First Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘If I lost my temper,’ said Hudson, more strident again, ‘then I’m sorry. But I was badly provoked. She . . . she came at me with a knife, for God’s sake.’

  ‘A knife?’ Frost said with disbelief.

  The solicitor turned to his client.

  ‘It was self-defence,’ continued Hudson.

  ‘That’s an interesting line to take,’ said Frost. ‘Not sure Scenes of Crime would agree with you. What happened to this knife?’

  Hudson remained quiet for some time before uttering, ‘Must have got lost in the scuffle. I don’t know – could have been kicked under a unit.’

  ‘Scuffle, hey?’ said Frost calmly. ‘Thing is, from where I’m sitting, I could have sworn I was looking at attempted murder.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Dobbs, ‘I’m not aware of anyone pressing charges, yet.’

  ‘Give us a chance. We thought we’d let a certain lady have her say in the matter first, but seeing as she’s lying in a hospital bed, her head smothered in bandages and her jaw wired up, talking’s not very easy for her—’ Frost was interrupted by a hurried knocking at the door. He looked over his shoulder to see DC Clarke’s lovely fresh face peering into the room.

  ‘Sarge, can I have a word?’

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Frost rose from his chair and grabbed his almost empty packet of Rothmans. ‘Make yourselves at home.’

  ‘Yes, love?’ Frost said, firmly shutting the interview-room door behind him.

  ‘I’ve just come from the hospital. Thought I’d look in on Mrs Hudson first thing this morning, seeing as I was passing.’

  ‘I like the initiative,’ said Frost. Clarke was certainly pulling out all the stops: revisiting the canal, popping in at the hospital before breakfast. ‘But I take it you avoided the kiddies’ ward.’

  ‘I’m not Wonder Woman,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Well, hopefully, Hanlon’s on Becky Fraser’s case. So how’s Wendy Hudson, then? Enjoying her Cornflakes?’

  ‘She was a hell of a lot more alert, and able to talk a little too. At least she made herself completely clear this time.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Frost, suddenly hoping he hadn’t overstepped the mark with Steve Hudson for no valid reason.

  ‘Gosh, you look tired, Jack. Did you get to bed last night?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Frost glanced up and down the empty corridor, embarrassed. ‘So what did Mrs Hudson have to say for herself? The spiv in there’ – he gestured at the interview-room door – ‘is now saying she came at him with a knife.’ Frost rolled his eyes. Mullett had been right – the whole case had never been more than a very bloody domestic.

  Clarke sighed, shrugged her shoulders. ‘She doesn’t want this to get out of hand.’

  ‘Get out of hand?’ Frost spluttered. ‘Too late for that, I’d say.’ He could never understand the human capacity for forgiveness.

  ‘The point is—’

  ‘Don’t tell me – she doesn’t want to press charges.’

  ‘You’ve got it in one.’

  ‘Afraid of the exposure?’ he sighed. ‘Bollocks. Bang goes our key witness. And what about her blasted daughter? Isn’t she concerned for her safety, her whereabouts? Happy for her to run off with a convicted armed robber?’

  ‘I’m not sure mother and daughter get on too well,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Frost swiftly turned away from Clarke and opened the door to the interview room.

  ‘Mr Hudson,’ he said, entering the room once again, ‘I’m afraid to say your wife remains in a critical condition, unable to communicate. You’ll be held here for the time being on suspicion of attempted murder.’

  ‘Mr Frost,’ sighed Henry Dobbs, standing. ‘I don’t need to remind—’

  ‘Dobbs, I wouldn’t even raise the question of bail. Mr Hudson has already made one attempt to flee the country.’

  ‘I most strongly object, yet again,’ cried Dobbs, ‘to your preposterous allegation that my client in any way—’

  Frost turned for the door, muttering to himself, ‘Where’s the duty constable? I need this loser banging back up . . . and the key chucking away.’

  Wednesday (2)

  Hanlon put down the phone. ‘Yes!’ he said aloud, punching the air.

  It was a result – of sorts. The boffin had found a forwarding address for Lee Wright’s mother, Joan Dixon. She hadn’t gone that far either, just across town, Denton Woods way. Chances were the woman would have moved on again ages ago, but still it needed to be checked immediately.

  Except the morning briefing was in five minutes and Hanlon realized he should at least run it by Frost, before checking the address out. Wright was a convicted armed robber, could be dangerous.

  Mullett would certainly insist on the involvement of the Tacticals. The whole thing could very quickly become a major operation, and when no one of interest was found at the address Hanlon would be left to look a fool. He really couldn’t risk that after his rabies slip.

  As Hanlon was contemplating skipping the briefing and heading straight to the address on his own – bugger the consequences – Frost and Clarke appeared in the CID office.

  ‘Briefing’s cancelled,’ Frost beamed. ‘Mullett’s still at County, leaving yours truly in charge, and I’ve got nothing useful to say.’

  ‘Nothing new there, then,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Better we press on, Arthur,’ said Frost. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘An address for Lee Wright’s mother, Joan Dixon.’

  ‘Already? You do work fast. Well, let’s go,’ said Frost, grabbing his mac.

  ‘Shouldn’t we inform Mullett?’

  ‘No point wasting time,’ said Frost.

  Hanlon reached for his coat also, spotting that Clarke looked perplexed.

  Frost, who also seemed to have noticed, said, ‘Sue, man the ship, will you?’

  Hanlon added, ‘Social Services should be getting back to me about Liz and Becky Fraser.’

  ‘What is it with you men and Social Services?’ Clarke asked. ‘It’s like you’re terrified of them.’

  ‘We are,’ said Frost, making for the exit. ‘Hairy-scary, that’s for sure. Oh, by the way, what do Forensics say about the football scarf?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Clarke. ‘Still waiting.’

  ‘Hurry them up, for what good it will do.’ Frost backed into the corridor, Hanlon following. ‘A gang of young thugs, that’s what we’re after.’

  ‘I’d come to that conclusion as well,’ said Clarke, patiently. ‘Just thought we’d need a bit more to go on. Plenty of gangs about on the Southern Housing Estate.’

  ‘Be like finding a needle in a haystack,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘The guide dog’s the key to that one,’ called Frost, from the hallway. ‘Has to be. If only we could get the dog to identify the spotty culprits in a line-up.’

  Left alone in the CID office, DC Sue Clarke sat glumly at her desk and retrieved her notebook. Being stuck waiting to hear back from Social Services, with regards to bruised Becky Fraser, and from Forensics, over the piece of scarf and Graham Ransome’s death, was not going to be very exciting. She knew she could be a little more useful.

  She got up and walked over to the tall metal cabinet containing the recent case files, knowing she’d have to start trawling through every reported incident of violence, intimidation and aggravated robbery on and around the Southern Housing Estate. She’d then have to check known football hooligans, see if anything correlated.

  Then perhaps go back to the pathologist, Dr Drysdale, to see if he had any clearer idea of how exactly Graham Ransome received his injuries – whether there was anything incriminating there.

  Probably she should have already done this, but there weren’t enough hours in the day. Besides, it was the chase she enjoyed, being out and about – with Jack Frost too, she realized. Not the drudgery. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out to be a detective after all.

  ‘Sue,’ came the voice of PC Simms close behind her.
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  Startled, she spun round. ‘What the hell are you doing creeping up on me?’

  ‘I was just passing your office . . . the door was open.’

  ‘Well, I’m busy,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘On what?’ said Simms, leaning over and picking up a file.

  Clarke grabbed the file from him and placed it back on the desk. ‘A million things,’ she said.

  ‘That bit of scarf we found by the canal lead anywhere?’ Simms said.

  ‘Don’t you start.’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘A gang of yobs on the Southern Housing Estate – that’s what we believe we’re after,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Try the Codpiece – that chippy. Kids are always hanging around there,’ Simms suggested and walked over to the open filing cabinet.

  ‘You looking for something in particular?’ asked Clarke.

  Simms was running his fingers over the tops of the files. ‘No,’ he said, quickly adding, ‘lot of paperwork in your job.’

  The phone began trilling. ‘If you don’t mind, I need to get this.’ Clarke waited for Simms to leave the room before she lifted the receiver. ‘CID.’

  ‘Sue?’ It was Bill Wells, out of breath. ‘There’s been a bomb scare – Market Square.’

  ‘Turn that off,’ said Frost as the car radio crackled into life.

  ‘Is that a good idea, Jack?’ said Hanlon.

  ‘I don’t need any more distractions while I’m driving,’ said Frost, negotiating the notorious Bath Road roundabout. ‘Besides, we don’t want Mullett stalling us by sending for the cavalry. Frankly, the less he knows the better.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Frost lit a cigarette while waiting to pull across the roundabout. ‘Cast your mind back a moment, will you, Arthur. A couple of weeks. Shortly after the Rimmington heist.’

  ‘The Star Wars robbery, you mean?’ said Hanlon.

  ‘If you must call it that.’

  ‘Vicious job. But what of it?’

  ‘Something’s troubling me.’

  ‘That’s unusual, then. Hey, steady on, Jack.’

  Frost had taken a corner too wide and had to swerve back on to the left side of the road. ‘Not our investigation, I know, but we’d just been talking about it when Miss Smith came into the office, looking for Bert – though Bert had just pissed off somewhere.’

  ‘How could I possibly remember something like that? Everyone was always looking for Bert.’

  ‘Said she wanted a private word with him. You know how flirty she can be.’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Hanlon. ‘Bert had a way with her, that’s for sure.’

  ‘He liked her knockers,’ mulled Frost.

  ‘Hard not to,’ said Hanlon, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘She was carrying an Aster’s shopping bag,’ Frost said, more seriously, ‘and there was an Aster’s shopping bag on Bert’s desk. Miss Smith said, “Snap,” or something like that, and that she and Bert obviously shopped in the right places.’

  ‘Even if I did remember, for the life of me I don’t know where this is going, Jack.’

  ‘Neither do I, quite.’ Frost suddenly pulled up right outside the old telephone exchange, recently given a new name and fancy logo: British Telecom. Right waste of taxpayers’ money. ‘Mind the wardens, Arthur, I won’t be a minute.’

  ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’

  Frost ignored Hanlon, climbed out of the motor and dashed into the lobby. The once-grand neo-classical building was awash with cheap blue-and-grey carpet, fixtures and fittings. Frost went straight up to the reception desk, and asked for Mike Ferris, the chief engineer. ‘He’s expecting me,’ said Frost, knowing of course that he wasn’t.

  While waiting, Frost flicked to the page on which he’d copied the four telephone numbers from Bert Williams’s bloodstained notebook, along with the number of the call box. He ripped out the paper just as the friendly, heavily lined face of Mike Ferris appeared in front of him.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’ Ferris had a trace of Geordie in his accent. Of medium height and build, and in late middle age, Ferris was wearing blue work trousers with a white short-sleeved shirt and a tie. ‘You should have warned me you were coming. I could easily have been out, this time of the morning.’

  ‘Something just came up,’ said Frost, looking over his shoulder. ‘I need a bit of help.’ He paused. ‘On the quiet, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘For you, Jack, I’m always happy to help. If I can. But is it wise you standing around here? Not worried about being seen?’

  ‘I’m in a rush, Mike. Take a look at this, can you.’ Frost handed Ferris the piece of paper he’d ripped from his notebook. ‘Any names and addresses you can match to these numbers, also the dates and times of any calls between them – this one’s a call box, by the way – will make me a very happy man.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Ferris carefully folded and slipped the note into his back pocket.

  ‘I owe you,’ said Frost, turning to leave.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Frost could hear Ferris saying. ‘You’ve more than helped me out in the past.’

  Frost smiled to himself as he left the building. Letting Ferris’s batty wife off a shoplifting charge had more than paid for itself already. And if Ferris could come up with some meaningful names and addresses, not to mention dates and times of calls, Frost knew the net would be closing in on whoever killed Bert. It wasn’t just a vague hope, he was convinced there was a connection.

  ‘Not parked illegally, are we?’ Frost said to Hanlon cheerfully. Hanlon was out of the Cortina, talking to a tiny female traffic warden in a uniform far too big for her, her cap comically askew.

  ‘I was just explaining,’ said Hanlon, brandishing his warrant card, ‘that we’re on official police business. Isn’t that right, Detective?’

  ‘Official or not,’ the traffic warden said – she must have been pushing sixty – ‘you still can’t park here. There’s no emergency that I’m aware of and you’re on a double-yellow line. You’re obstructing the highway, and as such are in breach of bye-law—’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I’m in breach of,’ Hanlon interrupted.

  ‘Come on, Arthur,’ said Frost, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘We’ve all got jobs to do. And that poor old dear is about to get drenched.’

  ‘Serves her right,’ mumbled Hanlon, looking up at the suddenly leaden sky, before easing his great bulk inside the car.

  Station Sergeant Bill Wells found he was biting his nails, staring at the large black phone on the front desk. With everybody at County seemingly involved in the ridiculous rabies press conference, including of course Mullett, Wells was waiting for the Anti-Terrorist Branch to confirm whether the code word used in the bomb scare was correct.

  It seemed to be taking them ages.

  At least Wells had just taken the precaution of calling over the Tannoy for all officers present to assemble in the briefing room. Not that he knew who would then direct the operation – if it came to that.

  He couldn’t raise Frost or Hanlon on any car radio. Which, as far as his panicked mind could work out, meant that the only people of rank left in the building were Clarke and himself.

  The sound of hurrying feet and banging doors filled the station, as Wells felt his heart beat faster and faster.

  Superintendent Mullett followed Assistant Chief Constable Winslow out of the County Headquarters press room, believing he’d managed to swing the blame on to the papers for creating all the hysteria about the rabies scare.

  ‘Well done, Stanley,’ said Winslow. ‘I think Denton Division comes out of this almost blemish-free.’

  ‘Thank you, Nigel.’

  ‘Superintendent Mullett,’ a voice hollered down the corridor. ‘A quick word, if I may.’

  Mullett watched with great irritation as the Denton Echo’s chief reporter, Sandy Lane, pushed past two WPCs and planted himself so close to Mullett that he could smell bacon on his breath.

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�A quick word about that blind man who was murdered by the canal,’ Lane pressed.

  ‘Murdered?’ snapped Mullett. ‘I think you’re leaping to conclusions, as ever.’

  ‘I’ll put it another way, then.’ Lane grinned. ‘Surely the police are linking his death to the recent spate of youth violence and vandalism on the Southern Housing Estate? By all accounts, the man had been subjected to a vicious beating.’

  ‘I don’t know where you get your information from, Mr Lane,’ said Mullett, fully aware of Winslow’s scrutinizing eye, ‘but we will let you know in due course. The investigation is in full swing.’

  Still undeterred, Lane continued, ‘I mean, can you assure the Echo that the elderly population of Denton is safe? Only last month a pensioner was kicked to the ground and robbed, on the very same street where Graham Ransome lived.’

  ‘At this stage there is absolutely no evidence to link the two incidents,’ Mullett replied firmly. He could see the headline now: DENTON OAPS TOO TERRIFIED TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES. Though yobbish behaviour on the Southern Housing Estate was an increasing problem, the mugging of the pensioner was unresolved: after several line-ups it was clear the woman was both senile and a drunk and had no idea what her assailants looked like.

  ‘When do the police expect a breakthrough?’ Lane just wouldn’t let it go. But fortunately for Mullett, a colleague of Lane’s had materialized, slapping him on the back, and diverting the hack’s attention.

  ‘When are you going to start reporting the truth?’ hissed Mullett, before rushing after Winslow.

  ‘What a tiresome fellow,’ Winslow said, once Mullett had fallen into step. ‘And he was the bugger who created all that rabies trouble. I’d have a word with his editor, Stanley. Get him shifted over to the sports pages. The way Denton are playing at the moment, that’ll give him plenty to contend with.’

  They’d reached the double doors to the assistant chief constable’s suite of offices. Mullett was about to make his excuses when Winslow tapped him on the arm and said quietly but firmly, ‘Spare me a moment. Coffee?’

  Mullett glanced at his watch. He wanted to be back in Denton by ten thirty at the very latest. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, through gritted teeth. He was nervous enough about leaving Frost in charge of the briefing, let alone the station.