First Frost

by Henry James

  ‘Looks in pretty good nick to me. It certainly hasn’t been out in this weather for long.’

  ‘I know what it is,’ volunteered Thorley eagerly, ‘what it’s for.’

  ‘Number of uses,’ muttered Wells.

  ‘Evening all,’ Arthur Hanlon announced gamely, as he emerged from the interior of the building, pulling on his coat. ‘Looks filthy out. I’ve done all I can for today, so it’s a nice hot bath and an early night for me,’ he added smugly, now halfway across the lobby.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Wells. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Bill. Down in Records with Webster. What’s up?’

  ‘What isn’t? Another disturbance in Denton Close.’

  ‘That’s definitely Frost’s patch,’ said Hanlon quickly.

  ‘And Desmond’s turned up with this.’ Wells pointed to the mask.

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Hanlon moved closer. ‘Very interesting. Where did you get it?’ he said directly to the tramp.

  ‘I’ll show you, if you like,’ said Thorley.

  Hanlon huffed, looked at his watch, and shrugged. ‘Come on, then.’

  Thursday (10)

  They barged out of the pub and straight into a full-blown storm. Frost pulled his mac over his head, while Clarke battled with an umbrella.

  ‘Sue, come under here,’ Frost offered, fearing they were both in danger of losing an eye or two.

  Giving up with the umbrella, Clarke ducked her head and nestled in close under Frost’s mac. ‘Thanks. You all right, Jack?’ she shouted, as they were striding towards the station, into the driving rain.

  Frost realized he was clutching his stomach with his right hand. ‘I’ll be fine. Spot of indigestion – ate my supper too quick.’

  ‘You didn’t have any supper.’

  ‘Two packets of crisps. What more do you need?’

  Turning into the station yard, they were suddenly forced back against the opened gate as an ambulance sped out, closely followed by a panda car. The panda slowed as it passed them, then accelerated, blues and twos cranking up.

  ‘Your friend Simms needs to watch his temper,’ said Frost, who had clocked the driver of the panda. ‘One of these days he’s going to land himself in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘If he hasn’t already,’ said Clarke. ‘He’s not my friend, either. Though to be fair, he helped nail Kevin Jones.’

  They started running towards the entrance, as much to get out of the rain as through any sense of urgency.

  Wells was behind the counter, sipping from a steaming mug. ‘You’ve just missed all the fun,’ he said.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Clarke anxiously.

  ‘A prisoner tried to take his life.’

  ‘Don’t blame him … the conditions down there,’ said Frost.

  ‘But the fool only managed to make himself pass out,’ Wells continued.

  ‘Who was it?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘One Lee Wright,’ said Wells.

  ‘I don’t believe that little weasel would top himself for a minute,’ Frost said. ‘Cunning little bugger, from what I could make out. How?’

  ‘Concealed razor blade. Slashed his wrist.’

  ‘Jesus, and I bet I know where he stashed it. He’ll have learnt that inside. Who booked him in, then, that berk Jordan?’ Frost said.

  ‘Jordan, I presume,’ Wells said. ‘There was a lot of blood, Jack. Right mess.’

  ‘I bet,’ Frost replied. ‘All for show – oldest trick in the book. Damn, I wanted a word with him.’

  ‘We can ring ahead to the hospital,’ Clarke offered.

  ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t already leapt out of the ambulance,’ said Frost. ‘Where’s Hanlon? Has he copped off for the night already, having failed to get me that warrant?’

  ‘Nope – he’s gone off with Desmond Thorley,’ said Wells. ‘Denton Woods.’

  ‘Thorley, really?’ said Frost, searching his pockets for his cigarettes and retrieving a crumpled packet. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Desmond found a black leather mask, Jack,’ revealed Wells. ‘Yep, one of those, if you ask me. And for once I’m beginning to think it’s more than the sherry doing the talking.’

  ‘OK, Bill,’ said Frost, his mind whirring over the number of black masks he’d come across recently. ‘For the sake of my overloaded and underpowered brain, can you just run through all this again?’

  Before Wells could open his mouth there was a blast of cold air. Frost and Clarke turned to see a drenched DCI Patterson hurry into the lobby.

  ‘You following us?’ asked Frost.

  ‘Lucky I’ve caught you, Frost,’ said Patterson. ‘Just heard from my informer that something’s going down in Denton Woods tonight.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, an S&M orgy?’ quipped Frost.

  ‘The joke will be on you lot if you don’t move it,’ said Patterson. ‘Joe Kelly and his gang have been stashing their cash there. According to my lad Murphy, they’re going to divide up the lot and get the hell out of the country. They know we’re on to them.’

  Frost coughed, catching Clarke’s eye; she was looking startled. ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘they know the Denton Division is on to them. Thought the ATB was only interested in real terrorists.’

  ‘Don’t think it’s time to squabble about who’s doing what to catch this lot,’ said Patterson calmly.

  ‘What about Hanlon?’ interrupted Wells loudly. ‘He must be there by now, bang in the middle of it, unarmed and without back-up. Seems Thorley wasn’t seeing things, after all.’

  ‘Shit, of course!’ exclaimed Frost, turning towards the station exit. ‘Patterson, you better come with us. Sue can drive.’ Over his shoulder he yelled, ‘Bill, you alert Mullett, and see who you can rally and get on to Tactical. Direct them to Thorley’s lair.’

  A terrific downpour forced Hanlon and Thorley to hurry straight inside the rickety old carriage. As the rain drummed on the roof, leaks spurting here and there, and the wind rattled the windows, threatening to lift the roof off, Thorley searched everywhere for a drop of booze. On not discovering any, he stoked up the wood-burner and prepared his guest a cuppa from an old, used teabag.

  ‘It’s not every day I have the pleasure of company,’ he said theatrically, making space on the bench he clearly slept on, for Hanlon to sit down.

  Thorley then relayed once again the story of how he had found the mask, and what he was certain he’d seen the other night as well: a couple of men carrying something heavy over by the wall of rhododendron bushes. There’d been nights of odd noises and goings-on, which weren’t just the badgers and the foxes, he was sure of that. People had been coming and going, hiding stuff here, he thought. He’d seen them, hadn’t he?

  Remaining on his feet, Hanlon gingerly sipped his insipid brew; there was no milk or sugar. He had no idea where Thorley got his drinking water from. At least the rusty old kettle had boiled.

  When the wind and rain eased, Hanlon, desperate to get out of there, said eagerly, ‘Right, Mr Thorley, time for us to have a quick look around.’

  Thorley opened the carriage door and climbed down. Hanlon, holding a heavy torch, tentatively followed. Deep in the woods, the sudden calm was more unnerving than the earlier squall, and Hanlon began to question the wisdom of having driven out there at such an hour and in such sodden conditions. He should have waited until the morning. At the very least, he should have alerted Frost to this development and his immediate plans.

  But it had been raining so hard, and once he was in the car with stinking Thorley, it had seemed churlish to stop first at the Coach and Horses and barge in on Frost and Clarke’s love-in. Besides, Frost hadn’t looked well, and knowing Thorley, it would all more than likely lead to nothing.

  The pitch-black, creaking wood quickly seemed to close in around them. They hadn’t gone more than twenty, thirty yards, edging past a huge shrub, and Hanlon was finding it hard to keep his beam focused on Thorley and the way ahead, plus what
was underfoot. His feet were soaked and freezing already and he’d nearly tripped twice.

  It was as he lifted the beam, somehow missing Thorley entirely, that Hanlon felt something hard rammed into his back.

  ‘Don’t turn round.’

  Thursday (11)

  ‘Come on, Sue, step on it!’ Frost sat forwards in his seat as they skidded round the Wells Road roundabout and headed up New Lexington Road. ‘I’m getting a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ protested Clarke. ‘The road’s wet.’

  ‘You should have let me drive,’ said Patterson, in the back.

  ‘You stick to loading your shooter,’ said Frost dismissively. The ATB DCI had been fiddling with his Smith & Wesson Special since they’d left Eagle Lane.’

  Powering up Denton Road, the rain beginning to ease, Frost noticed the turning to Denton Close approaching. ‘Ah, look. We really ought to check on Maurice and his nocturnal gardening.’

  ‘Uphill struggle in this weather,’ said Clarke, keeping her eyes firmly on the road for once.

  ‘Uphill gardening’s one of his specialities, I should think.’ Frost coughed, as they sped past the turning and Clarke shot him a worried glance.

  ‘Control should have sent an area car,’ she said. ‘Dread to think what Maurice Litchfield’s going through.’

  ‘We don’t have time to worry about that now,’ Frost said. ‘Keep your eyes on the road, love.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing what the Denton Division can mobilize,’ said Patterson. ‘Once your boss has been located.’

  ‘You’ll be surprised,’ said Frost.

  ‘Of that I’m sure,’ said Patterson.

  Clarke gunned the Escort up Green Lane, the perimeter of Denton Woods on their right. ‘Which entrance?’ she asked.

  ‘The north one. That’s the nearest to Thorley’s place,’ replied Frost, as they roared past the turning to the south parking area, and continued round the woods. Trees were swaying in the headlights and huge puddles lay across the narrow road. ‘What’s this Joe Kelly look like?’ Frost glanced back at Patterson. ‘We don’t want him getting away.’

  ‘Small, wiry, dark-haired, mean little fucker,’ said Patterson.

  ‘Takes some balls to set up in competition with the IRA, I suppose.’

  ‘How do you know he’s definitely going to be there?’ Clarke asked, as she slowed the car.

  ‘As I said when I caught up with you at the station,’ said Patterson, ‘my boy Murphy heard through his sources that there’s going to be a distribution of the spoils of war, so to speak. What’s left of the cash, arms, you name it. They’ve obviously decided it’s time to disband and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘And all along the cache has been in Thorley’s backyard,’ said Frost. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Clarke swung on to a track, keeping up a swift pace. The car bounced wildly, spray and mud from the puddles flying up.

  ‘This means, though,’ said Frost to Patterson, ‘that you ATB lot thought you were spying on the real IRA, when in fact you’ve been watching a has-been turned bank robber, who’s hooked up with one of our home-grown talents and an ex-copper from the Met.’

  ‘Don’t forget the stripper,’ added Clarke.

  ‘You need to listen and watch a bit more carefully,’ said Frost.

  ‘Nothing’s completely black and white with the likes of Joe Kelly,’ said Patterson, ignoring Clarke. ‘According to our intelligence, and I shouldn’t really be telling you this, Kelly’s still in contact with the IRA and we still think a cell might have gone to ground around here.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have intervened earlier?’ asked Clarke. ‘Would have saved an awful lot of trouble.’

  ‘And a bloody life,’ muttered Frost, thinking of Williams.

  ‘We didn’t have enough to go on,’ said Patterson. ‘Besides, it was more important to us that we tracked down this cell. We had to see if Kelly could lead us there.’

  ‘And now, I guess, he’s about to scarper.’ Frost flicked a cigarette end out of the window. ‘So you’ve suddenly decided you better nab him red-handed. So what, you can cut him a deal? Get some names and numbers off him?’

  ‘We’re doing what we can to help, aren’t we?’ sniffed Patterson, flashing his weapon. ‘So what do the others look like? Who exactly are we after?’

  ‘George Foster,’ began Frost. ‘Haven’t seen him in years, but I shouldn’t think he’s got any smaller. Big meat-head, in his early fifties now, I’d say, always wore a lot of jewellery. Shaved head, et cetera. Blake Richards, he’s a little younger, though every bit as solid. Neat beard. Tidy hair. Too concerned about his appearance, if you ask me. Never trust a bloke with a beard,’ he added for his own benefit.

  ‘And the girl?’ said Clarke.

  ‘Oh yeah – Louise Daley, the driver. Now you couldn’t miss her, Patterson. Lovely bit of crumpet.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Clarke, bringing the car to a sudden stop and looking over her shoulder at Patterson. ‘Seems like your informer was right.’

  The headlights revealed three other cars in the parking area: Hanlon’s Escort, hemmed in by a Range Rover and a dark Jag.

  ‘What do I do now?’ Clarke asked, suddenly sounding nervous.

  ‘Cut your lights and pull in over there, between those trees,’ Patterson told her urgently.

  Frost leapt out of the car, feeling the sickening pain in his stomach as he stood. Hanlon’s safety was suddenly Frost’s most pressing concern, and then nailing Kelly and the gang. Behind him the radio squawked into life as Control told them the Tactical unit was on its way, along with two area cars and Superintendent Mullett, who was rushing from a dinner.

  ‘Somehow didn’t think Hornrim Harry would miss out on the kill,’ muttered Frost.

  Clarke gave the station their exact location, and said it looked like company had already arrived.

  ‘Remain where you are,’ Control ordered. ‘Back-up is on its way. Repeat, remain where you are.’

  ‘Sod that, Hanlon’s in there,’ said Frost, limping towards the path, one hand pulling his mac together, the other clutching his gut and a torch awkwardly.

  Patterson followed close behind, Clarke taking up the rear. Frost, holding the Maglite, pushed his way through the dripping foliage, stumbling over ruts and roots, through puddles the size of small lakes, his mac snagging on brambles, but going as fast as he could, as fast as the cramping pain in his stomach would allow him.

  ‘Hold up,’ Patterson whispered loudly. A sudden break in the clouds afforded them some moonlight as they approached a clearing, where the path diverged. ‘Where are we, Frost?’

  ‘It all looks different in the middle of the night, but from memory,’ Frost said, ‘the left fork leads straight to Thorley’s carriage, the right continues through the woods.’

  ‘If you go right, any way back round to the carriage?’

  Frost could make out Patterson had drawn his gun and he could hear Clarke breathing hard behind him. ‘Through a right load of crap, I’d imagine. It’s like a jungle over there.’

  ‘We’d make too much noise that way, anyway,’ said Patterson. ‘OK, here’s what we do.’

  ‘Since when have you been in charge?’ objected Frost.

  ‘We’re not playing cowboys and Indians,’ said Patterson.

  ‘Shush. Someone’s coming,’ warned Clarke.

  Hanlon was all too aware of Desmond Thorley fidgeting and grunting uneasily in what little space there was beside him on the filthy, damp carriage floor. The poor old tramp had taken a bit of a kicking.

  Hanlon had fared better at the hands of the gang, complying with their demands to walk back to the carriage without turning round, and then to being trussed up, gagged and blindfolded. With what felt like a double-barrelled shotgun in his back he wasn’t going to do anything else. Thorley, the fool, had expressed his outrage at the inconvenience.

  There’d been at least four of them, an Irishman and a woman am
ong them, so Hanlon had clearly heard. Though he hadn’t managed to see any of them. They were pros, knew what they were doing.

  Hanlon didn’t know where the gang had gone now. He was badly shaken, but at least he was now thinking he might not actually die.

  Then, instinctively, Hanlon ducked, or tried to, banging his head hard on the floor as the unmistakable crack of a pistol shot, then another, ripped through the woods, the carriage. It was met by two blasts from a shotgun. And one further, single crack.

  Clarke, her ears ringing from the blasts, could just make out Patterson hunkering down behind a tree, both hands on his revolver. She and Frost were on the other side of the path, crouching half inside a rhododendron bush in the dark, a small branch jabbing her right in the ear. Shaking, she was clutching on to Frost for dear life, terrified of moving even an inch.

  Some twenty yards further down the middle of the path lay a body. Just to the right another body was sprawled in the dirt, a shotgun on the ground a couple of feet away.

  From the moving shapes and panicked voices and one high-pitched scream during the initial volley of shots, Clarke reckoned there were at least another two gang members in close proximity. She was relieved that Patterson was proving to be such a good shot, but knew he could easily be outgunned. Clarke prayed that they didn’t work out only one of them was armed. Though those still alive must have been sensing that if they didn’t make a move soon they’d be facing a whole lot more.

  Clouds were scudding overhead as near-pitch darkness fell on the woods, to be replaced, almost as quickly, by eerie moonlight.

  Then suddenly a short, wiry man, clutching what looked like a holdall in one hand and a sawn-off shotgun in the other, appeared right in front of them. Clarke screamed – she couldn’t help herself.

  Frost immediately dived forwards, knocking the man to the ground.

  There was the deafening crack of a pistol again, a groan of agonizing pain, swiftly followed by two more shots. Another figure was pelting away up the path, someone smaller, more nimble, with long hair. A woman.

  Standing up, Clarke saw that both Frost and the man he’d tackled were lying twisted together and far too still on the wet ground. Patterson hurried towards her, breathing heavily, as she moved nearer the bodies.