by James, Henry
Then there were the relevant people at Social Services to contact – always a nightmare. Plus Liz Fraser would have to be formally interviewed.
All this, which was suddenly so much more urgent, on top of trying to track down Lee Wright, which had to be the priority now they had proof that he had been in the Hudsons’ kitchen.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Dr Philips. ‘But no promises.’
Hanlon rose from his desk but, not sure what to do first, promptly sat back down again and picked up the remains of the sausage roll.
‘But just what were you doing slinking around boozers all afternoon with Jack Frost, anyway?’ said PC Derek Simms.
The drizzle had dampened Simms’s fair hair, making his large oval face all the more boyish, and innocent, Sue Clarke thought, knowing of course that he wasn’t exactly innocent – childish, maybe.
She was leading the way along the narrow, overgrown path, being careful not to get her shoes too muddy, yet they were in a hurry. ‘Derek, I can’t believe you’re still going on about this. Not after that row last night. And it wasn’t all afternoon, anyway. Look, I really appreciate you coming down here with me in your lunch hour. But you didn’t have to.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Simms, ‘how you could even have a half with him. He’s notorious, can’t keep his hands off any bit of skirt. I’ve seen him. The way he leers at women, all those crude jokes.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not like that. He’s married, anyway.’
‘That hasn’t stopped him in the past, or so I’ve heard. He’s never ever at home, that’s for sure,’ Simms continued. ‘I bet he tried to kiss you, didn’t he?’
‘For God’s sake, Derek, it was work, OK? CID stuff.’ She knew that would wind him up. ‘Jack’s all right – just committed to the job, that’s all.’
‘Jack, is it now? Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Simms. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You can make your own way back.’ He turned to go, but hesitated.
‘Look, forget about Frost for a minute, can you. He’s a colleague, simple as that.’
‘Like me,’ said Simms, moodily. ‘I’m just another colleague too, am I?’
‘Let’s not go down that road right now. Besides, it’s not as if I’m the only one.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘You know exactly what that means,’ she said, then adding quietly, ‘Mullett’s secretary – Miss Smith.’
She trudged on, pleased to notice that Simms was following again. Out of guilt? Despite his stupid, childish jealousy, she was glad he was with her and in uniform. There was no one else about, and the semi-derelict warehouses, overgrown shrubs, stagnant black water and memory of the floating corpse were giving her the creeps, big time.
‘What are we looking for, anyway?’ asked Simms eventually.
‘I don’t know,’ said Clarke, fully aware that she was bending procedure. She shouldn’t have been here without informing someone in CID, and she certainly shouldn’t have hoodwinked Simms into accompanying her.
They had reached the spot where Graham Ransome’s body had been pulled on to the bank by frogmen. It was a muddy mess. Large puddles had formed in the path and the surrounding undergrowth had been well trampled over by Scenes of Crime. There was rubbish everywhere. Clarke flinched as the wet finally soaked through into her shoes. The bottoms of her trousers were speckled with mud.
‘Hey, what about this?’ said Simms.
Clarke looked up. He was by the very edge of the canal, his foot parting a clump of grass. Gingerly she stepped over to him. ‘What? I can’t see a thing.’ Though it was only the middle of the day the light already seemed to be fading.
‘There, that,’ said Simms, prodding the grass with the toe of his right foot and revealing a piece of maroon-coloured material.
Clarke crouched down, reaching out.
‘Don’t touch it,’ snapped Simms. ‘Didn’t they teach you anything?’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Clarke. How dare he undermine me, she thought. ‘I was just going to move the grass more out of the way.’ She fished a biro from her jacket pocket and used that to part the grass further. ‘Looks like a piece of a scarf.’
‘Clever girl. Any idea what sort of scarf?’
‘A woolly one?’
‘Don’t you know anything? Denton Town FC, away colours.’
‘Of course I knew that,’ she lied. ‘What I meant was the material: it’s wool, knitted.’
‘Hasn’t been there long.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Clarke stood up.
‘That’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Simms. ‘Looks like it’s in good nick to me.’
Clarke crouched down again, noticing that the piece of scarf had a ragged edge. ‘Well, yeah, does seem newish.’
‘Has to be, anyway,’ said Simms.
‘Why?’
‘Those away colours only came in two weeks ago, when the Echo started drumming up support for Denton’s first FA Cup game. Seemed a bit optimistic to me, but the Echo paid for it.’
Clarke smiled at her on-off boyfriend. Maybe he was detective material after all. But could she ever really trust him to be faithful? Not that she wanted to make any big commitment – to anyone – at the moment.
She retrieved a plastic evidence bag from her jacket pocket and with her pen carefully gathered up the piece of material.
‘Rats? Are you sure, Miss Smith?’
‘Quite sure, Superintendent, that’s what the man said. Oh look, there he is, by his little van. He’s been back and forth all morning.’
Mullett peered through the blinds adjacent to his secretary’s desk. There was a direct view of the car park, perfect for keeping an eye on the station’s comings and goings.
‘Hundreds, he said,’ she added, as she pulled out a Tupperware box containing her lunch.
‘Hundreds – it would be,’ Mullett sighed. ‘Well at least he’s dealing with it . . . Wait a moment, whose car is that?’ He watched as a spanking-new silver Jaguar calmly pulled into the slot next to the Rentokil van. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to ask Miss Smith whose car it might be. He knew exactly.
‘Miss Smith, where’s Bert Williams’s file? I need to check a few details about his pension.’
Miss Smith, now biting into a stick of celery, didn’t have time to answer before the phone rang. ‘Superintendent Mullett’s office,’ she said, still crunching.
Mullett winced.
Holding the phone away from her ear, she said, ‘It’s Sergeant Wells, on Reception . . .’
‘I know full well where he is,’ said Mullett crossly.
‘He says the assistant chief constable is here, and he’s already on his way up to see you.’
‘Fantastic.’ Mullett grimaced. That was another person he wished would retire. Unlikely though, as the assistant chief constable was not much older than himself. Perhaps someone would snatch him from a department store. ‘Well, dig out Bert Williams’s file for me anyway, please.’
Without knocking, Nigel Winslow, the thin, bald, pointy-nosed and bespectacled assistant chief constable, strolled into Mullett’s suite of offices. ‘Stanley, sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this.’
‘Not at all, Nigel. Pleasure to see you. Tea?’ Mullett held the door open to his inner sanctum. He followed the assistant chief constable in.
‘No, thanks,’ Winslow said in his strong nasal voice. ‘I say, do you have a rodent problem?’
‘No, no, no. A preventative inspection, I believe,’ Mullett said quickly. ‘Part of the renovation programme.’
Winslow raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh – that’s odd. The Rentokil chap implied you had an infestation, in the canteen, of all places.’
‘Really? News to me. What a nuisance.’
‘Fortunately, I’ve had my lunch,’ said Winslow. ‘Very good restaurant out on the Wells Road. Anyway, there’s something rather sensitive I wanted to talk to you about. Thought it best in person.’
&n
bsp; ‘Please, take a seat, Nigel.’ Mullett gestured to one of the fine, leather visitor’s chairs, and watched the assistant chief constable eye the chair as if it were somehow contaminated, before finally settling on it.
‘It’s not regarding the crime clear-up statistics, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know, or this damn rabies palaver,’ Winslow huffed, ‘but that raid on the building society in Rimmington a couple of weeks ago, the so-called Star Wars heist.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Mullett, fully aware of the material details: a gang of four, all armed, and all wearing Darth Vader masks. It had already been linked to another building society heist two months previously in the town of Wallop, where the raiders had disguised themselves in headgear that looked like it belonged on a medieval battlefield – the Wars of the Roses Robbery. How the press had loved that.
‘Not easy to say this, Stanley, so I’ll get straight to it. Through a number of local informers, and an undercover operation, it seems that someone in the force, and I’m afraid to say, Superintendent, from your division, must have been in on it.’
‘What the hell do you mean, “in on it”, Nigel?’
‘That someone from your division has been helping this gang with their planning. You see, Stanley, in both raids the gang knew about the recently installed CCTV – aerosol paint on the camera lens – and the new security arrangements, which effectively were OK’d by us in the first place. What’s more, they seem to have had prior knowledge of our response times. Frankly, they’ve been brazen.’
‘I don’t know how the hell you’ve come to that slanderous conclusion!’ Mullett exploded. ‘Any fool would know about the CCTV as soon as they stepped into the building society. As for the security arrangements – damned if I know – but I can assure you that there are no traitors working here!’
‘Could you just remind me, Stanley, who is working here, apart from the decorators, and the Rentokil people? Weren’t you saying just yesterday at County that you’re chronically understaffed, and were in fact missing two senior detectives?’
‘Ah, well, that’s right. DI Allen and DI Williams are on annual and sick leave respectively.’
‘Annual leave? At a time like this? A rabies scare. A missing girl. And who knows what else you’re having to deal with. Cancel it right away.’
‘What do you take me for? Orders to that effect have already been issued.’ Mullett reached over to his in-tray and riffled through some papers. He had no idea if he could get hold of DI Allen, on his blasted walking holiday, or not – but now he was going to have to bloody well try.
‘Leaving you with just DS Frost in charge of CID, is that right?’ enquired Winslow, pushing his wire-framed glasses further up his sharp, shiny nose.
Right then Mullett would have liked to shove them up his arse. ‘Yes,’ he coughed.
‘Always thought rather highly of Frost.’
‘Is that right, Nigel.’ Mullett felt a migraine coming on.
‘Bit of a maverick, that’s for sure,’ said Winslow. ‘Though he and old Inspector Williams pulled in some results. Williams off sick, you say? When exactly does he retire?’
‘He’s laid low with the flu – apparently.’ Mullett couldn’t help coughing again. ‘In fact I was just about to sign off his retirement date and pension paperwork. It’s one thing hiring someone, but the paperwork involved in retiring them is even more rigorous. Easier to sack them.’ Mullett tried to laugh.
‘What about uniform?’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘Any strange behaviour? People behaving out of character? Anyone you don’t trust implicitly?’
‘For God’s sake, Nigel,’ Mullett said, exasperated, ‘I run a very tight ship. Impenetrable. How many times do I have to tell you? There are no weak links here.’
‘I hope you’re right. The thing is,’ said Winslow, ‘that’s not what my people are hearing, and with this armed gang on something of a roll, we need to put a stop to them before someone’s killed. I surely don’t need to remind you that in both robberies a couple of female tellers were brutally pistol-whipped. It’s only a matter of time before we’re dealing with murder as well.’
Mullett had the distinct impression he wasn’t being told everything. He reached for a Senior Service, before offering the pack to the assistant chief constable, who refused.
‘What I suggest, Stanley,’ Winslow continued, ‘is that you go through every member of staff’s credentials and their working practices with a fine-tooth comb. Check, and check again. Personnel records, the works. You’ll need to do it yourself, of course, can’t let on what we’re up to.’
How much time did Winslow think he had? His headache was getting worse by the minute. Mullett felt his forehead creasing under the strain.
Miss Smith pranced into the room, with news that the tea trolley was on its way, and did anyone want anything.
‘No,’ said Winslow sharply.
Mullett tiredly echoed him, his mind wandering briefly to Simms in his office suite last night, and that guff about waiting for Miss Smith. ‘I’ll do as you say,’ said Mullett to his esteemed visitor, once his secretary was out of earshot. ‘But don’t get your expectations up.’
‘Good man,’ said the assistant chief constable, rising from his chair and adjusting his heavily embossed cap. ‘Tell me’ – he paused by the door – ‘what’s the latest with this rabies business? You should know for sure today, shouldn’t you? People are starting to get rattled. I’ve had enquiries from both Fowler and Heseltine’s offices.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Mullett, realizing both that he hadn’t heard a thing about it from Frost, or anyone else in CID, for hours, and that Winslow, like himself initially, was addressing the scare with much more seriousness than it obviously warranted. If Winslow found out it was a ploy by Frost to circumvent the system he would undoubtedly bring Mullett’s judgement into question. Mullett couldn’t believe he’d let it slide. ‘Fingers crossed.’ He smiled lamely.
‘I hope you have your contingency plans as well defined as your renovation job,’ the assistant chief constable said smugly.
With his head splitting, Mullett watched Nigel Winslow amble out of his office. What more could possibly go wrong now? He pressed the button on his intercom. ‘Miss Smith, could you come back in here right away,’ he spat. ‘I’d like a word.’
Tuesday (4)
Frost was waiting for Clarke as she finally walked out of the Ladies, tucked away at the back of the station. ‘It’s not that bad in there, is it?’ he said. She looked as if she’d been crying.
Colour instantly rose to her cheeks. ‘New make-up. I think I’m allergic to it. What are you doing loitering around the women’s toilets, anyway?’
‘Waiting for you. Can’t find a woman, chances are she’ll be in the bog. Come on, we’re off to the hospital again. Wendy Hudson’s perked up and there’s a consultant I need to see.’
‘You need more than a consultant, Jack Frost.’
‘Less of that, love.’ He led the way, lighting up as they went. ‘I hear the assistant chief constable’s been in,’ he said. ‘Something’s going on.’
‘Mullett for the high-jump?’ Clarke said.
‘If only. Can’t see what that sod’s done wrong, apart from breathe.’ Frost took a deep drag. ‘I’d watch your back, that’s all.’ He exhaled though gritted teeth. ‘Don’t go chatting up the wrong blokes, if you know what I mean.’
‘No,’ huffed Sue Clarke. ‘Don’t know what the hell you mean.’ She’d flushed again.
Frost noticed she had mud all over her shoes and the bottoms of her trousers. ‘Been rolling in the hay again?’ he said. Clarke ignored him so he continued, ‘Sometimes it’s your closest friends who turn out to be your worst enemies.’ They were now walking across the lobby where Station Sergeant Bill Wells was on the telephone.
They pushed through the double doors to the car park just as a panda car sped through the gates, siren blaring. ‘Still, don’t think they’d
be able to catch you, not with your driving,’ said Frost, as Clarke unlocked the Escort.
‘Actually, Jack,’ she said, getting comfortable behind the wheel, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. A bit of luck.’
‘You’re getting married?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a relief. I’m still in with a chance, then.’
‘I thought you were married?’ She swiftly reversed the car out of the tight parking slot, rammed the gear stick into first and accelerated forward.
Frost found himself, once again, clutching the sides of his seat. ‘On paper.’ He began humming, before suddenly stopping, remembering that it was his wedding anniversary on Friday. What a stretch already.
He looked over at Clarke, taking in her young fresh face. Fortunately she appeared to be concentrating on the road ahead. ‘So what did you have to tell me, then?’ he said.
‘I went back to the canal – where the blind man, Graham Ransome, was found.’
‘When?’
‘Earlier today.’
‘DC Clarke, you should have informed either Arthur or myself first. Attractive young woman like you – the canal is not the safest place to be on your own, in plainclothes. Look what happened to poor old Graham.’
‘Who said I was on my own?’
Frost laughed. ‘Don’t tell me, while you were in flagrante delicto – as they say in Spain, or is it Italy? – you came upon a piece of evidence, which should have been spotted the day before.’
‘Forget the in flagrante stuff, but yes, I did find something. It’s already with Forensics.’
‘Don’t spare me the sordid details, then,’ said Frost. ‘Reveal all.’
Bill Wells had tried calling after DS Frost, but Frost seemed preoccupied with DC Clarke as they’d sauntered through the lobby on their way out of the building.
Control had dispatched an area car to the scene now, anyway. A fatality, RTA probably, down a farm track some eight miles from Denton, wasn’t really a matter for CID.