First Frost

by James, Henry

  ‘Being kinky is one thing, letting any old randy sod shove his prick inside you is quite another,’ she said crossly.

  ‘If you say so.’ Frost paused briefly before adding, ‘Frankly, we don’t know much about her or her husband at the moment. All we do know for certain is that Vanessa Litchfield was asphyxiated, and within the last few days had at least five different sexual partners. Her husband, Maurice Litchfield, meanwhile, is maintaining that she was raped and murdered.’

  There was an odd tension between himself and Clarke this morning. And he didn’t think it was to do with the graphic nature of the Litchfield case. It was something else. His mind flicked back to Market Square yesterday morning, Sue Clarke suddenly clambering into the van, the look of concern on her lovely face.

  Lighting a cigarette as the crisp countryside sped by, Frost remembered that Mike Ferris at British Telecom still hadn’t provided him with any names and addresses for those telephone numbers from Bert’s notebook.

  Frost wondered whether he should get Clarke to drop him off in town on their way back to the station, but first there was another quick stop he thought they might as well make.

  ‘We pass right by St Mary’s School in a moment, don’t we?’ he said, flipping down the visor to cut out the low autumnal sun’s blinding glare. The weather had cleared towards dawn, while the temperature had plummeted yet further, producing, as forecast, a treacherous, sparkling frost. ‘Let’s see if that old bat Sidley can shed any light on Vanessa Litchfield’s’ – he coughed – ‘character.’

  The headmistress was in the middle of taking a class – classics, according to the decrepit stooge Jenkins.

  Clarke decided to wait in the musty hall, to mull over the investigations on her plate, while Frost paced about on the gravel forecourt in front of the grand building, chainsmoking. Frost really seemed too preoccupied with the demise of Bert Williams, she thought, to provide any great inspiration. That was until this morning, anyway: the Litchfield case had clearly sparked his interest.

  Though he stank to high heaven of whisky, and looked an absolute shambles. He hadn’t shaved and she could have sworn he was in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, and the day before that, come to think of it. She couldn’t help wondering where he’d spent the night. On the sofa? In the car?

  She sighed, trying to get her mind back on track. What was bothering her was her lack of progress with the Graham Ransome investigation. Apart from that bit of a football scarf, still with Forensics, she had little else to go on. But, even though it was her case, there was no way she could have trawled around the Southern Housing Estate with DC Hanlon, or anyone else for that matter, last night. After the Forest View tragedy she’d been exhausted, physically and mentally. And she certainly wasn’t going to ask another favour of Derek Simms.

  Jenkins suddenly reappeared to inform her that Mrs Sidley was free to see them. Clarke went outside to grab Frost, who was now over by the car, on the radio. He waved her away, so she left him to it.

  In her study, Mrs Sidley was as regal as she’d been on their previous visit, though this time she remained imperiously seated behind her desk.

  The headmistress had heard that Julie Hudson was alive and well, but had not yet heard of the death of Vanessa Litchfield. Clarke relayed the basic facts, though was careful not to mention anything about the PE teacher’s sexual proclivities.

  Mrs Sidley took her time to digest the news, before saying, ‘That is truly terrible. I’m deeply shocked. Vanessa was such an energetic, enthusiastic young woman. And a great asset to the school.’

  Frost banged his way into the room, giving both women a start. Barely acknowledging him, Mrs Sidley none the less stood up slowly and made a move for the drinks cabinet.

  It wasn’t yet eleven in the morning, Clarke noted.

  ‘She was extremely dedicated,’ Mrs Sidley continued, ‘always the first to volunteer for extra-curricular activities.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she was,’ Frost chipped in.

  ‘And a good morning to you, Detective,’ she said brusquely. ‘Sherry?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Frost replied.

  Clarke shook her head despairingly.

  ‘As it happens, it’s her extra-curricular activities that we’re interested in,’ said Frost. ‘Did she belong to any clubs?’

  ‘Clubs? Do you mean a tennis or a chess club?’ Mrs Sidley raised her eyebrows, clearly perplexed at Frost’s question. ‘I’m sure Mr Litchfield would be able to enlighten you as to Vanessa’s social activities. As far as the school goes—’

  ‘Chess wasn’t quite what I had in mind,’ said Frost. ‘Mr Litchfield is obviously extremely upset. We haven’t been able to interview him properly yet.’

  Clarke still couldn’t understand Frost’s habit of questioning someone while his attention appeared to be focused elsewhere – he seemed far more interested in the bookshelves.

  ‘You’ve met Mr Litchfield, then?’ he said, peering at the spine of some old tome.

  ‘Once or twice, socially, yes,’ volunteered Mrs Sidley, returning to the seat behind her desk.

  ‘Ah, so you do know something of the Litchfields’ social life?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Detective, I’m not quite sure what you’re driving at.’

  Frost reached up on tiptoes to remove a volume. ‘Nine out of ten murders are committed by someone the victim knows. That is,’ he added with emphasis, ‘if indeed we’re talking about murder. We’re just trying to ascertain who the deceased knew. And what better place to start than the workplace. Unusual choice of literature you have here: Justine by the Marquis de Sade?’

  ‘That is very valuable, please do be careful,’ Mrs Sidley urged. ‘A first edition in the original French. My father left it to me. Many consider de Sade’s work to be the real precursor to Freud’s. Surrealists hail him as enlightened and the embodiment of true freedom, and some prominent women writers can see a feminist approach in his work.’

  ‘Is that so? Thought he was just a dirty old Frenchman, myself. Napoleon had him banged up, if memory serves right. On the reading list, is he?’

  ‘This is my private study, Mr Frost,’ Mrs Sidley answered sharply. ‘I may keep in here what I wish.’

  Clarke had mixed feelings. On the face of it she was bemused by the headmistress’s taste in literature, but there was something surprisingly attractive about Mrs Sidley’s erudition and confidence. The woman had class. And Frost, she felt, knew it too.

  ‘Mrs Sidley, was Vanessa Litchfield close to anyone in particular here?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Mrs Sally Cooper. That’s Julie Hudson’s form teacher, whom you met here the other day.’

  Clarke remembered the short, plump blonde in her ridiculously tight, purple-corduroy trouser suit.

  ‘I believe Mrs Cooper and Vanessa were good friends,’ added Mrs Sidley.

  ‘This Mrs Cooper, does she have pampas grass on her front lawn, too?’ Frost asked, having replaced the book, and pulling out a Rothmans.

  Clarke turned to him in surprise and then to Mrs Sidley, who was sitting very still. Eventually the headmistress helped herself to a cigarette from the silver box on her desk, lighting it from a small gold lighter. The silence was becoming more awkward by the second.

  ‘Well, if you think of anything that might help, give us a tinkle,’ said Frost at last. ‘Come on, DC Clarke, no point sticking round here. Before you know it we’ll be trussed up and whipped.’

  That’s really helpful, thought Clarke. He didn’t seem to have any control over what came out of his mouth, or didn’t care, at any rate.

  ‘Wait a minute, Mr Frost, please,’ Mrs Sidley stood up as they were nearing the door, her aquiline nose catching the daylight from the windows.

  Clarke was taken aback. Had Frost cracked this woman’s painfully tough exterior?

  ‘May I ask whether you think there’s a connection between Mrs Litchfield’s death and such . . . practices?’ Mrs Sidley said quietly.

  ‘No, w
e have no evidence to suggest that. But what might start out as a bit of basic fun can often result in confused emotions, jealousy, et cetera, and who knows where that might lead,’ said Frost.

  Clarke realized that perhaps there was method to Frost’s heavy-handed approach. She had misjudged him, again.

  ‘Quite,’ Mrs Sidley said, head now bowed.

  ‘What exactly can you tell me?’ Frost prompted.

  ‘I’m afraid not much. Only an admission that I know it goes on among a few members of staff, out of hours of course, and most definitely not on school property.’ She fixed Frost with a very stern look.

  What an old vamp, Clarke thought. Mind you, Frost appeared to be visibly softening.

  ‘Understood. But I may well want to have a word with Mrs Cooper,’ he said, ‘to get a handle on the local scene and practices. In the meantime, if you think of anything, please do get in touch.’ He smiled sweetly.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Mrs Sidley said, with definite finality.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Clarke said. They stood at the foot of the steps outside the main entrance, which was flanked on either side by a pair of badly weathered large stone lions.

  Frost, despairing of his lighter, emptied the contents of his mac pockets on to the back of the nearest lion, found a Swan Vesta and struck it on the animal’s flank.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘You mentioned pampas grass and she completely changed her tune!’

  ‘And I thought I was the unworldly one,’ he said as they walked across the gravel forecourt. ‘Pampas grass might just be an ornamental shrub to you or me, something fluffy to decorate the front lawn . . . but to others, to those in the know’ – he winked – ‘it’s a sign, an indication of intent.’

  She looked at him, still not quite understanding.

  ‘Swingers,’ he clarified. ‘You know, couples who are up for it with anyone. Group sex, orgies, all that. You’re advertising it and you’re not, if you see what I mean. So either Mrs Sidley would get the reference or she wouldn’t. And clearly she did.’

  ‘Sidley, at her age?’

  ‘Didn’t think there was an upper age limit on that sort of thing,’ said Frost.

  ‘No,’ said Clarke awkwardly, ‘but it’s not the sort of thing you want to dwell on.’

  ‘No,’ coughed Frost. ‘Unless you’re an old codger, I suppose.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m impressed with the knowledge – if a little wary. How the hell did you know?’

  ‘Scenes of Crime called while we were waiting for our audience with the headmistress; they’d found the archetypal little black book in the Litchfields’ bedroom. Sally Cooper was listed under contacts headed Pamper us. They then asked if I’d noticed the pampas grass out on the lawn. I had, actually, on Sunday night. A woman had been creeping around it at the time. Which reminds me—’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Clarke, struggling to keep up. ‘I still don’t get where that leaves us with Vanessa Litchfield. How exactly she died, and just who was responsible.’

  ‘No, but at least we know old Mrs Sidley is not as innocent and stuck-up as she looks.’

  ‘Takes all sorts, I suppose,’ said Clarke. ‘Didn’t know French history was your thing, though. You even knew all about Napoleon and de Sade.’

  ‘I told you’ – he smiled as she opened the car door – ‘you’d be surprised what I read in my spare time. Really we should have a word with Mrs Cooper, but that’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Oh, are those your gloves on that stone lion?’ Sue Clarke said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘Black-leather pair, by the looks of it.’

  Frost turned to face the forbidding building. ‘Shit, wouldn’t want to leave those there – could get me expelled,’ he said and hurried back. ‘Right, now back to the nick for us – Johnny Johnson told me first thing this morning we have Lee Wright waiting for us in the cells.’

  ‘You were in early,’ Clarke said, surprised.

  ‘Very.’ Frost opened the Escort door for her. ‘Just didn’t have the energy to give him a grilling.’

  Thursday (3)

  ‘Jesus!’ PC Simms exclaimed, as he felt the heavy glass door crack him in the back. He and PC Baker had been standing on the street, in Market Square, just outside Woolworths.

  Simms spun round to see a skinny youth, with spiky yellow hair, trying to make a very quick exit. ‘Steady on, son.’ He grabbed the boy by his tracksuit top. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘Late for school, aren’t I,’ the youth sneered.

  ‘By about six months,’ Simms said. It was that little tyke Kevin Jones, from the Southern Housing Estate, who, Simms was certain, had stopped attending Denton Comprehensive months ago, despite being only thirteen.

  Gloria Jones, the boy’s mother, was a serial shoplifter. His father, Mike, was a bouncer who took too much pleasure in his work. DI Allen had helped put Jones, Senior, away for ABH last year, after a brawl outside the Coconut Grove – not that he got long.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Simms asked, pointing to the pockets of the kid’s tracksuit top, a Denton FC scarf doing little to disguise the bulges.

  PC Baker had closed in for a better look as well.

  ‘Keen to make amends, are we?’ said Simms. ‘Catching up on all the schoolwork you’ve missed over the years? Don’t tell me. Pens, rubbers, pencil cases, perhaps a few sweeties to aid the concentration?’

  The boy said nothing and stared down at his scuffed trainers, as if expecting the answer to leap out from under one of the grubby soles.

  ‘Your own special night school, is it? Or perhaps – more likely – stuff to flog on the cheap outside the school gate,’ Simms snapped. ‘Hasn’t your mum got enough to worry about without you nicking stuff from Woolies? Or did she show you the ropes, the mum’s guide to shoplifting?’

  ‘Right, you’re coming with us,’ PC Baker said, grabbing Jones’s left arm.

  The boy suddenly lost his swagger, clutching his right hand to his chest.

  ‘What’s the matter with your hand?’ Simms said.

  Jones looked sheepish, now trying to hide his clearly swollen and badly grazed right hand underneath his scarf. Simms noticed the scarf was in the team’s away colours, though it didn’t look as new as the PC knew it to be. It had a chunk missing too. ‘Nothing,’ Jones mumbled.

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Here.’ Simms grabbed the boy’s right arm, before hastily dropping it. The wound stank. ‘That’s nasty, son. Badly infected, too.’

  ‘What? Infected?’ Kevin Jones said, alarmed. ‘It’s nothing, honest. Ferret took a nip at me.’ The boy finally lifted his gaze.

  ‘Ferret? Sure it wasn’t a dog?’ prodded Simms.

  The boy was trembling slightly. ‘Well, suppose it could have been a fox, but I—’

  ‘Fox, ferret? Quite the little animal-lover, aren’t you?’ said Simms. ‘You do know there’s a full-on rabies scare in the county, don’t you? Rabid foxes, ferrets, dogs, you name it, crawling all over the place.’ Simms thought Baker was about to interrupt him, but then his colleague seemed to have second thoughts.

  The boy was going very pale. Perhaps he’d missed the news announcing that the rabies scare was over.

  Just then Simms was tapped on the arm. He turned to see an agitated man in a grey suit. ‘What do you want?’ Simms said to him.

  ‘Andrew Morton, store manager,’ the man replied, proffering a limp hand, which PC Simms ignored. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Do you want to show the man your horde, son?’ Simms nudged Jones.

  Jones reluctantly dug around in the pockets of his tracksuit top. Rulers, pens, rubbers cascaded on to the wet pavement.

  ‘Right,’ Baker interjected, pulling Jones away, much to Simms’s sudden irritation. It was Simms’s nab. And he was already thinking excitedly that it might possibly smooth the way back into Sue Clarke’s affections. Solving the blind man’s death – she’d
owe him, big time.

  ‘We always press charges,’ Morton was saying.

  ‘Just what we wanted to hear,’ said Simms, removing his handcuffs from his belt. The boy was beginning to struggle.

  ‘I’d watch yourself,’ Simms added for the store manager’s benefit, while attempting to attach the cuffs, with Baker’s help, ‘he might bite.’

  ‘Could be infectious, too,’ said Baker.

  Superintendent Mullett had come all the way down to the lobby to see DCI Patterson off the premises. He’d heard quite enough. Though, sadly, the shabby Anti-Terrorist Branch detective was due to return at noon, and with his local informer.

  Mullett checked his watch – just gone eleven. His temples throbbed lightly. A fiasco, all right. Total and utter. Why the hell someone couldn’t have told him they had an informer here, working as a second-hand-car salesman, Mullett had no idea.

  Spinning round on his heels he glared at the front desk and the doleful Bill Wells. ‘Get rid of these flowers, Sergeant, pronto.’

  Wells glanced up suddenly, as if woken from a deep slumber.

  ‘You heard me. This is a police station not a . . . What the hell?’ The superintendent was distracted by a man in white overalls noisily positioning a ladder just down the corridor. The interior security door had been propped open, contrary to the most precise instructions.

  Satisfied that the ladder was in the right place, the decorator walked back into the lobby, straight past the divisional commander, heading, Mullett could now see, for the stack of paint tins that had worringly re-materialized underneath the notice board. He grabbed two tins and began to make his way back.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Mullett barked at the man. ‘Aside from the fact that that door is never ever to be left open, not for one second, not unmanned, you’re meant to be doing the corridors after six in the evening and before nine in the morning – not at eleven. That’s why we’re paying you lot such a ludicrous rate. Now drop what you’re doing and get out of my sight.’

  The man shrugged, left the paint and the ladder just where they were and made straight for the exit. ‘Fair enough,’ he muttered over his shoulder.