First Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘By giving them the real story about the Hudson girl.’ Frost turned and began trudging down the dark track towards the Escort.

  ‘And what’s that, Jack?’ Mullett called after him.

  ‘Twelve-year-old kidnapped by convicted armed robber, out on parole. That’ll get them excited. Doesn’t make the probation service look very competent, either.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about, Frost? Come back here. Come back here at once. That’s an order!’

  Hanlon knocked again on the tatty front door. On the hunt for Lee Wright, he was chasing up the only address they had, which was over a decade out of date.

  He was about to give up when the door opened to reveal a thin, bespectacled middle-aged man wearing a stained white shirt and a scruffy pair of old suit trousers. He was barefoot. ‘Yes,’ he said politely, scratching his wild hair, ‘can I help you?’

  ‘Denton CID, sorry to disturb you, sir.’

  Looking bemused, but not remotely concerned, the man yawned and scratched his head again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’

  ‘Fire away,’ the man said. He had a clear, well-educated accent. Again something Hanlon hadn’t been expecting, not in this part of town, not with the man looking so unkempt.

  ‘How long have you lived here, sir?’

  ‘Now there’s a very good question,’ the man said. ‘You see, I first moved in, gosh, must be around ten years ago, but I’ve been away since, on secondment, in the United States twice, and once to Japan, and once to the Soviet Union. All for periods of no less than six months, but no more than three years. So you see, I haven’t actually lived here for anything like ten years.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hanlon. He’d needed to get out of the station, to clear his mind, to let his emotions about Bert Williams steady, and thought he might as well check out the only address he had for Lee Wright, second-guessing Frost’s orders. Now he was stuck talking to some bloody boffin, who obviously had plenty of time on his hands. ‘But you are the tenant?’

  ‘I do believe I’m now the owner. I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I’ve taken advantage of Denton Council’s Right-to-Buy scheme.’

  ‘Can I ask the nature of your business?’ Hanlon continued, unsure why he hadn’t just got to the point. Curiosity? Delaying tactics, so he didn’t have to rush back to the station, which would be in a state of shock?

  ‘Business is not quite the right word. Theoretician would be more accurate. I’m an academic, for the Open University.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hanlon. So he was a proper boffin.

  ‘Do you want to come in?’ the man said.

  ‘No need, unless you’re harbouring a man called Lee Wright.’

  ‘It’s only me here, I’m afraid, and the cats. Lee Wright, you said? Funny you should mention that name.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘A couple of people were here only yesterday evening, looking for a Mr Wright. A rather rough-looking chap, big, shaven head, lots of gold rings on his fingers – I’m sure you know the type. And a short, wiry, Irish fellow. There was someone else with them too . . . I think.’

  ‘You think?’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Well, there was a car parked close by, and its engine was running. You wouldn’t leave a car parked with the engine running, would you? So I assumed there was someone else, a driver—’

  ‘What sort of car was it?’

  ‘That I couldn’t tell you – cars aren’t my thing, I’m afraid,’ the man said.

  ‘I’m sure not,’ Hanlon said sarcastically; the fellow was getting on his nerves. ‘Colour, perhaps?’

  ‘Black, I think, or was it dark blue? Yes, could have been dark blue. It was quite a big, smart-looking car.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose,’ Hanlon said. ‘What exactly did you tell these gentlemen?’

  ‘I have an aversion to intimidation, of any sort. I said I’d never heard of a Mr Wright. I could tell it was only going to lead to trouble.’ He smiled, weakly.

  Hanlon glanced behind the man to see that the dimly lit hallway was lined on either side with stacks of books and papers. Higher up, garish paintings and posters hung on the walls.

  ‘They quickly went on their way,’ the boffin continued. He laughed. ‘Perhaps I scared them off.’

  ‘So you’ve never heard of Lee Wright?’

  ‘Oh yes, I lied to them,’ the man said, scratching his head again. ‘Of course I’ve heard of Lee Wright. He used to live here with his mother, until he was locked up for armed robbery. I moved in pretty much straight after the Wrights left. Or rather Lee’s mother left. She wasn’t called Wright any more then, but Joan Dixon – been married a few times. One of the neighbours told me about her. I have a very good memory for names.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think she had the stomach for the scandal, which was why, I presume, this place became available.’

  Hanlon was suddenly excited. ‘I don’t suppose you have a forwarding address, for the mother, for this Joan Dixon?’

  ‘Oddly enough, I do, or did. I never throw anything away. I had a quick look last night, after those thugs paid me a call. Didn’t find it, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s in the kitchen somewhere. There’s just quite a lot of paperwork to wade through . . .’

  Hanlon looked at his watch. At least he had a new name. He handed the man a card. ‘If you find it, please ring this number immediately. A girl’s life could be in danger.’

  Tuesday (6)

  ‘What’s that doing there?’ said DC Sue Clarke, walking into the lobby. ‘Oh, oh no. Not Bert?’

  Wells looked around from behind a small vase of flowers, and a faded photograph of Bert Williams propped up against it. He’d swiped the flowers from Miss Smith’s desk – she was always receiving flowers – and removed the photo from the awards notice board. It was Wells’s small tribute; a bit hasty, he knew, but stuck on the front desk he felt desperately out of the action. He nodded sombrely at the detective constable as she came forward.

  ‘When?’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure, exactly,’ said Wells. ‘They found his body this afternoon. There’d been a car accident, out towards Rimmington. A farmer rang it in. Charlie Alpha was dispatched. Weird thing was, I immediately had a feeling it was Bert.’

  ‘Anyone else involved?’

  ‘No, he seems to have gone into a ditch.’

  Clarke looked at him questioningly. ‘A ditch?’

  ‘Apparently. Look, all I know for certain is that the inspector is dead. Longest-serving member of this division,’ Wells said. ‘According to your friend Simms, Mullett’s gone into overdrive. Wants to know exactly how it happened – for the family’s sake. Word is, though, if it proves to be either a mechanical failure, or if Bert was responsible in some way, then the Force won’t have to cough up the life assurance.’

  ‘Typical. So that’s what you get for all those years of service,’ said Clarke. ‘Makes you think about just who’s watching your back.’

  ‘Or stabbing you in it.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t an accident? If he was, you know, cut down in the line of duty?’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Wells, wiping his brow. ‘But don’t see how that’s possible. Cost the division a packet if it was, though.’ He found himself smiling grimly.

  ‘What was he doing out there, I wonder.’ She shook her head, retrieved a muddy handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose hard. ‘I can’t believe it. The poor bugger, and he was about to retire, too. He’s got a wife, hasn’t he, and a couple of grown-up kids. Grandchildren?’

  Wells watched as Clarke gently touched the photograph. With Bert gone, the place would never be the same. He’d not been in it for himself, but for the good of the division, the good of the people of Denton. And he’d never forgot to have a laugh. They didn’t make them like Williams any more.

  ‘Are you going to answer that?’ said Clarke.

  Wells hadn’t realized the phone was ringing. ‘Good evening, Denton P
olice,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Nobody’s safe,’ said the voice on the other end.

  ‘Sorry, can you speak up. Can’t hear you very well,’ Wells shouted.

  ‘While the British occupy our land.’ It was a man, sounded Irish.

  ‘What?’ said Wells. ‘This is Denton Police.’

  ‘You’re running out of time.’ There was a click.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Clarke. She was still by the front desk. ‘A crank? It’s about that time in the evening.’

  Wells sighed heavily. ‘I hope so – God, what a day.’ He’d log the call. Go through the motions. Try yet again to get someone to pay attention. It was well beyond a joke: three calls now, all coming from men with Irish accents. But not, he thought, from the same man. He’d tried to talk to Mullett about it twice, of course, but the super had waved him away. He’d have to badger Frost, but Frost was going to be in no mood to deal with dodgy calls, whoever they were from.

  ‘Sue,’ he said, just catching her before she disappeared into the building proper, ‘you, CID, haven’t heard anything about any IRA activity in the county, or in Denton?’

  ‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘Should we have?’ Wells watched Clarke step back into the lobby, interested. ‘That call? I wouldn’t be too worried. The whole country is twitchy. Besides, why on earth would the IRA want to target Denton?’

  ‘Because it’s got a large Territorial Army base?’ announced Hanlon, taking both Wells and Clarke by surprise. He’d appeared from nowhere and was waddling across the lobby, soaking wet. ‘Because it’s been designated a new town and has been earmarked for twenty million quid of government money?’ he continued, shaking the rain from his hat. ‘Because we’re about to get an Intercity train link to London. Whole load of reasons.’ He stopped abruptly by the counter and gazed at the flowers, the picture.

  ‘We’re in the middle of a recession,’ Clarke said scornfully. ‘Denton’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Except down a league or two,’ said Wells.

  ‘What was that?’ Clarke said.

  ‘Bloody Denton Town FC – got ideas above their station because they’ve got a new striker,’ said Wells, aware the conversation was drifting, that they were avoiding the subject on all their minds, the dead inspector.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Clarke, ‘and they were given a new away strip for their efforts. Even I know about that.’

  ‘They’ll never get anywhere in the Cup.’ Wells stood back from the counter as Hanlon closed in on Williams’s instant, makeshift memorial. The portly detective bowed his head.

  ‘At least there’s no rabies in Denton,’ Clarke said.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Wells sighed.

  Hanlon turned back to face the room and Clarke, and said, ‘But we’ve got a problem with child cruelty, though, haven’t we?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Just back from the General?’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘Jack and I were there to see Wendy Hudson. Before he dashed off, Jack said I should find Dr Philips.’

  ‘That was good of you. They’re still hanging on to Becky Fraser?’

  ‘Yes, but it took some effort,’ said Clarke. ‘Dr Philips is swamped with people thinking their children have rabies. Nevertheless, they’ll keep her in until tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know how you did it, but well done, Sue,’ said Hanlon, ‘that’ll really help.’ He looked over to Wells, and said, ‘You can pull that poster down now, if you want, Bill. Alert over.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking you never thought this little girl could possibly have caught rabies?’ Wells said to Hanlon.

  ‘Could be,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Bloody hell! And I thought I was for the high-jump, for not having stuck up that alert from County earlier. But the mother who rang in said her daughter was attacked by a fox – what was it, then?’

  ‘Turns out she was attacked,’ said Clarke, ‘but by a human. Dr Philips found numerous bruises, and burns on the soles of her feet, on her back – poor little thing – that could only have been inflicted by another person, on purpose. She had a couple of cracked ribs as well.’

  ‘What did Miss Fraser have to say for herself?’ asked Hanlon. ‘We need a formal statement from her, get some charges put on the table.’

  ‘I agree. But I didn’t want to push her there,’ said Clarke. ‘Once Social Services are on hand, let’s bring her in. I reckon, though, her partner, this Simon Trench, was the violent one. She seems scared stiff of him, and more than happy to stay at the hospital with her daughter for another night. That’s not to say, though, that she didn’t know it was happening. I wonder if the story about the fox was another cry for help.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Wells. ‘And I thought Forest View was a nice place to live.’

  ‘Grown women get bullied and abused, too – wherever they live,’ said Clarke.

  ‘What do you reckon,’ asked Hanlon, ‘neglect? Aiding and abetting?’

  ‘First off, we need to let the public know that there’s no rabies,’ countered Clarke. ‘That’s the least we can do for Dr Philips. As I said, he took some persuading.’

  Wells looked at Clarke. She seemed to get what she wanted readily enough.

  ‘Be good to pick up Simon Trench, then, before they’re out of the hospital,’ said Hanlon. ‘More work. And have we got to worry about the IRA as well?’

  Wells watched Clarke follow Hanlon into the warren, and wondered whether he’d have to spend the rest of his career stuck on the flaming front desk. But looking at Bert’s picture he knew there were worse things. He tapped the photo, muttering, ‘Rest in peace, mate.’

  Frost stopped the car just before the phone box. The freezing rain was now lashing down. He switched on the interior light and pulled Bert Williams’s bloodied notepad from his pocket. He couldn’t believe no one else had removed it first.

  Williams’s writing was illegible at the best of times. But as Frost flicked through the pages some of the names were clear, and some of the numbers. He had no idea whether the notes referred to one case, one investigation, or many – but somewhere was the information he needed. He also knew that, if he could call in a favour at British Telecom, it should be possible to check the numbers in the notepad against the numbers dialled to and from the public phone Bert kept disappearing to. He needed to see what correlated.

  He slowly climbed out of the car and headed towards the small terraced house, clasping his mac around him and dipping his head against the rain. He could see a light was on in the front room, though the curtains were tightly closed. Betty would be frantic but still hopeful. He was going to shatter everything.

  Frost knocked gently on the glass of the front door.

  She was on the other side almost instantly, fumbling with the locks. ‘Jack.’ Betty pulled open the door, her voice shrill with anticipation.

  Frost looked at her and he didn’t have to say anything more. He stepped inside and took hold of Betty, who was already shaking, and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her fragile body. She seemed so small, so slight, so old. Her life suddenly devastated.

  Eventually, Frost said, ‘He was cut down, Betty, doing the job he loved – you have to believe me. They’ll try to make out it was an accident, but it wasn’t.’ He sniffed, sucked in air. ‘He was the best flaming copper that Denton’s ever seen. He was a good man, Betty.’

  Frost knew he was rambling. ‘Those calls he’d been making from the phone box’ – he paused, breathed in the cold, sodden night air that had followed him into the hallway – ‘the fact he’d not been himself recently – he was on to something, I know it. Something big. Don’t listen to whatever anyone else from the station might tell you. Give me a little bit of time. I’ll find the bastards who did this, I promise you that, Betty. I promise you that.’

  Tuesday (7)

  ‘Mother of God,’ muttered Desmond Thorley, turning over on his hard, damp, narrow bench. The foxes, or were they badgers, w
ere at it again. Would he ever get a good night’s sleep?

  Struggling to get comfortable, he suddenly flung the threadbare covers to the floor, angrily swung his thin frame round and got up. He didn’t think he could have been asleep for more than an hour or two.

  He stumbled across the carriage, to the grimy window. Rubbing the condensation away he peered out. Couldn’t see a thing. But he was damned if he was going to venture outside in this freezing cold. What he needed was an air-rifle, he decided, so he could shoot the buggers. Wouldn’t want to kill them, just give them a nasty sting.

  Just as he was about to crawl back to his hard bed, he saw a figure, over by the rhododendrons. He gasped. Then he saw another one. They were both dressed in bulky dark clothing. They appeared to be carrying something heavy. A bag?

  Slowly, quiet as a mouse, he crept back across his carriage, climbed on to his bench, pulled the covers on top of him, and shut his eyes tight.

  Jack Frost rubbed his eyes then looked at his watch. The time, eleven forty, slowly came into focus. Hanlon had only just left, and at last Frost was alone, in Bert’s office. He was sitting at his late friend’s desk, lit only by a knackered Anglepoise.

  Behind the Rolodex he spotted the top of a picture frame. He reached over, spilling the full ashtray as he did so, and picked up the photograph, which he didn’t think he’d ever noticed before. It was a black-and-white shot of Bert and Betty, on their silver wedding anniversary. Not a very good picture – Frost had taken it himself, with Mary’s Instamatic. When was it: ’71, ’72? Christ, how Bert had aged over the last ten years. They all had.

  Frost stifled another yawn, carefully placing the picture in front of the Rolodex and doubting whether he and Mary would make their silver. Nothing and everything had changed.

  He scooped the spilt ash and cigarette butts into his cupped hands and tipped the mess back into the ashtray. Leaning closer and blowing the rest of the ash away, he made out that the dark-blue card underneath was not blotting paper but the tatty cover of a fat Scotland Yard personnel-department file.