First Frost (11 page)

And on top of all that, Frost was now faced with having to identify a battered corpse. Someone could be missing a husband, a father. Frost wondered whether it was an isolated incident or whether the gang would strike again. Whoever he was, the canal corpse, he wasn’t well off, judging from his clothing, and the worn soles of his cheap shoes.

Sue Clarke, Frost decided, could at least deal with that case. She seemed especially efficient and keen, eager to get stuck in.

Reaching for his cigarettes, then realizing he was already smoking one, Frost hoped Hanlon wasn’t going to be sidetracked for too long by his sick mother. Frost badly needed his assistance. DC Clarke was fine, more than fine in fact, but he thought Hanlon dependable.

Frost’s mind drifted back to Bert Williams as they hammered down the autumn lanes. The inspector had failed to report for duty plenty of times before. Not so often for two days on the trot. Though it was Betty who had really spooked Frost – that business about Bert popping out to the phone box, at all hours.

Strange. Frost was as certain as he could be that Williams was not having an affair. Other women were not his passion. It was alcohol, and, Frost supposed, still some sort of commitment to the force – once a copper, always a copper. Who knew what the old fool was up to. Nothing to do with work, Frost hoped, not some wild goose chase. There were plenty of ruthless bastards out there.

Frost had told Betty that he’d look for Bert, and he would. There were the boozers of course, the old haunts, and then that mountain of paperwork on Bert’s desk. Perhaps that would reveal something. Yet that was exactly what Frost now saw he’d been avoiding. Because that would mean work, CID work, and some daft hunch or other, driving Bert on, regardless of the risks. Frost knew how stubborn the inspector could be, how hung up he was about sliding disgracefully into retirement.

Fields flashed by as Frost kept glancing in Clarke’s direction, weak sunlight catching her auburn hair and smooth, glowing cheeks.

‘This bothering you?’ he finally said, holding up his cigarette.

‘No problem,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘I’ve always found smoking rather sexy, like in the old black-and-white movies. Stupid really, but there you are.’

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Frost reached forward and turned on the radio, whacking up the volume. Bloody Abba again. But by the outskirts of Denton he found himself distractedly tapping out the beat on the glove compartment – catchy tune.

Frost abruptly stopped, stubbed out his cigarette and stared gloomily out of the window at the rows of pre-war semis. He and Mary lived in one just like that.

As they approached Market Square Frost said, ‘Pull over, love, there’s something I need from Aster’s.’

‘Don’t tell me, a new suit?’

‘From Aster’s, on my salary? You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘That’s an expensive new mac you’re wearing over your civvies though, isn’t it? Apart from the odd stain. Where does that come from?’

‘It was a present,’ said Frost, jumping out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him, and giving Clarke little alternative but to follow.

‘I can’t just park there,’ he heard her say, as he pushed against the main revolving door into the store. ‘I’ll get a ticket.’

‘Let’s hurry up, then,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We want the third floor.’

‘Whatever for?’ Clarke was close behind him now, Frost’s progress being impeded by hordes of OAPs hunched around the bargain bins on the ground floor.

‘Come on,’ he shouted above the din of excited old codgers, ‘we’ll take the back stairs.’

The third floor was much less crowded, the school-uniform area all but empty and just a few housewives browsing in the lingerie section. Frost, with Clarke dutifully following a few paces behind, meandered through the colourful aisles. ‘What sort of underwear tickles your fancy, Sue?’ he asked loudly. ‘French knickers?’

‘G-strings, preferably black,’ Clarke said crossly, struggling to keep up. ‘What the hell do
you
think?’

‘Only asking,’ he said. ‘Come over here, there’s something I want to try.’ He sprinted ahead.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Clarke, ‘you’re one of those men who likes to wear women’s underwear.’

‘The fire door,’ he muttered, continuing towards the changing rooms in the far corner.

At the entrance to the changing area was a desk and an unruly pile of numbered plastic discs. But there was nobody around, and even if there had been on Saturday, Frost doubted an attendant would have been able to see what went on further down the corridor. A returns rack blocked much of the view towards the cubicles and, of course, that fire exit.

He slowly made his way down the corridor before pausing to look back. Yes, it was certainly obscured. Nobody could see a thing: the security in this place, it was a joke.

Where the hell had Clarke got to? Frost pushed on towards the green double-door fire exit, and began rattling the release bar.

‘Excuse me, sir, can I help you?’ came an authoritative female voice some distance behind him.

He turned to encounter a buxom, middle-aged woman bearing down on him. Christ, he thought, it’s Mrs Slocombe straight fr
om Are You Being Served? The
buttons on her blouse looked as if they might ping off at any second.

‘No, we’re all right – just looking,’ Frost said, again glancing around for Clarke.

‘Looking at what, sir? These are the changing rooms for the lingerie and school-uniform departments. Menswear is on the second floor.’

‘In that case I appear to have made a mistake,’ he said, trying to avoid the woman’s suspicious stare. ‘This way, is it?’ he said, turning back round and giving the metal bar of the fire exit a hefty shove.

A shrill, deafening ring blasted out. ‘It works,’ he said, surprised, walking out on to the fire escape. That bloody store manager Butcher must have had the batteries changed. There was a worrying creak, more a crack, as he peered over the edge.

‘You can’t go out there!’ the woman was shouting behind him, trying to make herself heard above the piercing din of the alarm. ‘Come back at once, or I’ll have to get security.’

Ignoring her, Frost edged further out, clutching the rusty metal railing. He felt a wave of vertigo. Below him was a skip full of mannequin parts – lurid pink arms and legs and torsos, and the odd bald head. Beyond it was the loading bay, an articulated lorry parked up. The gates to the back of the building from the street – which must have been Piper Road – were wide open. There was no evidence of a security post, no one checking who was coming in and out.

The manager might have panicked and got the fire-exit alarm working again, but overall the store’s security set-up was poor.

The piercing ringing, Frost realized, had now stopped. He turned round to be confronted by the Mrs Slocombe figure. She had been joined by a burly middle-aged man in a suit, clearly a security guard. Both stood in the doorway, not venturing out on to the fire escape.

‘Sure this platform is safe?’ Frost gave it a good shaking before slowly stepping back inside. ‘I wonder what the fire service would have to say about it.’ He scrutinized the security guard more closely. He had a round, lined face, short, light-brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was a good three or four inches taller than Frost, and had a heavier build. The way he was carrying himself, all aggressive confidence, led Frost to think immediately that this was an ex-copper.

‘I’m guessing,’ said Frost, for once a name coming to him, ‘that you’re Blake Richards. Hoped that bell might get your attention.’ Frost pulled out his warrant card, and the security guard stepped backwards, giving Frost some space.

‘Bloody hell, is this how plainclothes dress in the sticks? Yeah, I’m Richards.’

The gist of earlier conversations Frost had had with Bill Wells and Arthur Hanlon came flooding back. ‘This what happens when a colourful career in the Met comes to an end?’ retorted Frost. ‘Spend your days mooching about the shops with a load of pensioners?’

‘Beats chasing petty vandals around the Southern Housing Estate,’ said Richards. ‘You know what they say about Denton Division – graveyard of ambition, staffed by a load of drunks and incompetents no one else will have.’

Frost slammed Richards against a cubicle door, taking the larger man by surprise. Ignoring the startled squeal from inside, Frost firmly held him there. ‘Any more lip from you and I’ll run you down the nick. Insulting a police officer …’

‘Touchy, aren’t we,’ said Richards. ‘Perhaps I should claim police brutality.’

Frost released his grip on Richards and, straightening his mac, said, ‘Really? Wouldn’t put it past you.’

The buxom floor manager butted in. ‘Do you think we could carry on this, uh, conversation in Mr Butcher’s office?’ she said brightly.

‘No need, I won’t be long,’ Frost said. ‘Just a few quick questions and I’ll leave you both to get on with your busy day—’ He was interrupted by a faint but determined knocking.

The two men stepped aside and a thin, purple-haired woman, clutching an armful of flesh-coloured underwear, emerged from the cubicle, looked around in panic, and scuttled off.

‘All right, Richards’ – Frost cleared his throat – ‘cast your mind back to Saturday afternoon, if that’s not too much to ask. Did you see this girl?’

Frost produced a copy of the photo of Julie Hudson, with the red streak in her mousey hair, and held it up. ‘You must know the story,’ he added. ‘One minute she was shopping on this floor with her mum, the next she’s disappeared.’

‘Yes – of course. Mr Butcher informed me of your visit yesterday, and that photo’s been pinned up in the canteen. But I didn’t see her on Saturday.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ said Frost.

‘I can’t be,’ said Richards, ‘but the store was busy as usual, and unless she was trying to nick something and had been apprehended by myself or another member of staff, I wouldn’t have had any cause to notice her. I don’t remember everyone who comes in here shopping.’

‘Let me have a look,’ the floor manager said, peering keenly over.

‘You not been shown this yet?’ said Frost, catching a whiff of very pungent perfume. ‘Your boss was left with clear instructions to distribute this picture among all staff: a girl has gone missing.’

‘As I said, it’s been pinned up in the canteen,’ interjected Richards.

‘I haven’t seen or heard anything about it,’ the woman insisted, looking closer.

Frost caught Richards giving her a withering look.

‘You know,’ she continued, ‘I think I do remember her. Trying on a school uniform, a skirt – she couldn’t find her size. She was awfully skinny. She was also being a little fussy. Though girls that age usually are. The skirts are never short or tight enough.’

‘I need to get back to the ground floor,’ Richards said. ‘Busy day, Monday – the cafeteria offers half-price meals for pensioners.’

‘Off you trot then,’ said Frost. ‘But don’t expect this to be the last you hear from me, Richards.’

Frost returned his focus to the floor manager. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

‘Well, it was in the afternoon, three thirty, four-ish. The mother, I presume it was her – a rather pretty, well-dressed woman – was having a right go at the girl for being spoilt. You hear that a lot in here, I can tell you. Though I thought it was a bit rich, given that the mother clearly didn’t stint when it came to looking after herself. Anyway.’ She carefully ran her right hand over her bouffant hairdo, flashing Frost a clearly flirtatious smile.

‘Take your time,’ said Frost.

‘There was mention of something that happened on holiday – boy trouble, I thought for some reason – at which point the girl sloped off to the changing rooms, and the mother went over to our new lingerie department. We do have the best lingerie department in Denton, you know.’

‘So I’ve heard. Then what?’

‘That’s odd.’ She fingered a heavy gold bracelet on her left arm. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘You were doing so well,’ said Frost. ‘It’s the next bit that I need to know about.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Who was manning the changing rooms?’

‘Ah, well, we had a bit of a staffing problem on Saturday. I’m afraid to say we didn’t have a member of staff, or a casual, specifically assigned to that duty.’

‘For the whole day?’

‘That’s right. Myself and the sales assistants took it in turns to keep an eye out.’

‘To keep an eye out?’ Frost almost shouted. ‘This place is not what it used to be.’

‘Mr Butcher has introduced some interesting new measures,’ the woman said, looking embarrassed.

‘What about your top-notch security detail? Where was Mr Richards, or the other one – the store has two guards, doesn’t it – all that day?’

‘That’s a good point. I’m sure I shouldn’t be telling you this, but normally Mr Richards particularly is only too keen to patrol this floor. If you ask me he likes to watch the women choosing their smalls.’ She paused, giving Frost a knowing look. ‘Now, I remember noticing him in the morning, when we were less busy, but I didn’t see him all afternoon. That was definitely unusual.’

‘Well, thank you, Mrs …?’

‘Roberts. It’s Mrs Joyce Roberts.’

‘You’ve been most helpful – though we might need to take a statement from you later.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Anything I can do to help. A missing girl … how dreadful.’

‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘We’re getting worried. Now where’s my colleague got to?’

Frost left the floor manager by the changing rooms and walked back into the main part of the store, where DC Clarke came rushing up to him.

‘Been having a look around,’ she beamed.

‘For God’s sake,’ said Frost. ‘This is not the time for frilly-knicker shopping.’

‘Just what do you take me for?’ Clarke said crossly. ‘I was checking the other exits and the layout of the floor. You know, there’s hardly any staff about. Be hard to have it all covered if it was a bit busier.’

‘Perfect spot to snatch a girl,’ said Frost quietly, as if to himself. ‘But still, would you snatch a girl in broad daylight in a department store?’

‘You think she was taken?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Frost. ‘Come on, back to the nick for us. We’ll need to get out the drawing board, see exactly what we’ve got so far.’