First Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘He’s in enough trouble as it is,’ warned Frost, who was looking out of the window. A row of conifers closely shielded the back garden.

  ‘He did bump into someone in Denton, not that he was too happy about it,’ Joan Dixon volunteered. ‘Someone he’d met in prison. Not sure why I’m telling you this – to keep him on the straight and narrow, I suppose. But Lee’s changed. He’s got a good heart. He needs to rebuild his life, his relationship with his daughter. He’s potty about her.’

  ‘Who was this person, this fellow ex-con he bumped into?’ said Frost.

  ‘I don’t remember the name, even if Lee told me,’ she answered. ‘He was Irish, though, Northern Irish, that I do remember. Because Lee said the man used to be in the IRA, he used to brag about it. That’s what really worried me. Lee was scared too, I could tell.’

  Frost sighed, scratched his chin. The woman looked genuinely worried – not without cause, these guys were in a different league. ‘Which prison was this?’

  ‘The last one Lee was in: Dartmoor.’

  Pop music – or was it punk? – could be heard from upstairs once again. ‘Why don’t you get Julie to gather her things,’ said Hanlon, ‘and let’s get down to the station.’ He knew Lee Wright wasn’t going to walk in the front door with a Cortina screaming CID parked right outside. He’d see if he could get the house put under surveillance, while hoping Lee Wright had the sense to turn himself in.

  He doubted it, somehow.

  Wednesday (3)

  ‘The north side cleared and blocked off, Sue?’ asked a red-faced Bill Wells, relishing the drama of his new outdoor role.

  ‘Yes,’ replied DC Sue Clarke anxiously, out of breath, beside him. ‘Everyone is well behind the tape. Not many people about, though, thank God.’

  Wells, who was positioned on the corner of Queen Street and Market Square, peered into the gloomy distance. Couldn’t see a living soul. The threat of another heavy downpour must have helped. Also Wednesday was never very busy, what with the half-day closing. ‘Where’s Constable Miller?’

  ‘Securing Foundling Street,’ Clarke replied.

  ‘And Simms?’

  ‘He’s checking the west side, London Street.’

  ‘So who’s over by Gentlemen’s Walk?’

  ‘Not sure, Bill. PC Baker? I saw a uniform down by Aster’s.’

  ‘But that’s the other corner. Bugger,’ Wells muttered, thinking Baker was two streets away, checking the multi-storey. London Street had to be less of a priority than the pedestrianized Gentlemen’s Walk, where shoppers on foot would be even more vulnerable.

  However, with such a paucity of uniform, not to mention of higher ranks, Wells thought they were covering a lot of ground, given how light on officers Denton Division was at the best of times. Despite the circumstances, he was feeling almost proud.

  The radio in Clarke’s Escort car crackled into life through the open door. Wells swiftly stepped over, leant in and lifted the handset. ‘Wells,’ he said.

  ‘Wells? At last. I’m still ten minutes away,’ squawked Mullett, across a very bad connection. ‘Should have been there by now but some twit crashed into me, sending me off the road. Is the area completely sealed off yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Wells shouted, looking quickly over his shoulder, as if to reassure himself. ‘You’ve had an accident, sir?’

  ‘Yes – but let’s not bother about that now.’ Mullett’s voice wasn’t just being muffled by the static; Wells thought there was a distinctly shaky faintness to it. ‘Suspect vehicle?’ the super asked.

  ‘A white van is parked bang outside Bennington’s, sir,’ Wells answered. ‘The bank has been evacuated. Bomb squad is not here yet. They’re having to come from Windsor.’

  ‘Windsor?’

  ‘They’ve been rehearsing for a royal pageant,’ shouted Wells into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Royal pageant? With the country on a state of alert and the IRA on the rampage?’ shouted Mullett. ‘Whatever next!’

  Wells looked at his watch. The bomb was set to detonate in fourteen minutes. ‘Joke, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s most definitely not,’ said Mullett. ‘Sweep the area once more, then get well back. Nothing else you can do.’

  Wells replaced the handset. ‘Sue, you stay here and chase up the fire brigade, they should bloody well be here by now. I’ll run round the square once more.’

  He dashed towards the square, clutching his hat and the megaphone, quietly surprised he had it in him to move so fast.

  ‘You can’t drive down there,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Oh yes I can,’ said Frost, swinging the Cortina into the recently pedestrianized Gentlemen’s Walk. He’d show his passengers what advanced police driving was all about. ‘Plenty of space – no old codgers in the way, either.’

  ‘Mind your language,’ said Joan Dixon in the back.

  ‘Mind that bin, Jack,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Who put that there?’ It was narrower than Frost had thought.

  ‘Didn’t think this was much of a short cut to Eagle Lane, anyway,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Frost, pulling the car to a halt, just before the junction with Market Square. ‘Via Woolies. I’m out of pick ’n’ mix.’

  ‘Not really the time, Jack,’ mumbled Hanlon crossly.

  ‘I want to come,’ Julie shrilled from the back. ‘If I’m going to be stuck in a police station all day, I’ll need some sweets.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Frost, climbing out, his plan to entice Julie away from her grandmother working like a treat. ‘Come on, then. I’ll pick, you can mix.’ He stood on the slippery, wet cobbles, gathering his mac tightly around him, waiting for Julie to extract herself from the cramped rear of the car. There was a freshness to the damp, cold air. It was going to pelt down again any moment. ‘Grandma, want anything?’ he said, lowering his gaze.

  ‘A pardon for my son?’ Joan Dixon said.

  ‘Depends how he can help us,’ Frost called over his shoulder as he and Julie headed round the corner towards the Woolies entrance on Market Square.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he heard Hanlon shout from the car.

  ‘So what’s your dad, your real dad, like?’ Frost asked the girl.

  ‘He’s all right, I suppose,’ she said. ‘He’s not that old, but it’s like he doesn’t know anything about anything. And he wears these horrible clothes.’

  Frost caught her heavily made-up eyes looking him up and down.

  ‘I suppose they’re not that horrible,’ she added quickly. ‘Just not very, you know, modern.’

  ‘He’s been away a long time, hasn’t he? Like he’s stuck in a time-warp?’ Frost had never remotely cared about what he wore, as long as it didn’t reek of curry. It was Mary who took issue with his attire.

  ‘Now, Dad,’ Julie continued, more than happy to dawdle along, ‘well, whatever he is now, my mum’s husband, the bastard . . . anyway, he like wears what he thinks are these cool leather jackets and jeans and stuff. But he looks like a right tosser.’

  He does now, all right, thought Frost, in a station cell.

  ‘Loads of my friends fancy him, though.’ She paused, peered hesitantly left and right, a gawky, less than innocent look on her face. ‘He’s a right sleazeball. Been shagging the woman who lives opposite us, too. Poor Mum.’ Her bottom lip quivered and she looked up at Frost. ‘I want to see my mum. She’s OK really . . . she’s not that badly hurt, is she?’

  ‘She’ll be all right, I expect, given some time,’ said Frost, pushing on one of Woolies’ double doors. ‘We’ll make sure you see her later. Why don’t you get her something in Woolies to cheer her up? I’ll lend you ten bob.’

  But the door wouldn’t give. Locked? Frost put his face to the glass. No one inside, yet the lights were on. He could see a couple of shopping baskets, half full, in the middle of one aisle. He checked his watch. Very strange. Then a badly parked van, just yards away, caught his eye.

  ‘Who’s looking after my cat, then?’ J
ulie said. Frost turned from the van and looked at her blankly, confused.

  ‘If Mum is in hospital and you’ve got Steve,’ continued Julie, ‘who’s feeding Toyah?’

  DC Sue Clarke stepped away from the Escort and walked the few yards to the end of Queen Street. Squinting, she looked across the square. It was hard to make out much in the damp gloom, except the white van illegally parked outside Bennington’s, half on the pavement, and which was blocking the view to the entrances to the shops on that side of the square, including Boots and Woolies – long cleared, she presumed.

  Wells was nowhere to be seen. Neither, damn him, was PC Derek Simms.

  Light playing on the van made her think for a second that she was seeing movement, shadows beyond, but as the first fat drops of rain began to fall she turned back towards the Escort, which she’d purposefully parked at an angle right across Queen Street.

  She reached the vehicle just as Mullett’s Rover pulled out of Opie Street and came roaring towards her, headlights flashing. She looked around for Wells again, but he must have been taking the long route back, checking the barriers and police tape and that uniform were all in place.

  She was impressed with how quickly everything had come together – thanks to Wells’s organizational skills, and her own, for that matter. But she didn’t like being put on the spot. The boss made her nervous.

  Mullett brought the car screeching to a stop, then leapt out, hat in one hand, a map in the other. ‘All clear, is it? Everyone back?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’ Clarke gazed at Mullett’s new executive saloon. There was a large dent in the off-side wing.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Mullett said.

  ‘Your car, sir,’ said Clarke. ‘An accident?’

  ‘DC Clarke’ – Mullett looked at his watch – ‘a bomb is about to go off. Let’s concentrate on saving lives.’

  At that moment PC Baker came jogging into the street from the square. ‘There appears to be a car parked in Gentlemen’s Walk,’ he said, gasping for breath.

  ‘Gentlemen’s Walk? But that’s a pedestrian street,’ said Mullett. ‘What the devil is a car doing there? Disabled car, is it?’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Who’s manning the Walk? Blocked off right back by the Wells Road, I hope. Certainly don’t want a bunch of pensioners ambling into this.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Clarke. She couldn’t think clearly. ‘PC Miller?’

  ‘Well you, Constable,’ Mullett said, glaring at PC Baker, ‘go all the way round, and come back down from the far end.’ As Baker sprinted off, Mullett said, ‘I don’t suppose the bomb squad’s here yet?’

  ‘No, haven’t seen them,’ said Clarke, her confidence quickly ebbing away. What could she do to rescue the situation, to impress Mullett?

  ‘Where’s the fire brigade?’ Mullett scanned the distance.

  ‘They’re still on their way, too,’ said Clarke, ‘One of the unit’s been dealing with a car on fire on the Southern Housing Estate.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, where are we, Belfast? Another torching?’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Either way they’ve got more than one truck, haven’t they? This is farcical. I’ll be having words with the fire chief about this.’ Mullett marched up the road, towards Market Square, shouting, ‘It’s not every day you get a bomb in the centre of Denton.’

  Clarke followed close behind, though the sound of a car reversing at speed made her look over her shoulder just in time to catch the rear of a dark-blue saloon disappearing down Lower Goat Lane, the narrow street running along the back of the Fortress Building Society. She thought that part of town had been roped off.

  ‘The cat?’ I’m sure he’s fine,’ Frost said, thinking about the van.

  ‘She better be. Toyah’s a girl. Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘Yes, yes, but I don’t know what that old banger’s doing there,’ Frost said to Julie, walking just a bit further on and thumping the side of the white Transit van, parked half on the pavement, half on the road, right in front of Bennington’s Bank. They’d been about to head back to Gentlemen’s Walk and the Cortina, but Frost couldn’t let this go, being such a stickler for legal parking himself.

  Walking round to the front of the van, he immediately noticed that the tax disc was three months out of date. The condition the van was in made him doubt it would pass an MOT.

  ‘Dad used to sell vans,’ said Julie. ‘My old dad . . . before he got into sports cars. He loved them, the nutter. I think that that was where, you know, he and my mum . . .’

  Frost wasn’t listening. He was trying the passenger door. Locked. He zipped round the bonnet and out on to the road to try the driver’s door. Locked also. Looking inside, he was struck by how empty and clean the cab was, given the age and state of the vehicle. No sign of any papers, sweet wrappers, fag packets, crumpled drink cans, the usual rubbish. He came back round on to the pavement, where Julie was idly looking at her wet boots.

  ‘Sorry about the sweets,’ he said. ‘There’ll be something at the station – we’ve got this brand-new trolley service. Hang on a sec.’ He walked to the rear of the van, tried the handle, pulling hard. It made an odd sound. No, the noise was coming from somewhere else. Was it shouting?

  Frost gave the rear door one last tug and, to his surprise, it opened with a creak. What the hell, he thought, and clambered inside. Hunch or not, something was just not right about this van.

  The load area was empty except for, towards the front, a large cardboard box. Stooping, Frost made his way forwards.

  Wells had joined Mullett and Clarke on the corner of Foundling Lane and Market Square; they had just walked round from the end of Queen Street. Now Mullett watched as Wells put the megaphone to his lips, for a third time, trying to get the attention of that imbecile Detective Sergeant Frost, who’d suddenly appeared by the suspect vehicle. What’s more, he wasn’t alone.

  ‘FROST!’ echoed deeply around the square, despite the now hammering rain. ‘Clear the area. Clear the area. Immediately.’

  ‘What the hell is that man playing at?’ said Mullett, peering into the dim distance as Wells’s amplified voice finally died away. ‘It’s no time to be a hero. And who’s that girl? He’s putting her life in terrible danger.’

  ‘Gosh, I believe that’s Julie Hudson,’ said Clarke excitedly. ‘They must have found her.’

  ‘And found their way into the middle of a supposedly secured area,’ said Mullett, looking at his watch, the seconds ticking away. ‘Another appalling breach of procedure!’

  ‘Frost’s timing has always been awful,’ said Wells.

  Mullett gave him a damning look. ‘I don’t care about Frost, but that poor girl’s life is not going to be sacrificed because of incompetence in my division, whoever’s responsible.’ Mullett paused, sized up the square once more, checked his watch. It was always a little fast. ‘No use standing there, bellowing into that stupid thing,’ he said, setting off at a trot, but soon increasing his pace to something resembling a sprint.

  Yet before Mullett had even got halfway across the square he was overtaken by DC Clarke, going like the clappers. We really haven’t been making full use of her, he couldn’t help thinking.

  Clarke reached the van first, stopping briefly by the girl, and then climbing into the back.

  Mullett reached the van with Bill Wells closing in fast behind.

  The girl, standing on the pavement in an extraordinarily tiny skirt, but with great big boots, and with a most bizarre hairdo, gave Mullett a startled look, then said dismissively, ‘They’re in the van.’ As if Mullett didn’t know.

  Wells, behind him, gasping for breath, said, ‘I’ll get her away. I’ll get her away.’

  ‘Don’t you come anywhere near me,’ the girl warned him.

  ‘Don’t think it’s necessary, Wells,’ said Mullett, who was by the back of the van, peering in.

  ‘Look at this, Sue,’ Frost was saying, as he retrieved a pink, bald mannequin’s h
ead from the box.

  Clarke was holding a life-size plastic arm. ‘Do you think they go together?’

  ‘Hello, Super,’ said Frost, at last seeing Mullett, ‘found some illegally parked body parts.’

  ‘Nothing in here’s going to blow up,’ said Clarke, clearly trying to adopt a serious tone and edging out of the van.

  ‘A hoax,’ said Mullett. He was almost disappointed. ‘A bloody hoax.’ Apart from everything else his car had been pranged rushing here – I could have been killed. He stood back, replaced his cap squarely, and surveyed the all but empty Market Square. Suddenly the green army bomb-disposal van appeared on Queen Street, its antiquated siren clanking away.

  ‘Super, sir,’ Wells beckoned excitedly, leaving the girl, his radio glued to his ear. Mullett couldn’t make out what the station sergeant was now saying into the device, with the bomb-disposal van making a hell of a racket and its driver hooting frantically for Clarke’s Escort to be moved out of the way.

  ‘Yes, Wells?’ Mullett said dejectedly.

  ‘Control’s on the line: we’re getting reports that the Fortress has just been hit.’

  ‘The building society?’ said Mullett. ‘I didn’t hear an explosion. Whose fault is this – did we have the wrong location?’

  ‘Not blown up, sir,’ said Wells. ‘Robbed, by an armed gang. They’ve been cleaned out.’

  Wednesday (4)

  ‘Exceptional times call for exceptional measures,’ said Mullett. He surveyed the packed briefing room. Every department, from the drug squad to Records, had been summoned. He’d sent Miss Smith round the building, twice. It was early afternoon, but some progress had already been made.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the Anti-Terrorist Branch are sending down a chap called DCI Patterson, because of the nature of the hoax, and County are sending over Assistant Chief Constable Winslow. Both will be seconded here for as long as it’s necessary.’

  Mullett was livid. The last thing he wanted was beady-eyed Winslow breathing down his neck, and this fellow Patterson – whoever the hell he was – sniffing around. It wasn’t as if anyone had been killed. There hadn’t even been a bomb to defuse.