck, and so had left the Beretta at the flat.) Upon her arrival at Palmer’s farm, ahead of the other guests, her host had insisted on showing off his extensive collection. And extensive was the word; it stretched well beyond his fabled assortment of shotguns and included all manner of weapons from both World Wars, such as the German bayonet she’d swiped on her way out.
In Frost’s road she had spied the Cortina – but it was parked beside the kerb, not in a driveway. She didn’t know exactly which house her intended victim lived in, so it seemed as if tonight’s quest might be over. She had lit a cigarette, and stood in the shadows thinking. Just then the upstairs light in a house near the Cortina went off, and abruptly she heard a front door echo in the icy stillness of the road, followed by footsteps. There was no sound of laughter or farewell to suggest the end of a Saturday evening round at friends’. Who would leave a house at this late hour and slip silently into the night – a policeman on call, perhaps? Without a second thought she reached into the deep trench-coat pocket for the narrow steel blade as she saw a man walk towards the Cortina.
Wait. The Triumph. Her car. It was still parked a couple of streets from Vincent Close. That stupid drunken kid had bumbled into her, causing her to bolt on foot like a frightened animal, all the way back to the Southern Housing Estate. High on adrenalin, she’d got back to the flat and downed half a bottle of Cinzano.
Hell, she’d got away, though, and with Frost out of the picture chances were she could slip away without difficulty – apparently he was the only one at Denton nick with any intelligence, or so Pumpy maintained. She’d get her motor later. Pumpy had revealed that Frost had been hell-bent on catching her since she escaped after the shoot-out last autumn (if she was still at risk, why did the great oaf offer her the hit on Baskin? He thought that
hilarious). She rubbed her hands furiously in the sink, and decided to run the bath too.
She had planned to finish off Baskin this morning. She needed that cash. When she’d tried last night to bring up the Friday job, Pumpy had put his finger to his lips and said business was not to be discussed in his home, only because that slimy butler was hovering … As the bath filled she started laying the nurse’s uniform out on the bed, but was interrupted by the phone in the hall. She froze. Only one person knew the number. She waited and waited, but it rang on, commanding she answer it, knowing her to be there.
‘Hello?’
‘Louise, sweetheart, I was worried I’d missed you.’
‘I was just running a bath, Marty, clearing my head.’
‘Good girl, very wise. You certainly put it away last night … Now then. Change of plan,’ he wheezed down the line. ‘Visiting hours are cancelled for today.’ He was referring to Baskin at Denton General. ‘A rozzer’s been murdered. Place will be crawling with coppers. Too risky.’
‘Oh.’
‘But swing your pretty arse down here later. You seemed well humpy last night.’ He rang off before she could answer.
‘Bollocks!’ she cursed. She wasn’t expecting that – Christ, she’d really screwed up. If she couldn’t finish the Baskin job he wouldn’t pay her. Palmer was keen on her but not that keen – for some reason her charm would go only so far with Marty, something she couldn’t understand (given his reputation and the double-entendre behind his nickname). She sighed. Funny he didn’t ask about the payroll job. Did he just assume she’d pulled it off? Nevertheless, she’d try and squeeze him later for some cash.
But in the meantime, why not work on somebody who would be susceptible to her charms. Tossing the nurse’s uniform back in the case she dug through the pockets of her coat until she found what she was looking for, a bent business card. On the back of the Avalon Antiques calling card was a residential number in flowery script. Yes, getting money out of this man would as easy as a walk in the park …
Sunday (3)
‘So tell me, mademoiselle, how come our paths have not crossed before?’
The ‘mademoiselle’ was purely for effect, but Charles cringed at himself for having said it – this girl exuded confidence and intelligence, and was unlikely to fall for any heavy-handed French charm. In truth he had never expected her to call the number he’d written on the back of his card last night.
‘Oh, I flew the coop a long time ago. I only come back to Denton occasionally, to visit my mother.’
‘And your uncle?’
‘My— Yes, and “Uncle” Marty, of course.’ She studied him with her sharp, green-brown eyes, tinged with tiredness perhaps, searching for a hint of sarcasm. The pair were in the poplarlined pedestrian avenue that crossed Market Square; it was a space of such a generous size that on a Sunday, with reduced traffic at its edges, it doubled as a small park for the centre of town. Charles noticed that strolling towards them down the path was a policeman, the second he’d seen since arriving ten minutes earlier to meet Ms Daley. Without a word Louise linked her arm through his. The unexpected close contact gave Charles a small thrill. The policeman passed without noticing the attractive, well-dressed couple, he in his late thirties in a mohair coat, and his striking companion in her twenties with her short auburn hair.
‘So, Charles, how do you come to know Marty? You seem to be from outside his usual circle of acquaintance.’
‘Mr Palmer is a businessman, as am I. And he also has a passion for antiques.’
Louise laughed. ‘I think you’ll find that Pumpy’s interest in antiques goes little further than weaponry. I saw the way you flattered him on that motley collection of tasteless old junk.’
‘As I said, I am a businessman.’
‘And what business do you have with me?’ She stopped, and turned to face him.
‘You are a very attractive woman, Louise. Intelligent …’ He paused; the right words eluded him. Her demeanour, her behaviour last night, her connection to Palmer, everything about her told him she was dangerous, and in combination with her beauty that was a powerful attraction. He craved the thrill of courting such a woman. But, smitten though he might be, Charles was still sensible enough to realize she wouldn’t have met up with him unless she wanted something too. And what was that likely to be? It could only be money. What else is there? he thought.
They crossed the top of Market Square, moving towards Gentlemen’s Walk and a café that Gaston had his eye on. Charles’s friend had talked about opening a bistro-cum-café on the pedestrianized street, though Charles himself was cynical; the idea of the British appetite evolving beyond eggs and bacon or fish and chips seemed to him unlikely, and even if it did, the climate would not support pavement-café culture for more than a week or so a year.
Charles’s companion gave very little away about herself as they drifted up the empty street, and he found himself waxing lyrical about his property in France. In short, he was showing off.
They reached Billy’s Café and Charles gallantly opened the door, but Louise stopped in her tracks, causing him to lose his hold on her arm.
‘I’m afraid I must dash,’ she said, removing her sunglasses.
‘Oh,’ he replied, disappointed. ‘But we’ve only just met.’
‘And very nice it was too; I’m just very shy – in public.’ She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly, to accompany the loaded remark.
He was quick to respond: ‘Dinner tonight – my place?’
‘I’m afraid I’m leaving Denton tonight.’
‘Oh. An early supper perhaps?’ He was suddenly filled with a desperate desire – he simply had to get his fill of her before she left town.
She looked at him strangely. ‘I’m a working girl, you know,’ she said brightly, unabashed.
He might have known. Though he suspected she was after his money, he did not expect her to be a fille de joie.
‘I see.’
‘But yes, OK, early this evening would be dandy. I’ve quite an appetite.’ And she ran her tongue suggestively along the bottom row of her perfect teeth – a gesture that was verging on the vulgar but that Charles found oddly alluring. ‘But I value my time highly,’ she added, lest there be any doubt.
‘I would expect nothing less,’ he replied, although his ego yearned differently.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, having noted his address, and promptly left him. As he watched her hurry back along Gentlemen’s Walk, he pondered why an intelligent girl such as Louise had stooped so low as to sell herself. The payroll robbery was one thing, for he was now sure it had been her – the Denton Echo reckoned the haul was in the region of three grand – but prostitution too? The British; he would never understand them. But it hardly mattered, since right now money was not an issue, especially when it came to one so beautiful. Having ‘acquired’ a painting worth several million francs, Gaston and he had decided they might as well quit while ahead, so they would soon be leaving Denton, but he would grant himself one last night of pleasure. Why not – they’d been few and far between since landing on these shores.
Frost stood alone in the cold, grey lab. Drysdale for once had the sense to give a few moments’ grace to the weary sergeant, for which Frost was grateful. Waters had already been in, but the Chief Pathologist didn’t quibble about the dead DC’s superior officer paying his respects.
Here in the silent, lonely room Frost succumbed to the pressure of pent-up emotion. Only last year he’d lost his boss and mentor Bert Williams at the hands of bank robbers. To lose another fellow officer, especially one so young, was shocking, and dreadful for morale. There was no denying it, regardless of any police endeavours the world was growing into a more dangerous place. It was this rising tide in violent crime that Frost found difficult to swallow. Simms’s plea for firearms only on Friday echoed in his head. ‘Fat lot of good that would’ve done you, son,’ Frost muttered to himself. It was clear that the young DC had not seen his assailant
coming. A swift jab to the lower back, a slice up under the ribs through the liver, and then, as the man buckled, a slash to the throat.
Frost sighed. He took a little comfort from the knowledge that the boy had died believing himself the father of Sue Clarke’s child. What, he wondered, did she tell him exactly? Frost naturally had kept to himself that he already knew about the pregnancy while talking things over with Simms, who had come to the decision that he would do the honourable thing and marry the girl. But what was Clarke playing at? It dawned on Frost that perhaps she was unsure who the father was. Why else tell them both? Again he grew vexed at the prospect of breaking the news to her of Simms’s death. She would hold him responsible in some way, without a doubt.
‘A shame,’ said the tall pathologist who had joined him in the room.
‘Risks of the job,’ Frost said quietly.
‘I suppose you know he always looked up to you?’ Drysdale remarked.
‘His mistake,’ Frost replied in a sombre tone. ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might be in any way useful?’
‘I told DS—’ But then Drysdale stopped himself mid-track, deciding to avoid a confrontation. Frost knew he was taking a gamble; the pathologist could pick up the phone to Mullett the instant he left the morgue and inform on him. ‘Very well, I can approximate the time of death, to midnight last night.’
Frost grunted. The attacker had obviously been lying in wait. For the first time it struck him that it could have been him here, pale blue on the slab.
‘The attacker was shorter, given the method of attack and the incision angle.’
‘Hardly a difficult assessment to arrive at, given that the boy was six two. Anything else?’
‘Blade was long and thin; length approximately eight inches.’
‘Any idea what it could be? Kitchen knife?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact; and, no, it’s not a kitchen knife.’
‘Go on; don’t keep me guessing.’
Frost could see he was undecided over whether to tell him, but knew he’d be unable to resist it; the pathologist loved to show off. ‘I can’t say for sure,’ he began eventually, ‘but the weapon was just that – a weapon – and not a domestic knife.’