First Frost

by Henry James

  ‘How do you know I was there?’

  ‘Fingerprints.’

  ‘Right. Yeah, well, so I did go to see Wendy, to see whether we could come to some arrangement. But she was terrified of what her bloke would do if he found out Julie wasn’t his kid.’

  ‘For good reason, it turns out,’ said Frost. ‘So you decided to steal your daughter, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. Look, I’d been away a long time. Things go round and round in your head. I couldn’t wait. I didn’t mean for her mum, for Wendy, to get bashed up. Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Half the division was out looking for Julie, too,’ said Frost. ‘One way or another, you’ve taken up a lot of our time.’

  ‘Look, I said I’m sorry. I just wanted to see my daughter.’

  ‘So what were you doing at the Coconut Grove last night?’

  ‘Drowning my sorrows, I suppose. When I knew you lot had been to my mum’s and taken Julie – I saw you – I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘And Harry Baskin didn’t like the look of you? Come on, Lee, you’ve got to help me now. Missing your appointment with your probation officer in Bristol is one thing, kidnapping a minor another altogether. As I see it right now, bit of spin here and there from us, and we can play it either way.’

  ‘I was drunk. I don’t know, Baskin obviously didn’t want me around.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t.’ Wright reached for another of Frost’s cigarettes. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Frost. ‘The thing is, you and I both know there are some new faces – or even old, should I add – in town. And Harry Baskin will no doubt be doing his best to provide some scantily clad entertainment. Now he’s not going to want an old lag stumbling around, mouthing off.’

  ‘Not my style anyway,’ said Wright.

  ‘Isn’t it? That’s how you got caught the first time, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve changed, Mr Frost. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Really? So you kidnapped a twelve-year-old girl?’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’ve given up all that big stuff – I only ever got involved in one serious job anyway.’

  ‘And screwed that up too.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back inside.’

  ‘From where I’m sitting, that looks exactly where you’re headed,’ said Frost. ‘It’s just a quick call to your probation officer.’

  ‘Please,’ pleaded Wright, ‘give me a chance.’

  ‘All right, one chance,’ warned Frost. His conversation with Lee Wright’s mother, Joan Dixon, had been on his mind the whole time. ‘Who’s the Irish fellow you saw in town the other day … when you shat your trousers?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘OK,’ said Frost, grabbing his cigarettes and standing, ‘have a good trip back to Bristol.’ He stepped over to the door, turned the handle.

  ‘Wait,’ Wright called out.

  Frost swung back round, faced the room and the sad, pathetic figure of Lee Wright.

  ‘This could get me killed.’

  ‘It’s your choice,’ said Frost, pulling the door open.

  ‘Joe Kelly,’ Wright said. ‘I was banged up with him for a short while in Dartmoor. Him and George Foster.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ said Frost, walking out of the room.

  What had Derek Simms done now?

  Sue Clarke, in the general CID office, stood up and walked over to the window. Jack Frost was getting into his car in the station yard.

  Apparently Simon Trench was screaming blue murder down in the cells, claiming that PC Simms had broken his nose. Clarke was hardly going to feel sorry for the child-killer, but she didn’t trust Simms’s motives one little bit.

  She supposed she should have thanked Simms for nabbing Kevin Jones, and putting two and two together over the little tyke’s ripped Denton FC scarf, in the new away colours, and Graham Ransome’s death.

  But she was still livid with herself for getting involved with Simms – talk about possessive. And now, with his assault on Trench, was Simms trying to ingratiate himself further, knowing how upset she’d been yesterday?

  Frost’s car pulled out of the yard and disappeared up Eagle Lane. Clarke returned to her desk despondently. Despite the sudden progress with the Graham Ransome case – she was just waiting for Forensics’ opinion on the scarf before she formally interviewed Kevin Jones – she couldn’t help feeling marginalized.

  Frost was preoccupied – with Williams’s death, she presumed – while everyone else was tied up with the Fortress investigation. It was reaching fever-pitch, with the top brass down from London and County, and all this talk of undercover operations, inside knowledge and the IRA.

  Even though she’d tried to make herself heard at the briefing, she felt she was being kept out of the loop. Also, it had just been confirmed that Simon Trench and Liz Fraser were to be dealt with by officers from National with psychiatric training.

  While the Prime Minister might be a woman, Clarke decided policing was still far too much a blokes’ world.

  She’d have to toughen up.

  Thursday (5)

  It was approaching mid afternoon, the light already fading. Frost sat on a cold, damp swing in the kiddies’ play area of the all but deserted Denton Rec.

  Mike Ferris, Frost’s contact at the British Telecom exchange, had come up trumps. Though now Frost needed to think, somewhere quiet and on his own.

  Frost stared at the names and addresses Ferris had provided, along with a series of logs detailing the dates and times of the calls between those numbers and the phone box on Bert Williams’s road.

  The information would probably have taken weeks to get had Frost had to apply for individual warrants. And while not all of it made sense, a couple of key things stood out.

  Saturday last, there’d been two calls between Aster’s department store and the phone box. There’d also been a number of calls between Aster’s and an address on Carson Road, registered to the one and only George Foster. Frost had a suspicion that this was the house opposite Steve Hudson’s, with the gleaming Jag outside and the underdressed floozy inside.

  Over a period of several weeks, there’d also been numerous calls between this Carson Road address, number thirty-seven, and Hudson’s Classic Cars.

  Frost knew he couldn’t go arresting people for making phone calls, particularly when he wasn’t legally in possession of that information. Yet a clear picture was emerging: Blake Richards, Aster’s new security guard with, of course, the very chequered career as a Met detective, had to have been in contact with Bert Williams on the day that Bert disappeared. It looked likely that Richards was also in contact with someone at 37 Carson Road – probably former Denton hardman and one-time Coconut Grove bouncer George Foster.

  The number of a Bath Hill telephone box also kept cropping up. Frost’s money was on it being where Joe Kelly, the ex-IRA gunslinger, ex-Dartmoor inmate and now full-time bank robber, kept in touch.

  Bert’s death and the masked gang were linked, of that Frost was increasingly sure, though he still didn’t know why Bert had kept so quiet about it all. What was also rankling was the fact that Frost had had no idea that George Foster still owned a property in Denton; for such a big-time name, who’d been in and out of the nick, it should have been common knowledge at the station. Such people needed to be kept an eye on.

  Frost lifted his head to see a couple of mothers pushing babies in prams in the freezing late-October gloom. Bert had children, Frost found himself thinking; he’d been a grandparent. Everybody had somebody, until they were dead.

  A woman in a headscarf approached the play area with two small children, tutting at the sight of Frost taking up one of the swings. He took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it wearily to the ground and got up, smiling at a small boy who giggled nervously back at him. The mother tugged the child towards the slide. Frost sidestepped an old, w
hite dog turd and walked slowly away.

  He was arching his back, feebly attempting to stretch some life into his knackered body, when a couple of people a short distance away caught his eye. They were walking slowly down the central path that crossed the recreation area.

  A woman, in her thirties, blondish, short, plump, was with a man, much taller, thinner, of a similar age but already balding.

  Frost hurried towards them, nearly tripping over a Golden Retriever as he crossed the wet grass. The dog bounced off happily enough.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Frost asked, catching up with them.

  The pair recoiled. ‘Mr Frost?’ the man said nervously.

  ‘Mr Litchfield. Coping all right?’ Frost looked into the lean man’s cold, pinched face, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘And Mrs Cooper, isn’t it, from St Mary’s? Out for a stroll?’

  Mrs Cooper nodded at Frost, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Maurice Litchfield said defensively, his voice strained and shaky.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Frost said. ‘Please do tell me. Because I don’t, half the time.’

  Litchfield stopped and turned to face Frost. The woman wandered to the side of the path.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be out catching whoever murdered my wife?’ Litchfield said firmly, collecting himself.

  ‘Haven’t quite worked out who that is yet, I’m afraid,’ Frost said, sniffing. ‘So far, it seems it could be any number of people. I’m guessing your friend over there might have some idea, the circles you two swing in.’

  Frost could see Litchfield getting agitated again.

  Frost fished in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘If we don’t get a break soon we’ll have to go public on this. Amazing what crops up when we put something juicy on the telly.’

  ‘What do you mean, “go public”?’ Litchfield asked anxiously.

  ‘Do I really need to spell it out?’

  ‘Yes, I think you do, Detective,’ Litchfield said, his bravado surprising Frost.

  ‘Your wife had a very active sex life, to put it mildly. You too, I’d bet, and your friend over there. A TV appeal for information would certainly attract the public’s attention.’ Frost paused, focusing on Mrs Cooper, who was well within earshot. He caught her glancing at Maurice Litchfield, a look of resignation across her face. ‘Do you want me to carry on?’ Frost asked, exhaling. ‘In fact, perhaps you can help me out with some of the more extreme practices and equipment. It’s a whole new world to me. A real eye-opener.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Maurice Litchfield spat. ‘My wife was raped and then murdered. My poor darling wife, my Vanessa …’ Tears of rage formed in his raw, swollen eyes.

  ‘How dare I?’ Frost snapped. ‘How dare you waste police time. Your wife wasn’t raped and murdered, and you know it. Your wife was asphyxiated while monkeying around in the sack.’ Drysdale’s quiet words came back to him. ‘Plastic bag over her head, maybe? Except this time someone left the thing on for too bloody long and she sodding well died.’

  Frost stopped, suddenly feeling very wretched. He looked up at the heavy sky, and said, ‘I don’t know how many of you were present, I’m not sure I really care. But stop wasting my time.’

  Litchfield looked ruined, his bottom lip quivering, his shoulders beginning to shake uncontrollably.

  Frost had to step aside to let a gang of boys hurtle past pushing a pathetic Guy Fawkes in a shopping trolley.

  ‘Oi, you lot! Watch where you’re going!’ Frost yelled.

  ‘Up yours!’ was the collective retort.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Frost,’ Mrs Cooper said, stepping forwards, as the noise of the boys died down, ‘is it usual police procedure to interrogate the recently bereaved so brutally in a public park? You should be ashamed of yourself. Look at him’ – she gestured to Maurice Litchfield – ‘he’s in a state of collapse.’

  ‘He’s only got himself to blame,’ Frost said, turning to leave. He wanted to get to Aster’s before it shut.

  Hanlon walked into the CID office, saw DC Sue Clarke sitting at the main desk, her head hanging low over a Forensics report. She hadn’t heard him come in.

  ‘Good read?’ he asked cheerily.

  ‘Just what I wanted,’ she said, looking up. ‘Kevin Jones’s scarf matches the piece of fabric I picked up down by the canal. Plus they found a couple of short, peroxide-blond hairs on that scrap, too. What’s more, they found teeth marks on it and the rest of the scarf, consistent with a large animal – a Labrador or Alsatian.’

  ‘Can’t believe the lout was stupid enough to hang on to the scarf,’ said Hanlon. ‘Do we need to get the doc to have a look at Jones’s hand, see whether they’re definitely bite marks from a dog?’

  Clarke took a sip of lukewarm coffee, threw the near-empty polystyrene cup into the bin. ‘Not sure we’ll need to. I’ve just been on to Harbinger’s, the sports shop on Gentlemen’s Walk. They recalled selling football scarves to a bunch of young yobs – in Denton’s new away colours – only a week ago. There hasn’t been much call for the new strip.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’

  ‘Be easy enough to organize a line-up starring young Jones. He looks distinctive enough.’

  ‘We’ll still need to get him to confess.’

  ‘To what, exactly?’ said Clarke. ‘Affray? Actually attacking the man and pushing him into the canal?’ She suddenly looked more resigned. ‘I suppose I thought we had enough evidence to pin him to the location and to the fact that he was set upon by a guide dog protecting its master.’

  ‘Hardly enough for a murder charge, is it?’ said Hanlon. ‘Let alone one involving a minor.’

  ‘I suppose, then, I just need an admission that he was there, with some others, and that they got into a scuffle with Graham Ransome, who ended up in the canal, dead. And hope the jury does the rest. I want a result.’

  ‘From what I gleaned of Kevin Jones earlier,’ said Hanlon, ‘it’s not going to be easy. You’ll need to scare the little shit. That way he might at least point the finger at whoever else was there with him. That lot have got no scruples, and if we round up the others, interview them separately, the true picture might emerge.’

  ‘I’ll try my best.’ Clarke rose from her chair, and gathered her papers. ‘But it doesn’t seem like a priority right now, with all this Fortress stuff. It’s going to be an uphill struggle.’

  ‘It always is,’ said Hanlon. ‘Guess what Liz Fraser’s up to now? She wants to retract everything she said yesterday, while Simon Trench says he’s going to sue us for brutality.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Fortunately,’ continued Hanlon, ‘Drysdale’s toxicology report came in this afternoon. Becky Fraser’s blood contained a huge amount of Temazepam. Seems she drank it with her milk. The little girl was as good as dead before she was suffocated. I already know Liz Fraser was prescribed the drug.’

  ‘How? I thought medical records were out of bounds.’

  Hanlon retrieved the empty brown plastic bottle from his jacket pocket and held it up. ‘Just found this in the bin in her bathroom. She was only prescribed these last week.’ He pointed to the label. ‘Should have lasted her a month.’

  ‘So that’s where you’ve been this last hour. But where’s Frost gone?’

  Hanlon shrugged his shoulders. Buggered if he knew.

  Frost carefully scanned the ground floor of Aster’s. It was near to closing time on a dismal Thursday afternoon, and there were no crowds around the bargain bins at the front. No crowds around any counter or display stand, in fact.

  What staff were there looked bored, desperate to get home.

  There was no trace of Blake Richards, or the other security guard, whose name Frost had forgotten, either. Frost headed for the manager’s office.

  The access to the admin floor, five flights up, was unmanned, all doors open. Frost walked straight to Ken Butcher’s office, remembering the layout from his visit with Hanlon last Sunday. The door was ajar and Frost strolled
straight in, saying, ‘Busy time of the day?’

  The smartly dressed and bearded manager of Aster’s had his feet on the desk and was reading the Racing Post. Startled, he quickly removed his feet, flung the paper to one side, sat up and straightened his tie.

  ‘Do you usually just barge into people’s offices?’ Ken Butcher said. ‘DS Frost, isn’t it?’

  ‘There was no one to stop me. What’s happened to the security around here? Didn’t see either of your esteemed store detectives on patrol, either.’

  ‘Ah,’ Butcher said. ‘We’re slightly understaffed today.’

  ‘I bet you were understaffed yesterday, too,’ said Frost.

  ‘I’m not sure I get your drift, Detective.’ Butcher shifted uneasily in his chair.

  ‘Blake Richards, not in today?’

  ‘No,’ said Butcher.

  ‘Or yesterday?’

  ‘I do believe he didn’t report for work either yesterday or today. Most unlike him. He’s been completely dependable up to now.’

  ‘And your other chap?’ asked Frost, searching his mac pockets for his cigarettes. ‘You have two security guards, don’t you?’

  ‘Keith Nelson’s been ill,’ said Butcher. ‘Flu.’

  ‘So what is it, a free-for-all downstairs?’

  ‘All my staff are trained to be vigilant,’ said Butcher. ‘We all do our best to keep an eye out for any untoward behaviour.’

  ‘No one spotted twelve-year-old Julie Hudson being dragged out of here,’ said Frost, lighting his cigarette. ‘And that’s not to mention fire exits being left unalarmed, and bits of your mannequins turning up at major crime scenes.’

  Butcher was looking more and more uncomfortable. He was now loosening his tie. ‘Yes, I heard about the mannequin parts being found in that van. Someone from your station rang me this morning. But for the life of me, I have no idea how they got there.’

  ‘Easily enough, I imagine,’ said Frost. ‘You’ve got a skip full of them out the back, haven’t you? Someone just helped themselves.’

  ‘But why?’ asked the store manager. ‘Why would they do that?’