First Frost (12 page)

They pushed their way back through hordes of doddering pensioners, and emerged into the fresh Denton day, Market Square thronging with lunchtime shoppers. Here Frost had a better idea. ‘Seeing as the canteen’s out of action – fancy a pickled onion and a quick pint?’

Monday (4)

‘Well, well, well,’ said PC Baker. ‘Look who he’s trying it on with now.’

‘What?’ PC Simms lifted his head from the ragged copy of
Auto Trader
that had been kicking around the filthy floor of the panda car for weeks.

‘Frost and Sue Clarke.’ Baker took another bite of his sandwich.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Simms flung the paper on to the back seat. ‘Where?’

‘You should keep your eyes open, that’s what we’re paid to do. You’ve missed them.’

‘Where?’ Simms repeated, craning his neck over the dashboard.

‘Stumbling out of the Bull and into the Bricklayers. Arm in arm. Well, almost,’ Baker said, his mouth full.

‘You’re kidding? Jack bloody Frost and Sue?’

‘Reckon so.’

Simms strained his tired eyes on the street ahead. He could see the two pubs and a few pedestrians, but neither Frost nor Sue. Was Baker pulling his leg?

They’d been parked up in the panda on the corner of Foundling Street and Lower Goat Lane for the last ten minutes or so. Dispatch had told them to keep a look-out for two men who’d been spotted loitering at the rear staff entrance to the Fortress Building Society. A member of the building society staff thought them suspicious and, given the Rimmington hit, had dutifully reported what she’d seen. But the PCs had seen nothing untoward, so had decided to remain where they were and eat their sandwiches.

And now Derek Simms realized he’d missed the only thing of note. ‘That little slut,’ he said quietly.

‘What was that?’ said Baker.

‘Nothing.’ Simms thumped the dash. He couldn’t just sit there, while his bird was with another bloke, even if it was a CID officer. Sue Clarke and her frigging ambition – it was driving him crazy.

Making matters worse was the fact that the more Simms wanted to be with Sue Clarke, the less keen she seemed. Despite their nights of passion she was still reluctant to acknowledge that they were going out with each other.

‘Frost and Sue,’ said Baker, laughing. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

‘Right,’ huffed Simms, ‘about time the Bricklayers was checked for underage drinking.’ He made to get out of the car.

‘Leave it, Derek,’ said Baker. ‘No need to upset the licensee. We don’t want a fuss.’

‘All right then, who’s to say the men we’re on the look-out for aren’t having a pint in the Bricklayers?’

‘They’d have every right. Don’t be ridiculous: we don’t even know what
they
look like. We were meant to keep an eye out – that’s all. We haven’t seen anything remotely suspicious.’

‘Oh yes we have,’ snapped Simms. ‘Frost with my woman. I’m checking out the pub.’

‘Wait a minute. Look, just beyond that telephone box, getting into a dark-blue motor.’

‘What, Frost and Sue?’ Simms stared morosely ahead.

‘Not Frost, you berk. A couple of blokes – big, bald geezer in a sheepskin carrying a bag, and a wiry little fellow in a leather jacket. A Jag – over there. The smaller man’s climbing into the back, the other into the front passenger seat, so someone else is driving.’

‘Got you,’ said Simms at last. He watched the car pull quickly into the road, and promptly stop by the junction to Market Square, indicating right. ‘Do we follow? Or pull them over?’

‘No, I’ve got the number,’ said Baker, replacing his notepad in the pocket of his shirt. ‘We had no orders to intervene, unless there’s obvious illegal activity, and we can’t follow in this.’ He drummed on the steering wheel of the panda. ‘Down to plainclothes – Frost and your bird.’

‘Bugger off,’ said Simms. ‘I’m still going in that boozer. I need a piss.’

As he was climbing out of the vehicle, the radio crackled into life. ‘Charlie Alpha, there’s a disturbance in Denton Park. A large dog is running amok, terrorizing a group of mothers and toddlers. You are urgently requested to attend the scene. Over.’

‘Saved from making a tit of yourself,’ said Baker, with a smirk. He turned the ignition key.

‘The only dog I’m worried about is in that pub,’ sulked Simms, slumping back into his seat.

Monday (5)

The CID office was in chaos. Mounds of paper everywhere. Crisp packets, styrofoam cups growing mould, soiled napkins, half-eaten sandwiches, newspapers, cigarette ash. The drawers of the filing cabinets were open, over-stuffed files bursting out. The blinds were stuck halfway down and skewed at forty-five degrees, revealing grimy windows and the rapidly approaching night.

Frost’s mood was darkening with it. He had been trying to pull together the threads of the Julie Hudson case, but was making little progress. He still couldn’t decide whether Julie had simply run out of Aster’s on her own, or been dragged out, quite possibly down the fire escape. He wanted another word with Blake Richards, the security guard; Frost had taken an instant dislike to him.

And just as perplexing was the fact that Julie’s mother, Wendy Hudson, had been so savagely beaten, sometime later on the Saturday or early Sunday morning, most probably by her husband, and Julie’s father, Steve Hudson. What was the motive? The ferocity of the attack had Frost believe it more complicated than a run-of-the-mill domestic.

Frost shoved a pile of paper across his desk so he could pick up the phone, which was trilling annoyingly – probably his wife about to nag him for something or other. But no, it was an excited DC Clarke, telling him that the dog pound had just called her about a Labrador picked up by Charlie Alpha earlier that afternoon in the park.

The dog was in fact a guide dog, though behaving in a severely distressed manner. Checks were being run to find the owner. But Clarke was already wondering whether this had anything to do with the dead man found in the canal – could he have been partially sighted? Blind? Drysdale, the pathologist, had mentioned he’d worn glasses.

Clarke informed Frost the animal was being tested for rabies.

‘Rabies?’ Frost said, before remembering about Liz Fraser and Simon Trench’s little girl, Becky, currently having those tests at the hospital – the smokescreen. Rumours of a rabies outbreak, it seemed, were spreading far and wide already. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, wondering about the wisdom of his ruse, knowing Mullett would go ballistic if this went any further.

Once the call had ended, Frost quickly lit a cigarette, blowing smoke all over the paperwork in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate. He looked at his watch; close to five. Frost dialled Police Sergeant Webster’s extension in Records, just as Grace with the tea trolley poked her head around the door.

‘Evening, Mr Frost,’ she said, ‘last orders.’

‘Double Scotch,’ Frost said, with the phone still clasped to his ear; it didn’t seem like Webster was in.

‘Can’t do that,’ said Grace, a little round woman in her late fifties. She was wearing a floral housecoat and a hair net. ‘PG Tips and a Kit Kat any good?’

‘Do I look like a bloody chimpanzee?’ said Frost.

‘Sorry?’ said PS Webster on the phone. ‘That you, Jack?’

‘All right, Grace, tea it is, please,’ Frost said, this time holding the phone away from his mouth. Replacing it, he said to Webster, ‘Has DC Hanlon been on to you about a bloke called Simon Trench – father of a battered little girl called Becky Fraser? And her mother, Liz?’

‘Yes,’ said Webster. ‘We’re working on it. Got an address: in Forest View, Denton.’

‘I know that.
We
gave it
to you
.’

‘But do you know about all the call-outs to that address?’

‘Apart from ours yesterday, no,’ said Frost, as Grace placed a mug of tea and a Kit Kat on the edge of his desk, before pulling her trolley out of the room. Frost waved her goodbye.

‘These go back months,’ said Webster. ‘An area car was twice dispatched to the house in the middle of the night because this Liz Fraser thought she’d seen someone snooping about outside. Nothing came of it.’

‘But this Simon Trench,’ said Frost, taking a careful sip of his tea, which was scalding, ‘no form?’

‘Haven’t unearthed anything so far.’

‘Workplace? Vehicle? What else you got?’

‘Not a lot,’ said Webster apologetically. ‘We’ve been prioritizing Steven Hudson. ‘Though I have found out that Simon Trench owns a Mini Metro.’

‘Chocolate brown?’ said Frost distractedly, remembering the car that had clipped the Cortina’s wing mirror in Forest View.

‘Just says brown,’ said Webster.

‘Thought so.’ Frost took a bite of the Kit Kat. ‘Get an alert put out, can you?’ he said, mouth full. ‘For whatever good that’ll do. They still haven’t stopped Steve Hudson, and his motor’s bright yellow.’

‘Plenty of heat on Steve Hudson, though,’ said Webster. ‘Allegations of ABH, threatening behaviour, fraud – you name it.’

‘So why wasn’t he on my radar?’ said Frost.

‘Most of it was from years ago, and nothing stuck. Appears to have been keeping his nose clean for a while.’

‘I wonder why?’ said Frost. ‘Leopards don’t change their spots.’

‘They just get more crafty. Well, I’m off down the pub, then,’ said Webster.

‘Before you go,’ said Frost, slumping back in his chair, ‘see what you’ve got on a Blake Richards, formerly of the Met.’

‘Funny you should ask about him,’ said Webster. ‘Bert Williams wanted everything I could get on him only the other week. In fact, Williams should still have the file somewhere – it was sent down from London. Thick as a telephone directory, it was.’

Monday (6)

Superintendent Mullett was giving his office a final onceover: the ornaments on the desk were in precise alignment, the in-tray empty, the telephone, having been dusted by his own handkerchief, was shining brightly. If nothing else, order and cleanliness always provided him with a certain comfort.

With something approaching a satisfied smile on his lips, he tapped the edge of the desk for luck, then headed out of the inner sanctum, turning off the light, only to walk straight into PC Simms, who’d obviously been loitering by Miss Smith’s desk.

‘What the hell, Simms! You gave me quite a shock,’ said Mullett.

‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that I was hoping to have a word with Miss Smith.’

‘But as you can see, she’s not here.’ Mullett looked at his watch – he was going to be late for dinner yet again. ‘She left over an hour ago.’

‘Yes, I can see that now. What I mean is …’ The constable was flustered. ‘I thought maybe she’d popped to the canteen, so that was why I was waiting.’

‘You know the canteen is out of order at the moment.’

‘Oh, yes, of course it is. I’d forgotten.’

‘It seems to me you’ve forgotten quite a lot, like the time Miss Smith finishes work for the day.’

‘I suppose so, sir. Sorry.’

‘Sorry? What did you want with my secretary anyway?’ Mullett didn’t have time for this, but then he certainly didn’t have time for any untoward behaviour in his station. A tight ship, that’s what he ran, not a knocking shop.

‘It’s a personal matter, sir,’ said Simms.

Mullett was not in the least surprised. ‘Personal?’ he shouted. ‘This is not a bordello, lad. Pull yourself together.’ Mullett then set off down the corridor, thinking that Simms needed a cold shower. If not a good caning. As head boy at Charterfield, Mullett had loved thrashing the juniors.

Monday (7)

Jack Frost and Sue Clarke were hurrying to Wendy Hudson’s ward, down yet another squeaky corridor. Frost’s head was throbbing, the lateness of the hour and the bright fluorescent lighting not helping matters. He felt a twinge in his lower abdomen, probably down to the three pints he’d had at lunch.

Hospitals were even worse at night, Frost found himself thinking. The long, empty corridors, bereft of patients, nurses, visitors. The stink of loneliness, fear and death. ‘Did you see
The Shining
?’ he asked, the atmosphere really getting to him.

‘No way,’ said Clarke. ‘I hate horror films. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing
An American Werewolf in London
– apparently that’s really funny, not just scary.’

‘Just trot down to Denton Woods,’ said Frost. ‘On a full moon. You’d be surprised what you’d see.’

Lister Ward was in darkness apart from a light at its far end. They continued down the corridor past the occasional groan, moan or snore, until they reached the nurses’ station.

A redhead was sitting by an Anglepoise lamp.

‘Hello, love,’ Frost said politely. ‘We’ve come to see Wendy Hudson – I’m DS Frost and this is DC Clarke, Denton CID. We got a call a short while ago, saying Mrs Hudson had regained consciousness.’

To Frost’s extreme annoyance he’d also discovered that the WPC in attendance had been relieved of her duties much earlier in the day because Mullett thought it a waste of resources keeping a constable by an unconscious woman’s bedside. So when Wendy Hudson did wake up there’d been nobody on hand to record anything she might have said.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ A faint, Irish brogue drifted up from under the light, while the nurse continued to write carefully in a ledger.

Now he was here, Frost was even more livid. Mullett wasn’t just a stingy bastard but an incompetent one as well. ‘Can you remind me which bed is hers?’ he asked. ‘It’s a little dark out there.’

‘But you can’t talk to her now,’ the nurse said, raising her angelic face.

‘Why ever not?’ Frost said, still trying to be polite.

‘Lights-out is at ten. As you may have noticed, everyone is asleep. Or trying to get to sleep.’ She smiled up at him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

‘Listen to me, sweetheart’ – Clarke was tugging at Frost’s sleeve, but he ignored her – ‘it’s been a very long day, we’re in the middle of a particularly serious police investigation, so go and wake her up again. She’s a big girl, I’m sure she stays up after ten when she’s at home.’

‘She’s still heavily sedated.’