First Frost

by James, Henry

  Clarke threw off her duvet, found her dressing-gown, and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Her mind was whirring away, coming to the conclusion that while Liz Fraser had long wanted to be caught and stopped, Simon Trench had begun to hate himself so much he didn’t care what happened to him at all.

  That, at least, was Clarke’s bit of amateur psychology, for free.

  Wrapping her dressing-gown tightly around her, she half thought about ringing Derek Simms, to say she was sorry for losing her temper in the corridor that afternoon, and would he like to come over and warm her up.

  But as she sipped her hot drink, she realized she was never going to apologize to him, let alone ask him over again. He was a right prat, putting it about all over the place, too. Besides, he only ever really fancied himself.

  Back in the bedroom, her thoughts turned to Jack Frost. Now there was a man who never took himself too seriously, yet he was full of integrity. She couldn’t help wondering whether he was in bed right now . . . with his wife. What the hell was she like?

  Clarke hoped his wife made him happy. Or one day, she might just have a go herself.

  ‘A sex shop, on Foundling Street?’ Hanlon exclaimed. ‘How did I miss that?’

  ‘Too busy looking for that bakery,’ said Frost, stretching back in Bert Williams’s old chair, hands behind his head, feet on the desk, a hole in both soles of his shoes.

  It was late, very late, and Jack Frost, Arthur Hanlon and ruddy-faced Police Sergeant Nick Webster from Records were crammed into Bert Williams’s office, the room as smoky as a nightclub.

  ‘Blacked-out windows,’ said Webster quietly, perched on the edge of the large desk. ‘You wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking for it.’

  ‘But you knew, all right,’ said Frost, nodding at Webster. ‘Dirty sod.’

  The wind whistled outside, making the cramped, dimly lit, smoked-filled office feel almost cosy.

  ‘The thing is, Arthur,’ Webster continued with a grin, ignoring Frost, ‘these places are always there if you look for them.’

  ‘Never been detailed to Vice,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Is that regret I hear in your voice?’ said Frost.

  ‘Grow up,’ muttered Hanlon crossly.

  ‘Pointy boots, shackles, masks and big rubber cocks aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, I suppose,’ mused Frost. ‘But give Arthur a sausage roll, and he’d do things to young Miss Smith that’d make your ears bleed.’

  ‘Don’t mean to interrupt, but did I hear the word “tea”?’ asked Grace, hovering by the door. ‘You men want a last one? The boss has said I can go on all night, and there’ll be no problem claiming overtime.’

  ‘I bet he has,’ said Frost.

  ‘All right, cheeky,’ she said, ‘but it’s gone midnight, and I’m dead on my feet. Overtime or not, I’m not planning on sticking around for ever.’

  ‘Love one, thanks,’ said Frost, ‘and let’s see if Bert left something behind we could top it up with.’ He began riffling through the desk drawers and almost instantly retrieved a three-quarters-full bottle of Scotch. ‘Think we could all do with some of this.’

  ‘By all accounts,’ said Hanlon, still vexed, ‘Miss Smith has enough men bothering her.’

  ‘Wasn’t aware she was complaining,’ said Frost.

  ‘Mullett’s had words with her about it, apparently,’ revealed Webster. ‘Doesn’t like that sort of thing going on right under his nose.’ He paused, sniffed. ‘I hear she even had a thing with Pooley, of all weirdos.’

  Frost leant across the desk to top Webster’s tea up with Scotch.

  ‘And then there’s Simms,’ continued Webster. ‘Though everyone knows he’s also been poking . . .’ His voice trailed off, and he took a gulp of tea.

  ‘The way you’re going on,’ said Grace, ‘anyone would have thought you had a soft spot for our Miss Smith.’

  As laughter erupted Grace quickly pulled the trolley out of the room and disappeared down the corridor. Webster’s chair, one of Mullett’s new orange ones, which he’d dragged in from the corridor, then gave an alarming squeak.

  Calming down, Frost said, ‘Don’t get married too young, that’s the key, I reckon.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop some people, Jack,’ Hanlon smiled.

  ‘Well, perhaps some people shouldn’t get married at all,’ Frost said, flicking ash on to the floor. ‘Who’s for another top-up?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Hanlon. ‘I’m gasping. Nasty business at Liz Fraser’s. Sue Clarke’s taken it rather badly. She was very upset.’

  ‘Not often you see a dead child, even in this business,’ said Frost. ‘I should have done more,’ he added, before taking a large swig of his fortified tea. ‘Got that Doctor Philips at Denton General to keep her in longer. I don’t know, there must have been something I could have done. Trouble was, I took my eyes off it.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jack, we all should have done more. There was a lot going on, and neither Liz Fraser nor Simon Trench were on Social Services’ radar,’ said Hanlon. ‘Social Services have a lot to answer for, too.’

  ‘They’ll pass the buck – as ever,’ sighed Frost. ‘Thing is, I always knew Liz Fraser wasn’t entirely blameless, for the kid to be in that state when we first found her. But to kill a child . . .’

  ‘She’d made those emergency calls in the past, hadn’t she?’ said Webster. ‘Complaining about prowlers and suspected burglars. What was that all about?’

  ‘Cries for help,’ suggested Hanlon. ‘Help from herself.’

  ‘We’re not shrinks,’ said Webster. ‘How were you meant to work that one out? We couldn’t even track Trench’s car.’

  ‘I suppose this station’s a touch overstretched,’ said Hanlon, ironically. ‘Anyway, Mullett doesn’t seem overly concerned with the case.’

  ‘He never was,’ said Frost. ‘Don’t think he likes children much.’

  ‘He just wants everything that’s not to do with the Fortress investigation filed and put to one side,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘Anything to please those effing bankers,’ grumbled Frost.

  ‘Mullett doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going at the moment, if you ask me,’ said Webster. ‘You can’t just leave investigations midway.’

  ‘Mullett and his blasted paperwork.’ Frost took another long sip of tea.

  ‘He should be running a bank, not a cop shop,’ laughed Webster.

  ‘At least we don’t have DI Allen sticking his oar in,’ said Hanlon. ‘Let’s be thankful for that.’

  ‘I thought all leave had been cancelled,’ said Webster.

  ‘It has,’ confirmed Hanlon. ‘But for some reason Allen has evaded the call-up.’

  ‘That’s a surprise,’ said Frost.

  ‘Maybe not,’ disagreed Hanlon. ‘Heard a rumour that he’s having marital difficulties: Mrs Allen’s got a bit bored. And that he’s going through some sort of a breakdown.’

  ‘You’re joking! Bloody hell . . . can’t believe you kept that to yourself, Arthur.’ Frost laughed, drained his mug, looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Everyone’s at it,’ piped up Webster.

  ‘Not everyone,’ said Frost. ‘I doubt Mullett even knows where his own prick is.’

  ‘Did I hear my name?’ The superintendent appeared in the doorway.

  Frost attempted to hide the bottle of Scotch behind a stack of papers. ‘Just talking about the old super,’ Frost beamed. ‘And how good it is to have a vigorous new boss.’

  ‘Some sort of celebration going on?’ Mullett said, eyeing the Scotch and wincing at the fog of smoke. ‘When I sanctioned overtime, this wasn’t what I envisaged.’

  ‘Actually, sir, we were toasting DI Williams. Care for one?’ Webster said, solemnly, and winking at Frost.

  ‘Ah, yes, well,’ said Mullett, ‘under the circumstances I think I will. Been a hell of a week.’

  Frost scanned the room for a glass, and finding none, finished his own and proffe
red the tea-stained mug to Mullett, who nodded with thinly veiled distaste. Frost poured a generous measure.

  ‘To Bert,’ Frost said, raising the bottle to his lips.

  ‘To Bert,’ they all replied.

  Mullett briefly hesitated before downing the contents in one.

  ‘What a day, sir,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘You could say that,’ Mullett huffed, clearly looking for a top-up. Frost dutifully obliged. ‘Finally got shot of Assistant Chief Constable Winslow and DCI Patterson for the night. Though they’ll be back first thing.’

  ‘Treading on your toes, were they?’ smirked Frost. ‘I know just how that can feel.’

  Mullett looked at Frost sternly, before glancing around the room. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’ll say goodnight. Let’s hope for some major breakthroughs tomorrow. I want this Fortress raid cracked. Over a million was taken, firearms were used and people beaten up. We must get this resolved. The reputation of the whole division depends on it.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want another, sir?’ Frost said, sensing the superintendent wasn’t quite ready to depart after all.

  ‘Go on then, just a splash,’ Mullett smiled. ‘We’ll organize a traditional guard of honour at Bert’s funeral, of course . . . Any news there, Jack? I’ve seen the pathologist’s preliminary report – rather open to interpretation.’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ Frost said, making a last round with the bottle. He was keeping his suspicions firmly to himself for the moment – Bert had obviously had his reasons for keeping things quiet. ‘Bottoms up.’

  Mullett took a gulp and placed the mug on the cluttered desk. ‘Well, goodnight, gentlemen,’ he said again. ‘Careful driving home. They reckon there’s going to be a frost tonight, first of the year. There’re a lot of lunatics about as it is; someone nearly took me out for good this morning. Made a right mess of the whole of one side of my car. They didn’t stop, either. Had I not been on the way to Market Square I’d have turned round and given chase.’

  ‘Bet you haven’t done that in a while,’ said Frost.

  ‘It wasn’t a brown Mini Metro by any chance?’ enquired Hanlon.

  ‘Could quite possibly have been . . . it all happened so fast. Why?’ said Mullett, suddenly looking a little sheepish.

  ‘I think I know the owner.’

  ‘Well, let’s not bother him at the moment. There are more important things to be getting on with.’

  Mullett was gone as swiftly as he had arrived.

  ‘The way he reacted there,’ said Frost, ‘anyone would think that Mullett had been at fault.’

  ‘Should be easy enough to find out,’ said Hanlon. ‘The driver’s in the cells: Simon Trench.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Frost, ‘the chocolate Mini Metro.’

  ‘The chocolate Mini Metro,’ Webster echoed.

  ‘Though the way Trench drives,’ said Hanlon, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was to blame. The ratty little man’s got a deathwish.’

  ‘Bloody shame he didn’t kill himself before he killed his daughter,’ Frost sighed.

  ‘I think we need another drink,’ Webster said, getting to his feet. ‘Allen keeps a bottle—’

  ‘Does he now,’ said Frost. ‘Well, as the most senior-ranking officer here, I authorize you to gather the evidence at once.’

  Wednesday (11)

  Night Station Sergeant Johnny Johnson, standing behind the front desk in the draughty lobby, could hear singing coming from somewhere. He looked at his watch and yawned. It was nearly 2.00 a.m.

  Was it drunken louts passing Eagle Lane? But at this hour? The pubs, of course, had shut long ago. Unless there’d been another lock-in at the Bricklayers.

  It was getting louder. He turned down the portable transistor radio, which he kept under the desk for company through the long night shifts.

  Suddenly the interior door clattered open and three dishevelled figures lurched as one across the lobby: Arthur Hanlon, Jack Frost and Nick Webster, the big guys propping up Frost in the middle.

  ‘It’s the Old Bill,’ said Frost.

  ‘Hello, Bill,’ called out Hanlon.

  ‘Aye-aye,’ said Webster.

  ‘It’s Johnson,’ said Johnson firmly.

  ‘Johnson?’ queried Frost, trying to focus in the general direction of the counter. ‘Johnny Johnson, night sergeant? Well I never.’

  ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’ slurred Hanlon.

  ‘Strange rumours flying around this place,’ stuttered Webster. ‘Concerning a right randy Mrs Allen, for one.’

  There was a roar of laughter.

  ‘Out!’ shouted Johnson. ‘Out, the lot of you, before I have you arrested and slam you in the cells for being drunk and disorderly.’

  Johnson watched in disgust as the three officers pushed open the station doors and disappeared into the freezing dark.

  Barely had the doors stilled when the phone went. ‘Denton Police,’ Johnson said promptly.

  ‘I know that, you fool,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘Tell Jack Frost,’ the man quickly continued, ‘there’s a present for him lying in the gutter outside the Coconut Grove.’ The line went dead.

  Johnson rushed to the entrance, but the pissed trio were nowhere to be seen.

  Thursday (1)

  The Cortina had reached seventy, far too fast for this dirt track of a lane at night. Frost felt perspiration break out on his forehead as he peered desperately ahead. The rain was pelting the windscreen, and the wipers seemed useless, thudding to and fro, making a peculiar knocking sound with every stroke. The car accelerated further into the darkness.

  ‘For Christ’s sake slow down!’ Frost yelled at the driver.

  ‘But we must go faster – they’re gaining on us.’ Frost looked over his shoulder, and, sure enough, the Transit was practically upon them. The van’s cab light was on and Frost could make out four masked faces. The Cortina gave a further surge. Christ, he had to get Bert to hospital. The noise from the wipers was getting louder. Frost turned to his driver, and recognized the man they’d pulled out of the canal.

  ‘But Mr Ransome, you’re blind! You can’t drive!’

  ‘You can do it, Jack, I know you can,’ Bert Williams suddenly wheezed from the back seat, coughing up blood.

  ‘I hope you’re feeding my dog, Detective,’ Graham Ransome said with a smile, displaying his lack of teeth.

  Frost woke abruptly, drenched in sweat, the rapping on the windscreen jolting him back to life. He struggled to open the Cortina window, which had frozen, and revealed the station’s milkman standing in the early-dawn light.

  ‘You all right in there, Mr Frost?’

  ‘Yes, Neville . . .’ Frost stretched his stiff limbs. ‘Could you let me have a pint on account?’

  ‘No problem,’ the milkman said. ‘A bit of a cold one to be camping out?’ The milkman indicated the frost on the window. ‘Your scarf caught my eye, it’s trapped in the door. Then I took a closer look and saw the interior light on.’

  ‘Catching up on my reading – must have dozed off,’ Frost said. He got out of the car, took the pint and made his way stiffly into the station.

  Thursday (2)

  ‘You never know what goes on in people’s homes,’ Frost said to DC Sue Clarke as she pulled out of the lab car park and steered the Escort back towards town, accelerating hard.

  It had been a difficult appointment first thing on a frosty morning, with Drysdale now presiding over four bodies, four suspicious deaths. The blind man Graham Ransome, who’d died after a struggle on the towpath. Bert Williams, who’d had his chest caved in by one or more assailants, at least as far as Frost was concerned. Becky Fraser, doped with sleeping pills and then suffocated by her own parents, seemingly acting in collusion. And a naked Vanessa Litchfield, asphyxiated in her bed at home, with no evidence of serious resistance. There had been only a small amount of alcohol in her bloodstream, but there were other fluids inside her, all right.

  Christ, thought Frost, not for the first time.
Two fatal beatings and two asphyxiations. Yet the circumstances of all four deaths could not have been more different, and so far they only had the culprits connected to one death. And on top of it all, Mullett breathing down his neck – bomb scares and robberies. The night in the Cortina and the Scotch hadn’t been wise. But they had Lee Wright – brought in last night. That, at least, was something.

  ‘It beats me just what some people get up to,’ Frost added, thinking now of Vanessa Litchfield and glancing across at Clarke, waiting for a response. None came. ‘An affair or two I can understand,’ he persisted. ‘In fact, I read somewhere that very attractive women are more likely to be promiscuous. But this—’

  ‘Where would you have read that?’ Clarke snapped.

  ‘As I’ve said before, you’d be surprised what I read in my spare time.’ Frost raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t work out how Clarke was taking the news that Vanessa Litchfield appeared to have been something of a nymphomaniac.

  According to Drysdale, there were clear indications that Vanessa Litchfield had consented to have sex with several men. The chafing marks around her ankles and neck had come from light restraints. Together with Frost’s initial observations of what was still being referred to as the crime scene – the wear on the bedstead and all the equipment from the cupboard – everything was pointing to a sex game gone horribly wrong in a house used to hosting swingers’ parties, orgies and S&M sessions.

  Drysdale had suggested that Vanessa Litchfield had died while trying to achieve a heightened orgasm through oxygen starvation. It was a known practice, apparently.

  ‘What you read is neither here nor there,’ said Clarke. ‘How are we going to break it to the husband that his wife had five different men’s semen—’

  ‘Do me a favour, one of them is bound to be Maurice’s,’ Frost interrupted, amazed at her naivety. ‘I told you about the clobber we found at the house: handcuffs, masks, dildos, whips, the works. Maurice Litchfield would have been one of Vanessa’s most grateful beneficiaries, not to mention, I don’t doubt, a keen observer of all the sordid goings-on.’