by James, Henry
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Clarke, ‘you’re one of those men who likes to wear women’s underwear.’
‘The fire door,’ he muttered, continuing towards the changing rooms in the far corner.
At the entrance to the changing area was a desk and an unruly pile of numbered plastic discs. But there was nobody around, and even if there had been on Saturday, Frost doubted an attendant would have been able to see what went on further down the corridor. A returns rack blocked much of the view towards the cubicles and, of course, that fire exit.
He slowly made his way down the corridor before pausing to look back. Yes, it was certainly obscured. Nobody could see a thing: the security in this place, it was a joke.
Where the hell had Clarke got to? Frost pushed on towards the green double-door fire exit, and began rattling the release bar.
‘Excuse me, sir, can I help you?’ came an authoritative female voice some distance behind him.
He turned to encounter a buxom, middle-aged woman bearing down on him. Christ, he thought, it’s Mrs Slocombe straight from Are You Being Served? The buttons on her blouse looked as if they might ping off at any second.
‘No, we’re all right – just looking,’ Frost said, again glancing around for Clarke.
‘Looking at what, sir? These are the changing rooms for the lingerie and school-uniform departments. Menswear is on the second floor.’
‘In that case I appear to have made a mistake,’ he said, trying to avoid the woman’s suspicious stare. ‘This way, is it?’ he said, turning back round and giving the metal bar of the fire exit a hefty shove.
A shrill, deafening ring blasted out. ‘It works,’ he said, surprised, walking out on to the fire escape. That bloody store manager Butcher must have had the batteries changed. There was a worrying creak, more a crack, as he peered over the edge.
‘You can’t go out there!’ the woman was shouting behind him, trying to make herself heard above the piercing din of the alarm. ‘Come back at once, or I’ll have to get security.’
Ignoring her, Frost edged further out, clutching the rusty metal railing. He felt a wave of vertigo. Below him was a skip full of mannequin parts – lurid pink arms and legs and torsos, and the odd bald head. Beyond it was the loading bay, an articulated lorry parked up. The gates to the back of the building from the street – which must have been Piper Road – were wide open. There was no evidence of a security post, no one checking who was coming in and out.
The manager might have panicked and got the fire-exit alarm working again, but overall the store’s security set-up was poor.
The piercing ringing, Frost realized, had now stopped. He turned round to be confronted by the Mrs Slocombe figure. She had been joined by a burly middle-aged man in a suit, clearly a security guard. Both stood in the doorway, not venturing out on to the fire escape.
‘Sure this platform is safe?’ Frost gave it a good shaking before slowly stepping back inside. ‘I wonder what the fire service would have to say about it.’ He scrutinized the security guard more closely. He had a round, lined face, short, light-brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was a good three or four inches taller than Frost, and had a heavier build. The way he was carrying himself, all aggressive confidence, led Frost to think immediately that this was an ex-copper.
‘I’m guessing,’ said Frost, for once a name coming to him, ‘that you’re Blake Richards. Hoped that bell might get your attention.’ Frost pulled out his warrant card, and the security guard stepped backwards, giving Frost some space.
‘Bloody hell, is this how plainclothes dress in the sticks? Yeah, I’m Richards.’
The gist of earlier conversations Frost had had with Bill Wells and Arthur Hanlon came flooding back. ‘This what happens when a colourful career in the Met comes to an end?’ retorted Frost. ‘Spend your days mooching about the shops with a load of pensioners?’
‘Beats chasing petty vandals around the Southern Housing Estate,’ said Richards. ‘You know what they say about Denton Division – graveyard of ambition, staffed by a load of drunks and incompetents no one else will have.’
Frost slammed Richards against a cubicle door, taking the larger man by surprise. Ignoring the startled squeal from inside, Frost firmly held him there. ‘Any more lip from you and I’ll run you down the nick. Insulting a police officer . . .’
‘Touchy, aren’t we,’ said Richards. ‘Perhaps I should claim police brutality.’
Frost released his grip on Richards and, straightening his mac, said, ‘Really? Wouldn’t put it past you.’
The buxom floor manager butted in. ‘Do you think we could carry on this, uh, conversation in Mr Butcher’s office?’ she said brightly.
‘No need, I won’t be long,’ Frost said. ‘Just a few quick questions and I’ll leave you both to get on with your busy day—’ He was interrupted by a faint but determined knocking.
The two men stepped aside and a thin, purple-haired woman, clutching an armful of flesh-coloured underwear, emerged from the cubicle, looked around in panic, and scuttled off.
‘All right, Richards’ – Frost cleared his throat – ‘cast your mind back to Saturday afternoon, if that’s not too much to ask. Did you see this girl?’
Frost produced a copy of the photo of Julie Hudson, with the red streak in her mousey hair, and held it up. ‘You must know the story,’ he added. ‘One minute she was shopping on this floor with her mum, the next she’s disappeared.’
‘Yes – of course. Mr Butcher informed me of your visit yesterday, and that photo’s been pinned up in the canteen. But I didn’t see her on Saturday.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ said Frost.
‘I can’t be,’ said Richards, ‘but the store was busy as usual, and unless she was trying to nick something and had been apprehended by myself or another member of staff, I wouldn’t have had any cause to notice her. I don’t remember everyone who comes in here shopping.’
‘Let me have a look,’ the floor manager said, peering keenly over.
‘You not been shown this yet?’ said Frost, catching a whiff of very pungent perfume. ‘Your boss was left with clear instructions to distribute this picture among all staff: a girl has gone missing.’
‘As I said, it’s been pinned up in the canteen,’ interjected Richards.
‘I haven’t seen or heard anything about it,’ the woman insisted, looking closer.
Frost caught Richards giving her a withering look.
‘You know,’ she continued, ‘I think I do remember her. Trying on a school uniform, a skirt – she couldn’t find her size. She was awfully skinny. She was also being a little fussy. Though girls that age usually are. The skirts are never short or tight enough.’
‘I need to get back to the ground floor,’ Richards said. ‘Busy day, Monday – the cafeteria offers half-price meals for pensioners.’
‘Off you trot then,’ said Frost. ‘But don’t expect this to be the last you hear from me, Richards.’
Frost returned his focus to the floor manager. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’
‘Well, it was in the afternoon, three thirty, four-ish. The mother, I presume it was her – a rather pretty, well-dressed woman – was having a right go at the girl for being spoilt. You hear that a lot in here, I can tell you. Though I thought it was a bit rich, given that the mother clearly didn’t stint when it came to looking after herself. Anyway.’ She carefully ran her right hand over her bouffant hairdo, flashing Frost a clearly flirtatious smile.
‘Take your time,’ said Frost.
‘There was mention of something that happened on holiday – boy trouble, I thought for some reason – at which point the girl sloped off to the changing rooms, and the mother went over to our new lingerie department. We do have the best lingerie department in Denton, you know.’
‘So I’ve heard. Then what?’
‘That’s odd.’ She fingered a heavy gold bracelet on her left arm. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘You were doing so
well,’ said Frost. ‘It’s the next bit that I need to know about.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Who was manning the changing rooms?’
‘Ah, well, we had a bit of a staffing problem on Saturday. I’m afraid to say we didn’t have a member of staff, or a casual, specifically assigned to that duty.’
‘For the whole day?’
‘That’s right. Myself and the sales assistants took it in turns to keep an eye out.’
‘To keep an eye out?’ Frost almost shouted. ‘This place is not what it used to be.’
‘Mr Butcher has introduced some interesting new measures,’ the woman said, looking embarrassed.
‘What about your top-notch security detail? Where was Mr Richards, or the other one – the store has two guards, doesn’t it – all that day?’
‘That’s a good point. I’m sure I shouldn’t be telling you this, but normally Mr Richards particularly is only too keen to patrol this floor. If you ask me he likes to watch the women choosing their smalls.’ She paused, giving Frost a knowing look. ‘Now, I remember noticing him in the morning, when we were less busy, but I didn’t see him all afternoon. That was definitely unusual.’
‘Well, thank you, Mrs . . . ?’
‘Roberts. It’s Mrs Joyce Roberts.’
‘You’ve been most helpful – though we might need to take a statement from you later.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Anything I can do to help. A missing girl . . . how dreadful.’
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘We’re getting worried. Now where’s my colleague got to?’
Frost left the floor manager by the changing rooms and walked back into the main part of the store, where DC Clarke came rushing up to him.
‘Been having a look around,’ she beamed.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Frost. ‘This is not the time for frilly-knicker shopping.’
‘Just what do you take me for?’ Clarke said crossly. ‘I was checking the other exits and the layout of the floor. You know, there’s hardly any staff about. Be hard to have it all covered if it was a bit busier.’
‘Perfect spot to snatch a girl,’ said Frost quietly, as if to himself. ‘But still, would you snatch a girl in broad daylight in a department store?’
‘You think she was taken?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Frost. ‘Come on, back to the nick for us. We’ll need to get out the drawing board, see exactly what we’ve got so far.’
They pushed their way back through hordes of doddering pensioners, and emerged into the fresh Denton day, Market Square thronging with lunchtime shoppers. Here Frost had a better idea. ‘Seeing as the canteen’s out of action – fancy a pickled onion and a quick pint?’
Monday (4)
‘Well, well, well,’ said PC Baker. ‘Look who he’s trying it on with now.’
‘What?’ PC Simms lifted his head from the ragged copy of Auto Trader that had been kicking around the filthy floor of the panda car for weeks.
‘Frost and Sue Clarke.’ Baker took another bite of his sandwich.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Simms flung the paper on to the back seat. ‘Where?’
‘You should keep your eyes open, that’s what we’re paid to do. You’ve missed them.’
‘Where?’ Simms repeated, craning his neck over the dashboard.
‘Stumbling out of the Bull and into the Bricklayers. Arm in arm. Well, almost,’ Baker said, his mouth full.
‘You’re kidding? Jack bloody Frost and Sue?’
‘Reckon so.’
Simms strained his tired eyes on the street ahead. He could see the two pubs and a few pedestrians, but neither Frost nor Sue. Was Baker pulling his leg?
They’d been parked up in the panda on the corner of Foundling Street and Lower Goat Lane for the last ten minutes or so. Dispatch had told them to keep a look-out for two men who’d been spotted loitering at the rear staff entrance to the Fortress Building Society. A member of the building society staff thought them suspicious and, given the Rimmington hit, had dutifully reported what she’d seen. But the PCs had seen nothing untoward, so had decided to remain where they were and eat their sandwiches.
And now Derek Simms realized he’d missed the only thing of note. ‘That little slut,’ he said quietly.
‘What was that?’ said Baker.
‘Nothing.’ Simms thumped the dash. He couldn’t just sit there, while his bird was with another bloke, even if it was a CID officer. Sue Clarke and her frigging ambition – it was driving him crazy.
Making matters worse was the fact that the more Simms wanted to be with Sue Clarke, the less keen she seemed. Despite their nights of passion she was still reluctant to acknowledge that they were going out with each other.
‘Frost and Sue,’ said Baker, laughing. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
‘Right,’ huffed Simms, ‘about time the Bricklayers was checked for underage drinking.’ He made to get out of the car.
‘Leave it, Derek,’ said Baker. ‘No need to upset the licensee. We don’t want a fuss.’
‘All right then, who’s to say the men we’re on the look-out for aren’t having a pint in the Bricklayers?’
‘They’d have every right. Don’t be ridiculous: we don’t even know what they look like. We were meant to keep an eye out – that’s all. We haven’t seen anything remotely suspicious.’
‘Oh yes we have,’ snapped Simms. ‘Frost with my woman. I’m checking out the pub.’
‘Wait a minute. Look, just beyond that telephone box, getting into a dark-blue motor.’
‘What, Frost and Sue?’ Simms stared morosely ahead.
‘Not Frost, you berk. A couple of blokes – big, bald geezer in a sheepskin carrying a bag, and a wiry little fellow in a leather jacket. A Jag – over there. The smaller man’s climbing into the back, the other into the front passenger seat, so someone else is driving.’
‘Got you,’ said Simms at last. He watched the car pull quickly into the road, and promptly stop by the junction to Market Square, indicating right. ‘Do we follow? Or pull them over?’
‘No, I’ve got the number,’ said Baker, replacing his notepad in the pocket of his shirt. ‘We had no orders to intervene, unless there’s obvious illegal activity, and we can’t follow in this.’ He drummed on the steering wheel of the panda. ‘Down to plainclothes – Frost and your bird.’
‘Bugger off,’ said Simms. ‘I’m still going in that boozer. I need a piss.’
As he was climbing out of the vehicle, the radio crackled into life. ‘Charlie Alpha, there’s a disturbance in Denton Park. A large dog is running amok, terrorizing a group of mothers and toddlers. You are urgently requested to attend the scene. Over.’
‘Saved from making a tit of yourself,’ said Baker, with a smirk. He turned the ignition key.
‘The only dog I’m worried about is in that pub,’ sulked Simms, slumping back into his seat.
Monday (5)
The CID office was in chaos. Mounds of paper everywhere. Crisp packets, styrofoam cups growing mould, soiled napkins, half-eaten sandwiches, newspapers, cigarette ash. The drawers of the filing cabinets were open, over-stuffed files bursting out. The blinds were stuck halfway down and skewed at forty-five degrees, revealing grimy windows and the rapidly approaching night.
Frost’s mood was darkening with it. He had been trying to pull together the threads of the Julie Hudson case, but was making little progress. He still couldn’t decide whether Julie had simply run out of Aster’s on her own, or been dragged out, quite possibly down the fire escape. He wanted another word with Blake Richards, the security guard; Frost had taken an instant dislike to him.
And just as perplexing was the fact that Julie’s mother, Wendy Hudson, had been so savagely beaten, sometime later on the Saturday or early Sunday morning, most probably by her husband, and Julie’s father, Steve Hudson. What was the motive? The ferocity of the attack had Frost believe it more complicated than a run-of-the-mill domestic.
Frost shoved a pile of paper across his desk so he could pick up the phone, which was trilling annoyingly – probably his wife about to nag him for something or other. But no, it was an excited DC Clarke, telling him that the dog pound had just called her about a Labrador picked up by Charlie Alpha earlier that afternoon in the park.
The dog was in fact a guide dog, though behaving in a severely distressed manner. Checks were being run to find the owner. But Clarke was already wondering whether this had anything to do with the dead man found in the canal – could he have been partially sighted? Blind? Drysdale, the pathologist, had mentioned he’d worn glasses.
Clarke informed Frost the animal was being tested for rabies.
‘Rabies?’ Frost said, before remembering about Liz Fraser and Simon Trench’s little girl, Becky, currently having those tests at the hospital – the smokescreen. Rumours of a rabies outbreak, it seemed, were spreading far and wide already. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, wondering about the wisdom of his ruse, knowing Mullett would go ballistic if this went any further.
Once the call had ended, Frost quickly lit a cigarette, blowing smoke all over the paperwork in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate. He looked at his watch; close to five. Frost dialled Police Sergeant Webster’s extension in Records, just as Grace with the tea trolley poked her head around the door.
‘Evening, Mr Frost,’ she said, ‘last orders.’
‘Double Scotch,’ Frost said, with the phone still clasped to his ear; it didn’t seem like Webster was in.
‘Can’t do that,’ said Grace, a little round woman in her late fifties. She was wearing a floral housecoat and a hair net. ‘PG Tips and a Kit Kat any good?’
‘Do I look like a bloody chimpanzee?’ said Frost.
‘Sorry?’ said PS Webster on the phone. ‘That you, Jack?’
‘All right, Grace, tea it is, please,’ Frost said, this time holding the phone away from his mouth. Replacing it, he said to Webster, ‘Has DC Hanlon been on to you about a bloke called Simon Trench – father of a battered little girl called Becky Fraser? And her mother, Liz?’