by James, Henry
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Jack. Hanlon and Clarke are with the parents, a Liz Fraser and a Simon Trench. Apparently they’re cooperating.’
‘Cooperating? I’d like to hear that.’
‘You need to get to Denton Close, Jack.’
‘Right, OK. I’m on my way. Where exactly?’
‘Number eight.’
‘Why does that ring a bell?’
‘Series of noise complaints.’
‘I was thinking of a curry.’ Frost replaced the receiver, adjusted his crotch and rushed out of the room.
‘You know,’ said Clarke, driving slowly for once, ‘I guess there are some cases that you’ll never understand.’
‘Human behaviour,’ said Hanlon. ‘They don’t teach us enough about that at Hendon.’
The meat wagon containing Simon Trench and Liz Fraser overtook them on the Wells Road.
‘It’s going to take quite a few shrinks to sort this one out,’ said Clarke, watching the vehicle disappear into the distance.
‘Liz Fraser’s been crying out for help for some time. I suppose we didn’t realize that she was the one who needed protecting, from herself.’ Hanlon sighed. ‘But I guess they’re both responsible.’
‘What’s the betting he gets the longer sentence?’ Clarke slowed right down for a roundabout. A Cortina thundered across in front of them.
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. She’ll probably just get a stint in a secure mental institution.’
‘Not sure I’d fancy Broadmoor much,’ said Clarke, then adding quietly, ‘what’s going to haunt me, though, is the fact that if we’d got there just a bit earlier that little girl would still be alive. I can’t bear to think of her being suffocated – if that is how she died. And then the way they’d tucked her up in her bed, as if for the night.’
‘Social Services should have been there,’ sighed Hanlon. ‘Their blasted new directive – there’s always one. Christ, they should have been there months, years ago.’
‘We should have made a stronger case,’ said Clarke.
‘What would have been the point? They wouldn’t have listened. They only hear what they want to hear.’
‘I feel sick. Not sure I’m up for the Southern Housing Estate tonight.’
‘We can’t protect everyone, Sue,’ said Hanlon.
Wednesday (9)
Lost behind sad, stinking bouquets of flowers, Station Sergeant Bill Wells finally had a moment to contemplate his new Pools coupon. Sighing loudly, he scanned the Saturday fixtures. Low down in the leagues he noticed that Denton were playing Rimmington at home: the local derby.
Wells was rudely torn from his football considerations by the sharp ping of the desk bell. Pushing aside his Littlewoods booklet, he glanced up to see the pointy-nosed and bespectacled head of Assistant Chief Constable Winslow. He scrambled to attention. ‘Evening, sir.’
‘I know DI Williams will be sorely missed, but this is a little over the top, isn’t it, Sergeant?’ said Winslow, gesticulating at the flowers.
‘The staff wanted to express their feelings,’ Wells found himself saying, knowing he was responsible for the memorial. ‘Williams had been with us for a long time.’
‘Too long,’ muttered Winslow.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘Tell Superintendent Mullett I’ve arrived, will you?’
‘I do believe Sir Peter Farnsworth, the chairman of the Fortress, has just popped by to see him,’ said Wells, knowing full well that Sir Peter was in with Mullett and the super had left clear instructions not to be disturbed.
‘Even more reason, then, to tell him I’m here.’
Wells tried Miss Smith’s extension, half remembering having seen her leave for the day. Not surprisingly, there was no reply. Winslow was looking impatient. ‘Not answering,’ said the sergeant. ‘Look, why don’t you go straight through, sir?’ At least it wasn’t Wells who’d be disturbing the super.
Winslow promptly marched off, leaving Wells to return to the Pools. Yet before he had a chance to find his place, another man slipped into the building. He was in his mid thirties, solidly built, with a five o’clock shadow, shoulder-length dark hair, a scruffy black leather jacket, jeans and dirty white plimsolls.
‘Hello,’ the man said, approaching the front desk. The distinct Irish accent didn’t make Wells any more relaxed. ‘I’m here to see the divisional commander, Superintendent Mullett.’
‘And you are?’ Wells said.
‘Patterson, ATB.’
Wells frowned.
‘DCI Patterson, Anti-Terrorist Branch,’ the man quickly added.
‘Oh, right, of course, yes,’ Wells mumbled. ‘Wasn’t expecting . . .’
‘What?’ the man enquired.
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Wells was too embarrassed to ask for the man’s ID. ‘It’s just that the super’s a little tied up at the moment.’
‘I bet he is. Tell him I’m here, will you?’ Patterson said, raising his eyebrows hopefully, or perhaps it was disdainfully. ‘I’ve just driven down from London.’
‘How was the traffic?’ said Wells, picking up the phone once more, though not sure whether he dared dial Mullett’s personal extension.
‘A joke. Much like Denton, from what I’ve already seen of it.’
‘Line’s busy,’ Wells lied. ‘Why don’t you wait over there.’ He pointed to the bench running under the notice board.
The Anti-Terrorist Branch officer swaggered over to the bench, his leather jacket swinging open to reveal that he was packing a Smith & Wesson Special.
Frost pulled up in Denton Close, almost exactly where he’d been positioned on Sunday night, and switched off the engine. Looking at the very same house, number eight, as the drizzle now smeared the windscreen, he tried to recall what he’d seen.
Once more soft orange light was seeping around the curtains of the front room, but there was no movement inside this time. He remembered the tall, thin man on the doorstep, kissing people goodbye. Then there was the woman he’d nearly knocked over when he opened the car door, and her running away – who the hell was she? He’d clean forgotten about her. And then the sensation of hot curry in his lap – he hadn’t forgotten that.
What struck him now was how still and dark and quiet it was. The only sign something terrible had happened were the two PCs stationed outside the front door.
Frost shook his head as he got out of the car; his limbs were feeling heavy and cumbersome. Fatigue wasn’t the only battle he was fighting.
‘Evening, boys,’ he called out, squinting in the rain as he hurried towards the porch. He slowed by the entrance. ‘What we got?’
One of the sentries, PC Simms, appeared desperate not to make eye contact, and continued to look into the wet night, ignoring Frost’s question.
‘Dead woman,’ PC Baker said, sniffing, his nose reddened with cold.
‘So I’d heard,’ said Frost, ignoring Simms’s attitude – just a boy, that one. ‘And the husband . . . he’s inside, is he?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Baker.
‘His name?’ asked Frost.
‘Maurice Litchfield.’
‘Litchfield? Heard that name somewhere this week . . . Well, let’s take a look inside, shall we? Lead the way, will you, Baker.’
Baker pushed open the front door. It had something to do with the blind man, Graham Ransome, Frost suddenly remembered.
‘Husband is in the lounge, on the phone, or was.’ Baker indicated a room off the hall to the right.
As Frost vigorously wiped his feet on the doormat, he cupped his hand to his ear. He could make out a broken, low voice emanating from the lounge.
‘The body is upstairs. Front bedroom,’ said Baker.
Gingerly stepping on to the luxuriant, deep-pile, cream-coloured hall carpet, Frost made for the lounge and peered round the corner. A man in a dark suit sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, talking softly into the phone. A tumbler of Scotch was balanced precariously on the Dralon arm of the sofa. Beside
him was the source of the mellow lighting, an orange lava lamp.
He certainly appeared to be the bloke in the silk dressing-gown Frost had seen on Sunday evening: thinning hair, aristocratic profile, lanky build . . .
Frost stepped back abruptly, straight into Baker, who gave an audible start.
‘Blimey,’ Frost mockingly protested. ‘No need to keep that close.’
‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Baker said, whispering, ‘I was just trying to see if Mr Litchfield was all right.’
‘All right?’ Frost hissed. ‘Of course he’s not bloody all right.’ Frost made for the stairs, knowing he’d have to face the worst sooner rather than later. Baker followed, but giving Frost a bit of space.
‘Where is she, then?’ Frost stood in the doorway of the ransacked master bedroom. Drawers had been pulled out, clothes were strewn everywhere. A jewellery box lay on the floor, along with heaps of make-up and accessories. ‘Where?’ Frost repeated.
‘In the bed, under the duvet.’ Baker pointed at the crumpled, purple-coloured bedding.
Frost stepped towards the bed, careful not to disturb the debris on the floor. Gently he pulled back the covers. ‘Wow . . . what a shame.’ Despite the grey pallor of death, this was a striking female corpse. Frost couldn’t help thinking of a classical marble statue.
‘Sorry, sir?’ Baker said, hesitantly. ‘What was that?’
‘I said . . . forget it. What’s her name, first name?’
Staring at the body, Baker appeared suddenly lost for words.
‘Come on, lad, I haven’t got all night.’
‘Vanessa.’
An image came immediately to Frost’s mind of a very attractive young woman addressing a bunch of teenage girls outside St Mary’s school. Vanessa. Vanessa Litchfield. That was it: the woman who had discovered Graham Ransome’s body floating in the canal, and who worked at St Mary’s School for Girls.
‘Any idea when this supposed attack took place?’ Frost asked, frowning. ‘The thing is’ – he was speaking as much to himself as to Baker – ‘if she was raped, it’s unlikely whoever did it would bother to undress her fully first, and then take her up to bed to do it. But it takes all sorts.’
‘No clear idea when this happened,’ said Baker. ‘The husband was out all day, working in London.’ The PC flicked back through his notepad, adding, ‘He reckons she was raped because she was in bed, naked.’
‘No confirmation there, then, I take it,’ said Frost. ‘I’m no expert when it comes to rigor mortis, but she’s been there a while.’ Frost prodded the woman’s shoulder. ‘Stiff as a board.’
‘You certainly are no expert. Stand aside, Detective.’
‘Ah, the good doctor himself.’ Frost turned and grinned at Doctor Maltby, who was striding into the room, shaking the rain from his Homburg. ‘Been a busy week, Doc, and we keep missing each other.’ Frost had a grudging respect for the old soak.
As usual Maltby’s tie was askew, his wiry grey hair still defied gravity, while his bushy grey eyebrows continued to erupt from his forehead.
Bert Williams had always been highly complimentary about the doc – they were from the same school, in many ways, Frost thought.
‘Never known a week like it, Mr Frost,’ Maltby said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
Frost stepped back from the king-size bed to allow Maltby better access, catching a blast of Johnnie Walker Black Label as he did so – the doc’s preferred tipple. ‘No, can’t say I’d ever want another week like it either.’
While Maltby fussed around the corpse, Frost lit a cigarette and checked out the lurid seascape that hung above the bed: a naked Venus was rising from an opened oyster shell.
‘Well, she’s dead, good and proper,’ said Maltby.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Frost. ‘I thought she might be. You fondling her like that would surely have woken her were she asleep.’
‘Been dead a while, too,’ said Maltby, ignoring him. ‘Rigor is at its peak. Between eighteen and twenty-four hours is my preliminary conclusion.’
Frost noticed a flashing blue glow seeping around the curtains.
Maltby was opening the corpse’s mouth, sticking his fingers inside, then running his hands lightly over the woman’s arms and legs. ‘What do you make of that?’ He lifted the right leg up slightly by the ankle.
‘It’s a foot,’ Frost said. ‘Size six, I’d guess. Wait, is that a verruca I can see?’
‘There’s reddening around the ankle, Mr Frost. Caused by chafing. And here, on the other one, too.’
‘From what, do you reckon?’ Frost stepped closer.
‘You better wait for Drysdale’s report, he’s—’
‘Paid more than you?’ Frost finished, though feeling vaguely disloyal for mocking Drysdale’s position; the pathologist had done Frost a huge favour earlier in the day.
‘Quite. Her toes are disfigured, too, and there are the beginnings of bunions – probably down to her footwear.’ Maltby stood back, peeled off his gloves. ‘Bit of a mystery this one. She hadn’t swallowed her tongue. No real sign of trauma. No bruising around the neck, though there is another slight chafing mark. Almost as if she’d been wearing a collar or necklace that was rather tight.’
‘Unlike you not to have an opinion at least,’ quipped Frost. ‘Are you working to rule?’
‘As I said, been a long week, already.’ Maltby adjusted his glasses. ‘Though I’ll offer you this: if she was raped, she certainly didn’t put up a fight. The chafing and faint marks around her neck are not consistent with any serious attempt at restraint.’ Maltby made for the bedroom door. ‘You’d be surprised by what people get up to in their own homes.’
‘I’m not sure anything would surprise me any more,’ said Frost, as Maltby left the room and made for the stairs.
‘Very sorry about Bert, by the way,’ Maltby called over his shoulder.
‘We all are,’ Frost replied, turning to face Baker, who was now bending down inside the built-in wardrobe on the far wall of the bedroom. ‘Not knicker sniffing, are you?’
‘What do you make of this, Sarge?’ Baker said, straightening and holding up a black-leather face mask with a zip where the mouth should be. He walked over and handed it to Frost.
Frost took it, perplexed. Then suddenly he thought of S&M, and the gang that had hit the Fortress. A coincidence too far, surely.
Baker had now also discovered a black rubber basque, handcuffs, an array of large pink phalluses and a pair of thigh-high white PVC boots, so pointed that Frost found it crippling even to look at them. The thought of Vanessa Litchfield trussed up in this gear was more than enough to fuse his tired brain.
‘Kinky, eh?’ Baker leered, waving a huge, black strap-on penis at Frost.
‘Put that back, you’ve no idea where it’s been,’ Frost said sharply. ‘Forensics will have some probing questions for you after they brush that thing down.’
Baker dropped it instantly.
‘Wonder if she wore it,’ said Frost.
‘What, that?’ Baker pointed to the strap-on at his feet.
‘No. The mask, you idiot. You’d be surprised what headgear people pop on to nip out to the bank.’ Frost wondered if it was bought locally or by mail order. He thought one thing might lead to another and shoved the black-leather mask into his mac pocket. He moved over to the bed. The enamel on the iron frame at the head had been worn right away at various points. Through various playful restraints rubbing against it?
‘Where do you get this sort of sex gear round here?’ said Frost.
‘There is a place at the far end of Foundling Street, blacked-out windows, a Private Shop, I think,’ said Baker, deliberately not looking at Frost.
‘Why don’t I know about that? Don’t answer. So, what’s the husband’s story?’
‘He works in the City, a stockbroker. Up and out by five thirty every morning, back shortly after seven. Says he discovered his wife dead when he got in tonight, and dialled 999 straight away.’
Frost paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. There was a faint creak from the iron frame. ‘That doesn’t seem to stack up,’ he eventually said. ‘Of course we’ll get confirmation later, but given the state of rigor I seriously doubt she died during the day today. Not even first thing this morning – which, I suppose, might at least have explained why she was naked and in bed.’
Frost went back over to the painting, Venus rising from her oyster shell. ‘Why does Maurice Litchfield think she’s been raped? Because she’s naked, and wasn’t when he left her this morning? Because he’s had an exploratory sniff?’
‘To be honest, he hasn’t said much at all,’ said Baker. ‘We were waiting for you.’
‘How thoughtful.’ Frost lit another cigarette, exhaling heavily. ‘There’s something very fishy about this, I’m afraid, and I don’t mean that strap-on.’
Baker winced.
‘We’ll have a quick word with Maurice,’ continued Frost, ‘see if anything more comes to light immediately, otherwise let’s wait until Drysdale and Forensics have their say before we get down to any serious questioning. I want uniform posted out here all night.’
Baker now groaned audibly.
‘I do believe I hear the patter of Scenes of Crime’s feet on the stairs,’ said Frost, turning towards the landing. ‘They’ll have plenty to amuse themselves with.’
Wednesday (10)
Sue Clarke, at home and in bed at last, couldn’t keep the image of the dead little girl out of her head. Seeing Graham Ransome being pulled on to the canal bank by the police frogmen was one thing, but a dead two-year-old was quite another.
It was the way Becky Fraser’s eyes were shut, and how there was almost a smile on her little face. She’d been neatly tucked up in bed – no sign of the struggle that must have ended her life.
Making it all so much worse, of course, were the parents: Liz Fraser and Simon Trench. They’d been arguing about who’d incited what, who’d pushed who into that one last, fatal time. There’d been a long catalogue of abuse, a slow, steady downward spiral. The history of this troubled and lethal partnership would be pored over by the courts for months. But what had quickly become clear, what Liz Fraser and Simon Trench both admitted to, was that they had tucked up the small child’s limp body, in bed, for ever. Then kissed her goodnight and goodbye.