by Henry James
She nodded a hello before passing and then increasing her pace.
He had seen her before, he was sure – with even less clothing on. Down by the north car park, that was where they came to do it, in the summer. Groups of them, sometimes. Men and women.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,’ Superintendent Stanley Mullett said loudly. He was standing between a desk and an incident board at the front of Denton Police Station’s scruffy briefing room. ‘Gather forward, gather forward,’ he added, noticing the lack of personnel, even for a Sunday.
Mullett self-consciously fiddled with his papers while there was the noise of people slowly shuffling forward and changing seats. The new divisional commander was already regretting his decision to come to the station, straight before the golf club, despite the fact that his beige trousers were sharply creased and his Pringle sweater was neatly pressed too.
However, when the Sunday newspapers had dropped on to his doormat Mullett had realized he needed to be at that morning’s briefing. And there wouldn’t have been time to change into uniform and then back into his golfing attire, and there was no way he was going to miss the tee-off time. Despite his exalted position in Denton, he was still very much the new boy at the Royal Denton Golf Club.
‘It has come to my attention that certain members of the fourth estate are already making enquiries about twelve-year-old Julie Hudson,’ Mullet said, suspecting there was a leak from the station.
‘The Southern Estate, did you say?’ coughed someone to his side.
‘No, the fourth estate,’ repeated Mullett. He continued, ‘The press, the press.’ He paused. ‘By the way, where is everyone?’ There were fewer than a dozen officers in the room. A scattering of plainclothes and uniform.
‘The clocks went back, not forward, last night,’ snapped Mullett. ‘There really is no excuse.’ He slapped the Sunday Mirror on to the desk. Lifting his head, in an attempt at conveying superiority, he caught a couple of people bemusedly studying their watches.
Only six months into the job, Mullett was having a desperate time trying to gain control of the overstretched and under-resourced station. The Denton Division had been the laughing stock of the county. No one, except possibly Detective Inspector Jim Allen, had a clue what they were meant to be doing. But Allen was in the middle of a walking holiday in the Peak District, and Detective Inspector Bert Williams, who should have been in charge this morning, was nowhere to be seen.
It was just as well that Mullett had made the detour between home and the club. ‘See this,’ he said angrily, unfolding the rag, and holding it up for the benefit of the half-empty room.
‘You’re holding it upside down, sir,’ prompted the long, pale face of PC Pooley.
Flustered, Mullett turned the paper the right way up. ‘What it says, right across the front page – and I quote – is, “COPS BEATEN BY CHILD MOLESTERS”. Inside, the paper details what it claims are the mistakes police, right up and down the country, are making by not monitoring paedophiles. We’re being accused of rape and murder.’
A terrible squeaking sound was coming from the middle of the room.
‘These seats, sir. Sorry,’ apologized Detective Constable Arthur Hanlon. ‘There must be something wrong with them.’
Mullett was not going to enter into a discussion about the new office furniture. He was aware that people had already been grumbling, the ungrateful slobs.
‘When I want your opinion, Detective, you’ll know about it.’ Mullett’s stride was well and truly ruined – and it was only ten past nine in the morning. He looked about the room, hoping DI Bert Williams might have materialized, ready to take over with the finer details, as per his duty. But he was still nowhere to be seen.
Right, Mullett said firmly to himself; he was not going to be derailed by a lack of attendance and discipline. ‘Now, while the nature of Julie Hudson’s disappearance bears some similarities with the case of Miranda Connelly – the girl who was snatched from a department store in Bath last July – there are enough differences for me to believe at the moment that there is no connection. Notably, Miranda Connelly was a good four years younger, and the store in question had virtually no security. I don’t like to say it, but it was a case of somewhat easy pickings. Aster’s, as we all know, is a famously well-run ship – the pride of Denton.’
There was a titter from the floor, but Mullett didn’t bother to look up. ‘I doubt very much that Aster’s was being targeted by a paedophile. No. In fact, I don’t believe Julie Hudson was snatched by anyone,’ he continued. ‘And the last thing I want is for the press to start printing such nonsense.’ He paused, running his fingers down his newly trimmed moustache. ‘Where’s DC Clarke?’
‘She’s off duty today, sir,’ replied DC Hanlon, accompanied by more of the awful squeaking.
‘Taking a well-deserved rest,’ someone else chipped in. ‘Frisky little thing.’
As a further bout of tittering subsided, Mullett said calmly, ‘Hanlon, you were with DC Clarke when she interviewed Mr and Mrs Hudson together yesterday evening at their home. I’ve read Clarke’s report – am I right in thinking there are good grounds to believe that Julie has in fact run away?’
‘That’s the impression we both arrived at, sir,’ said Hanlon. ‘As you will have read, Mr and Mrs Hudson appear to have a number of personal issues, to say the least. Frankly, they could barely look each other in the eye. And the girl’s bedroom was suspiciously tidy, as if one of the parents had hurriedly cleaned the place up.’
Mullett wasn’t sure how much he trusted DC Clarke’s intuition; she seemed rather immature and impressionable. Or Hanlon’s for that matter. The great oaf was too fat to take seriously. Yet he was willing to give them credit here. A girl running away from home seemed straightforward enough, even for them. What he didn’t need was pressure from the press drumming up hysteria. He knew how pernicious they could be, having been bitten once before – it had nearly ended his career.
‘Thank you, Hanlon. One of the reasons why I wanted to be here this morning, having been alerted to what our friends in Fleet Street are trying to cook up, is to make sure we approach this case with an appropriate and proportionate response.’
Mullett’s mind flashed to the evergreen fairways of the Royal Denton Golf Club, and the impressive men making up this morning’s foursome. ‘I shouldn’t have to spell it out,’ he said, knowing that was exactly what he’d have to do, ‘but we don’t want any unnecessary attention. Which would distract us from our proper investigations.’
‘Does that mean, sir,’ asked DS Frost, slumped in a seat at the back, puffing away, ‘that you don’t want us to go public on this missing Julie Hudson?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m ordering – for the time being. I don’t want public lynchings breaking out in Denton, just because a few tabloid hacks have it in for the police. DI Williams is in charge of this case. When he gets in. For the time being …’ Mullett quickly glanced about the tatty room. It was going to take a lot more than the addition of a few modern comforts to get the place up to a standard befitting a modern division. ‘For the time being,’ the station commander repeated slowly, ‘DS Frost will be handling the investigation.’
Mullett doubted Frost could do a worse job than DI Williams, and he was, worryingly, the highest-ranking officer present. ‘I suggest, Frost,’ he added, ‘you and Hanlon get straight over to the Hudsons’ home and get this matter ironed out.’
As he was heading for the exit Mullett suddenly stopped in his tracks, and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Oh, and I’d also like to remind everyone that the canteen will be shut as of tomorrow, when we embark upon the next stage in the station’s renovations. A replacement trolley service will be coming round throughout the day.’
With that Mullett was out of the briefing room and marching down the corridor, only to feel a tap on his arm.
‘A quick word, Super.’ It was DS Frost. ‘Bert, sorry, DI Williams, had asked me to process the October crime cl
ear-up stats for County, which, as you know, are due in tomorrow first thing. But with me taking over the Hudson case, I don’t see how I’m going to make this deadline. There’s an awful lot of paperwork.’
There was a strong smell of tobacco, and cheap aftershave. The detective sergeant looked smart enough, if a little crumpled – suited, but the Paisley tie had seen better days. He was of medium height and build, with thinning, light-brown hair, intense dark eyes and an almost permanent grin on his face. Mullett could never be sure whether Frost was being mocking or friendly. ‘You’ll get it done, Frost,’ he said. Though dismayed, Mullett was not surprised to hear that Williams had tried to pass on yet another one of his duties.
‘Enjoy your golf, sir,’ Mullett heard Frost shout from the other end of the corridor.
‘Any sign of Inspector Williams?’ Mullett asked irritably, not even looking in Station Sergeant Bill Wells’s direction, as he was striding across the lobby.
‘No, sir,’ said Wells, from behind the front desk. He was quickly shuffling the duty roster over his Pools coupon. ‘No sign, sorry, sir.’
‘Keep trying.’ A few paces on, Mullett added, ‘Sunday morning or not, it wouldn’t do any harm if you looked a little more alert. And this lobby is a bloody disgrace. But not for much longer – the decorators will be starting in here too in the next few days. I want the public to feel not just welcomed when they visit the station, but to realize we’re in a properly organized division too. It’s not a tatty social club, you know.’
With that Wells watched the tall, straight-backed Mullett, in his ridiculous golfing gear, delicately push his way through the lobby doors, which Wells had to concede could do with a lick of paint, and march across the yard to his gleaming Rover, neatly aligned in the super’s special parking slot.
It’s all right for some, Wells thought, retrieving his Pools coupon: golf, Sunday dinner, followed, no doubt, by a long snooze. He looked down at the scruffy receipt. He definitely hadn’t won.
The phone rang the second Wells was reaching for his tea mug. Control was putting through calls to the front desk because they were understaffed – part of Mullett’s bloody new cost-cutting regime, which was hitting the weekends worst.
‘Can you speak up,’ Wells said. ‘What was that? You’ve just seen a van circling Market Square?’
‘Yes,’ the softly spoken male voice replied. ‘At least half a dozen times.’
Wells thought he could detect a trace of an Irish accent. His heart skipped a beat. ‘What colour was the van?’
‘White. It was white.’
‘Any idea of the make?’
‘Ford Transit. No doubt about it.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the licence number?’ Wells asked hopefully.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And?’
‘Hang about a moment. Yes, here it is: N16 UES.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Wells fumbled for his pen and the call-register log. ‘Can you repeat that, please? Hello? Hello?’
The man had rung off, before Wells had had time to slide open the panel behind him and alert PC Ridley, the duty controller, to listen in. Bugger, he said to himself. All he could remember of the licence number was that it had an ‘N’ and an ‘S’ in it, and maybe an eight too.
‘Look who we’ve got here – it’s the Old Bill.’ Frost had appeared in the lobby, making for the exit.
‘Hello, Jack, off somewhere nice?’
‘You know me, Bill, and my love of the great outdoors. Talking of which, I don’t suppose Inspector Allen’s rung in from his hols? There’s some info missing from the crime clear-up stats I’m meant to be processing for County HQ. Maybe I’ll leave the lot on his desk for his return, and he can join up the dots.’
‘Jim Allen’s not going to like that. Nor is the super, Jack, if it’s late. Allen’s away for another week.’
‘They get paid more than us, Bill. Let’s not forget.’
‘I haven’t, Jack.’ As Frost was nearing the exit, Wells added, ‘Oh by the way, Jack, it probably isn’t anything, but a man just rang in to say he’d seen a white van being driven round and round Market Square.’
‘I don’t suppose he kindly supplied the licence number as well?’
‘No … not all of it. But he said it was a Transit.’
‘Did he now? Well, nothing to worry about then—’
Wells watched in horror as a disgusting mound of rags and bones entered the station and collided with Frost.
‘Jesus,’ a winded Frost spluttered, immediately starting to brush his mac. ‘It’s Steptoe without his son.’
‘Sorry, Mr Frost, I didn’t see you,’ croaked Desmond Thorley.
‘Looks like times are treating you as well as ever, Des,’ said Frost. ‘Amazing what riches lurk in Denton Woods.’
‘You’d be surprised, Mr Frost.’
‘I’m sure I would. So what brings you back to the land of the living?’ Frost had paused by the exit.
‘I want to report an incident,’ said Thorley.
‘Don’t tell me. On a dark and stormy night,’ said Frost.
‘It was morning, actually. And very cold too.’
‘Is that right? Well, old Bill Wells over there is ready and waiting with pen and paper. Spin him a good one and he might even fetch you a cuppa.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ muttered Wells.
Sunday (2)
Detective Inspector Bert Williams made one final lunge for his radio. Having been knocked from its holder, it was hanging near the bloodied handbrake. It should have been easier to reach there, but Bert was never going to be able to grab it from where he was, half in, half out of the car. He could barely move. Besides, he had no idea whether the radio still worked.
It had taken him the best part of he didn’t know how long just to shift his upper body closer by a few inches. Time had lost relevance. Life seemed to be slowing to a standstill. He knew he was shutting down for good.
He wheezed, bracing himself for another wave of pain to spread tightly across his chest. Flaming arseholes, it hurt.
Perhaps it would have been better if he’d been killed outright. Now he was left in the middle of nowhere to digest the fact that he’d fucked up. He was a better copper than that.
His mind flashed to Betty, making him wince. The compensation coming to her would be pitiful. He should have saved more carefully, planned for his retirement. At least then she would have been sitting on a tidy sum. The things he should have done – all very well to think about that now. What a bloody idiot he’d been.
And who would pick up the pieces? It was big, all right. He thought of Frost, his deputy. Was Frost up to it?
One way or another it was all there in the mountain of paperwork on his desk, back at the station, a fat file crying out for attention. Lucky, in some sense, that he never threw anything away, and rarely handed stuff back to Records.
But no one, not even Frost, would find what they needed – in time, anyway, to save him. Though just maybe, hopefully, in time to save other lives. Those bastards had to be put away. He’d never known a more ruthless gang.
Bert tried to pull his hand back and make himself more comfortable. His shoulder and his head were resting at an awkward angle against the side of the opened driver’s door. The handset was definitely closer, almost within reach now. If only the door hadn’t opened and he hadn’t all but fallen out. If only he had the strength for another lunge. If only …
Arseholes, he was tired. He tried to focus, not on the blood still seeping from his chest, but on the dense hedge, the other side of the ditch. The treetops beyond that. Denton was far in the distance. No one would ever come down here – that’s why he’d chosen it.
Sunday (3)
‘Steady on, boss,’ said DC Arthur Hanlon.
Frost had mounted the pavement while rounding Green Lane, as it led into Beech Crescent. He wasn’t even going fast. ‘Tight corner,’ he exhaled heavily.
Frost disliked driving. It had taken him
three attempts to pass his Advanced Police Speed and Chase Proficiency Test, quite a few years back, when he was still in uniform. He wouldn’t have bothered had it not at the time been obligatory. When Frost was with Detective Inspector Bert Williams, as he normally was, Williams drove, insisted on it, whether he was pissed or not. The inspector said it helped him think. Frost himself couldn’t do both – think and drive.
‘Here we are, boss,’ said Hanlon, once Frost was slowing on Carson Road.
Nosing the unmarked Cortina to a stop outside the Hudson house, Frost managed to scrape the hubcaps noisily along the kerb. Hurriedly he clambered out and lit a cigarette, taking two long, hard puffs, before throwing the smouldering remains on to the crazy paving.
Sensing something was wrong before he even reached the smoked-glass front door, Frost suddenly increased his pace. What was strange was the fact that there was no one anxiously peering out of a window to see who had pulled up, that the house was oddly still. The curtains were not drawn, the windows were shut. Frost stuck his finger on the bell, heard a ding dong and waited. Nothing. Impatient, he rapped on the glass, to no effect.
‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s home, boss,’ said Hanlon behind him, still catching his breath.
‘I’d rather you didn’t call me boss, if that’s all right, Arthur. It might give me ideas above my station. You wait here, I’m going round the back.’
Left on his own, Hanlon bent down and peered through the letterbox. He caught a whiff of Alpine air freshener – he didn’t remember that from yesterday evening. He heard nothing and saw only an empty hall. Standing up, he tried the door. Locked. Turning round he noticed a neighbour, a young woman, in a house across the way, staring at him from behind half-open curtains, then he noticed someone else, older, in another front window, and another. It felt like the whole street was watching him.
From the back of the house he heard the sound of breaking glass, then a thump and a muffled crash.
‘Jack?’ he shouted, knowing he couldn’t leave the front door, having been told to wait there. He braced himself. ‘Jack?’ he repeated, alarmed.