First Frost (21 page)

‘I was off my head with worry, of course, but Wendy was acting like everything was almost normal. Like Julie had only popped out to see a friend. She even tidied Julie’s room for her, saying she wanted it spotless for when she returned,’ Hudson said, his anger subsiding.

‘Detective,’ piped up Henry Dobbs, ‘I’d like a few moments with my client in private.’

‘Dobbs, why don’t you save your breath for once,’ said Frost, ‘you know we’ll get there in the end. Besides, your client keeps inferring that he’s got nothing to hide.’

Frost shifted his gaze to Steve Hudson. ‘Detectives Hanlon and Clarke had already been round to take statements by this stage, right? Are you then implying that Wendy was putting on some crocodile tears for our benefit?’ Thoughts of wasting police time crossed Frost’s mind.

Thoughts also came to him of the poor woman battered nearly to death, lying in a pool of her own blood on the kitchen floor.

‘I was the one who called the police initially,’ said Steve Hudson. ‘You’ll have that on your records. If you keep such things.’

Frost watched Dobbs frown. Never trust a man with a beard was one of Frost’s favourite adages. Never
ever
trust a man who wears a bow tie was another.

‘Wendy changed her tune when your lot turned up, that’s for sure,’ Hudson continued.

Frost noticed that Hudson’s hands, out on the table, were shaking. Nerves? Signs of alcohol dependency? With his dyed, messed-up hair, black turtleneck sweater and swanky leather jacket, Frost couldn’t understand how anyone would buy a used motor off him. He looked more like a footballer out on the razz. Or a failed crooner.

‘If we can get back to the moment you confronted her.’ Frost looked Steve Hudson in the eye. ‘This was in the bedroom, right?’

‘To begin with,’ Hudson said.

‘You made a right mess in there,’ said Frost, making a point of ignoring that twat Dobbs’s glare, ‘before what, chasing your wife down the stairs and into the kitchen, where you proceeded to knock the bleeding life out of her?’

‘Mr Frost,’ interjected Dobbs, ‘as you know full well, my client is under no obligation to answer such outlandish accusations.’

‘Outlandish?’ shouted Frost, turning to face Dobbs.

‘My wife told me that I was not the father of our child,’ added Hudson quietly.

‘After you did what, exactly? Torture her? Beat her round the head, again and again?’

‘Detective,’ said Dobbs firmly, ‘I really object of the strongest possible terms. My client is, at this point in time, innocent. This line of questioning is beyond the pale, and you know it.’

‘If I lost my temper,’ said Hudson, more strident again, ‘then I’m sorry. But I was badly provoked. She … she came at me with a knife, for God’s sake.’

‘A knife?’ Frost said with disbelief.

The solicitor turned to his client.

‘It was self-defence,’ continued Hudson.

‘That’s an interesting line to take,’ said Frost. ‘Not sure Scenes of Crime would agree with you. What happened to this knife?’

Hudson remained quiet for some time before uttering, ‘Must have got lost in the scuffle. I don’t know – could have been kicked under a unit.’

‘Scuffle, hey?’ said Frost calmly. ‘Thing is, from where I’m sitting, I could have sworn I was looking at attempted murder.’

‘Now, now,’ said Dobbs, ‘I’m not aware of anyone pressing charges, yet.’

‘Give us a chance. We thought we’d let a certain lady have her say in the matter first, but seeing as she’s lying in a hospital bed, her head smothered in bandages and her jaw wired up, talking’s not very easy for her—’ Frost was interrupted by a hurried knocking at the door. He looked over his shoulder to see DC Clarke’s lovely fresh face peering into the room.

‘Sarge, can I have a word?’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Frost rose from his chair and grabbed his almost empty packet of Rothmans. ‘Make yourselves at home.’

‘Yes, love?’ Frost said, firmly shutting the interview-room door behind him.

‘I’ve just come from the hospital. Thought I’d look in on Mrs Hudson first thing this morning, seeing as I was passing.’

‘I like the initiative,’ said Frost. Clarke was certainly pulling out all the stops: revisiting the canal, popping in at the hospital before breakfast. ‘But I take it you avoided the kiddies’ ward.’

‘I’m not Wonder Woman,’ said Clarke.

‘Well, hopefully, Hanlon’s on Becky Fraser’s case. So how’s Wendy Hudson, then? Enjoying her Cornflakes?’

‘She was a hell of a lot more alert, and able to talk a little too. At least she made herself completely clear this time.’

‘Good, good,’ said Frost, suddenly hoping he hadn’t overstepped the mark with Steve Hudson for no valid reason.

‘Gosh, you look tired, Jack. Did you get to bed last night?’

‘Don’t worry about me.’ Frost glanced up and down the empty corridor, embarrassed. ‘So what did Mrs Hudson have to say for herself? The spiv in there’ – he gestured at the interview-room door – ‘is now saying she came at him with a knife.’ Frost rolled his eyes. Mullett had been right – the whole case had never been more than a very bloody domestic.

Clarke sighed, shrugged her shoulders. ‘She doesn’t want this to get out of hand.’

‘Get out of hand?’ Frost spluttered. ‘Too late for that, I’d say.’ He could never understand the human capacity for forgiveness.

‘The point is—’

‘Don’t tell me – she doesn’t want to press charges.’

‘You’ve got it in one.’

‘Afraid of the exposure?’ he sighed. ‘Bollocks. Bang goes our key witness. And what about her blasted daughter? Isn’t she concerned for her safety, her whereabouts? Happy for her to run off with a convicted armed robber?’

‘I’m not sure mother and daughter get on too well,’ said Clarke.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Frost swiftly turned away from Clarke and opened the door to the interview room.

‘Mr Hudson,’ he said, entering the room once again, ‘I’m afraid to say your wife remains in a critical condition, unable to communicate. You’ll be held here for the time being on suspicion of attempted murder.’

‘Mr Frost,’ sighed Henry Dobbs, standing. ‘I don’t need to remind—’

‘Dobbs, I wouldn’t even raise the question of bail. Mr Hudson has already made one attempt to flee the country.’

‘I most strongly object, yet again,’ cried Dobbs, ‘to your preposterous allegation that my client in any way—’

Frost turned for the door, muttering to himself, ‘Where’s the duty constable? I need this loser banging back up … and the key chucking away.’

Wednesday (2)

Hanlon put down the phone. ‘Yes!’ he said aloud, punching the air.

It was a result – of sorts. The boffin had found a forwarding address for Lee Wright’s mother, Joan Dixon. She hadn’t gone that far either, just across town, Denton Woods way. Chances were the woman would have moved on again ages ago, but still it needed to be checked immediately.

Except the morning briefing was in five minutes and Hanlon realized he should at least run it by Frost, before checking the address out. Wright was a convicted armed robber, could be dangerous.

Mullett would certainly insist on the involvement of the Tacticals. The whole thing could very quickly become a major operation, and when no one of interest was found at the address Hanlon would be left to look a fool. He really couldn’t risk that after his rabies slip.

As Hanlon was contemplating skipping the briefing and heading straight to the address on his own – bugger the consequences – Frost and Clarke appeared in the CID office.

‘Briefing’s cancelled,’ Frost beamed. ‘Mullett’s still at County, leaving yours truly in charge, and I’ve got nothing useful to say.’

‘Nothing new there, then,’ said Hanlon.

‘Better we press on, Arthur,’ said Frost. ‘What have you got?’

‘An address for Lee Wright’s mother, Joan Dixon.’

‘Already? You do work fast. Well, let’s go,’ said Frost, grabbing his mac.

‘Shouldn’t we inform Mullett?’

‘No point wasting time,’ said Frost.

Hanlon reached for his coat also, spotting that Clarke looked perplexed.

Frost, who also seemed to have noticed, said, ‘Sue, man the ship, will you?’

Hanlon added, ‘Social Services should be getting back to me about Liz and Becky Fraser.’

‘What is it with you men and Social Services?’ Clarke asked. ‘It’s like you’re terrified of them.’

‘We are,’ said Frost, making for the exit. ‘Hairy-scary, that’s for sure. Oh, by the way, what do Forensics say about the football scarf?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Clarke. ‘Still waiting.’

‘Hurry them up, for what good it will do.’ Frost backed into the corridor, Hanlon following. ‘A gang of young thugs, that’s what we’re after.’

‘I’d come to that conclusion as well,’ said Clarke, patiently. ‘Just thought we’d need a bit more to go on. Plenty of gangs about on the Southern Housing Estate.’

‘Be like finding a needle in a haystack,’ said Hanlon.

‘The guide dog’s the key to that one,’ called Frost, from the hallway. ‘Has to be. If only we could get the dog to identify the spotty culprits in a line-up.’

Left alone in the CID office, DC Sue Clarke sat glumly at her desk and retrieved her notebook. Being stuck waiting to hear back from Social Services, with regards to bruised Becky Fraser, and from Forensics, over the piece of scarf and Graham Ransome’s death, was not going to be very exciting. She knew she could be a little more useful.

She got up and walked over to the tall metal cabinet containing the recent case files, knowing she’d have to start trawling through every reported incident of violence, intimidation and aggravated robbery on and around the Southern Housing Estate. She’d then have to check known football hooligans, see if anything correlated.

Then perhaps go back to the pathologist, Dr Drysdale, to see if he had any clearer idea of how exactly Graham Ransome received his injuries – whether there was anything incriminating there.

Probably she should have already done this, but there weren’t enough hours in the day. Besides, it was the chase she enjoyed, being out and about – with Jack Frost too, she realized. Not the drudgery. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out to be a detective after all.

‘Sue,’ came the voice of PC Simms close behind her.

Startled, she spun round. ‘What the hell are you doing creeping up on me?’

‘I was just passing your office … the door was open.’

‘Well, I’m busy,’ she said dismissively.

‘On what?’ said Simms, leaning over and picking up a file.

Clarke grabbed the file from him and placed it back on the desk. ‘A million things,’ she said.

‘That bit of scarf we found by the canal lead anywhere?’ Simms said.

‘Don’t you start.’

‘Just asking.’

‘A gang of yobs on the Southern Housing Estate – that’s what we believe we’re after,’ Clarke said.

‘Try the Codpiece – that chippy. Kids are always hanging around there,’ Simms suggested and walked over to the open filing cabinet.

‘You looking for something in particular?’ asked Clarke.

Simms was running his fingers over the tops of the files. ‘No,’ he said, quickly adding, ‘lot of paperwork in your job.’

The phone began trilling. ‘If you don’t mind, I need to get this.’ Clarke waited for Simms to leave the room before she lifted the receiver. ‘CID.’

‘Sue?’ It was Bill Wells, out of breath. ‘There’s been a bomb scare – Market Square.’

‘Turn that off,’ said Frost as the car radio crackled into life.

‘Is that a good idea, Jack?’ said Hanlon.

‘I don’t need any more distractions while I’m driving,’ said Frost, negotiating the notorious Bath Road roundabout. ‘Besides, we don’t want Mullett stalling us by sending for the cavalry. Frankly, the less he knows the better.’

‘Fair enough.’

Frost lit a cigarette while waiting to pull across the roundabout. ‘Cast your mind back a moment, will you, Arthur. A couple of weeks. Shortly after the Rimmington heist.’

‘The
Star Wars
robbery, you mean?’ said Hanlon.

‘If you must call it that.’

‘Vicious job. But what of it?’

‘Something’s troubling me.’

‘That’s unusual, then. Hey, steady on, Jack.’

Frost had taken a corner too wide and had to swerve back on to the left side of the road. ‘Not our investigation, I know, but we’d just been talking about it when Miss Smith came into the office, looking for Bert – though Bert had just pissed off somewhere.’

‘How could I possibly remember something like that? Everyone was always looking for Bert.’

‘Said she wanted a private word with him. You know how flirty she can be.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Hanlon. ‘Bert had a way with her, that’s for sure.’

‘He liked her knockers,’ mulled Frost.

‘Hard not to,’ said Hanlon, raising an eyebrow.

‘She was carrying an Aster’s shopping bag,’ Frost said, more seriously, ‘and there was an Aster’s shopping bag on Bert’s desk. Miss Smith said, “Snap,” or something like that, and that she and Bert obviously shopped in the right places.’

‘Even if I did remember, for the life of me I don’t know where this is going, Jack.’

‘Neither do I, quite.’ Frost suddenly pulled up right outside the old telephone exchange, recently given a new name and fancy logo: British Telecom. Right waste of taxpayers’ money. ‘Mind the wardens, Arthur, I won’t be a minute.’

‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’

Frost ignored Hanlon, climbed out of the motor and dashed into the lobby. The once-grand neo-classical building was awash with cheap blue-and-grey carpet, fixtures and fittings. Frost went straight up to the reception desk, and asked for Mike Ferris, the chief engineer. ‘He’s expecting me,’ said Frost, knowing of course that he wasn’t.

While waiting, Frost flicked to the page on which he’d copied the four telephone numbers from Bert Williams’s bloodstained notebook, along with the number of the call box. He ripped out the paper just as the friendly, heavily lined face of Mike Ferris appeared in front of him.

‘Hello, Jack.’ Ferris had a trace of Geordie in his accent. Of medium height and build, and in late middle age, Ferris was wearing blue work trousers with a white short-sleeved shirt and a tie. ‘You should have warned me you were coming. I could easily have been out, this time of the morning.’