First Frost (27 page)

‘She scares me,’ Simon Trench said. ‘She’s evil. You don’t understand what she makes me do.’ He was beginning to shake, uncontrollably.

‘Arthur!’ Hanlon heard Clarke shout from inside the house. ‘We need back-up. The girl’s dead.’

Hanlon lurched for Simon Trench’s ankle, and took hold of it.

‘I told you,’ Simon Trench said.

‘Frost!’ shouted Mullett, rapping on the doorframe. ‘Wake up.’

Yawning, Frost slowly removed his feet from Bert Williams’s desk.

Give a yard and he takes a mile
, thought Mullett.

‘Hello, Super,’ Frost said cheerily. ‘Good of you to drop by.’

‘You silly man,’ said Mullett. ‘If you’d heard your blasted phone I wouldn’t have had to come all the way down here.’

Miss Smith had gone home for the day, despite a blanket offer of overtime to all staff, leaving Mullett to fend for himself. He’d hoped that in this time of crisis even the admin staff would be prepared to go that extra mile. Miss Smith was more than testing his goodwill, the sly little vixen.

‘Phone?’ said Frost, looking about the desk, piled high with clutter. ‘Can’t seem to find it.’

‘Frost, you might be in charge of the investigation into Bert Williams’s death – because, frankly, there’s no one else around to do it – but believe me, that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. Barging into my office like that.’ Mullett found he was scratching his head, something he’d been doing a lot recently. Reminded him of when, in the army, there’d been an appalling outbreak of lice. ‘And as for that farcical show you put on in Market Square. That won’t be forgotten about in a hurry.’

‘At least I saved the bomb squad from getting their hands dirty,’ sniffed Frost.

‘Security cordons aside, what I still don’t understand is why you weren’t alerted to the situation by Control.’ Mullett tapped his toe impatiently.

‘Beats me. Problem with the airwaves?’

‘When everything dies down, there’ll be a proper inquiry.’

‘That’ll make interesting reading.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll be watching you like a hawk.’ Mullett turned to go.

‘Is that all, then, sir?’

‘No. There is one more thing.’ Mullett stepped back into Williams’s office, where Frost already looked worryingly at home. ‘I don’t want you badgering Michael Hudson again. He told me about your visit earlier this week, when you effectively accused him of aiding his nephew’s flight from the country. I’ll have you know Michael Hudson’s a particularly fine, upstanding member of the community.’

‘And the Golf Club,’ muttered Frost.

‘I’ve just warned you, Frost.’

‘The thing is, bankers get on my nerves. Don’t trust them an inch.’

Mullett didn’t want to hear any more but, against his better judgement, he stayed rooted to the spot. Truth be told, Mullett wasn’t overly keen on Michael Hudson either. The trouble was, the bank manager was indeed on the membership committee at the Golf Club. ‘Do you trust anyone, Frost?’

‘Less and less.’ Frost reached for a cigarette.

‘Well, don’t go peddling rumour and misinformation, otherwise all hell will break loose,’ said Mullett. ‘Especially where people like Michael Hudson are concerned. Gut feelings and instinct have no place in a court of law.’

Mullett, the proud holder of a law degree, left Frost to his quagmire and headed back to the sanctuary of his pristine office, knowing that Nigel Winslow, the assistant chief constable, and this fellow Patterson from the Anti-Terrorist Branch were due to arrive imminently. For what bloody good that would do.

Wednesday (8)

‘Yes?’ said Frost distractedly into the phone.

His mind was elsewhere; Forensics had just deciphered Bert Williams’s scrawl from the Met file. They’d come up with a name: Joe Kelly. Didn’t mean anything to Frost. Yet.

‘A man’s just called in,’ said Bill Wells. ‘There’s been a serious incident, Jack, out in Denton Close.’

‘Denton Close?’ said Frost, still not quite paying attention.

‘Sounds like murder. Aggravated burglary, gone badly wrong.’

‘Sorry, Bill, not with you.’ What Frost really needed were those names and, hopefully, addresses from Mike Ferris, his friendly contact at British Telecom – but they’d now have to wait until tomorrow. Blake Richards’s home address suddenly would have been helpful, too. Given that Aster’s had been shut since lunchtime Webster in Records was having to work on that. Frost would have to put Webster on to Joe Kelly also. Records, like everywhere else in the station, was chronically understaffed.

‘A young woman’s dead, Jack,’ said Wells. ‘Probably raped. In her own home. Her husband’s just rung it in. Charlie Alpha’s on its way and you need to get there too, as soon as possible.’

‘Where’s Hanlon?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Wells. ‘Hanlon and Clarke are in Forest View. That little Becky Fraser, the rabies girl, she’s also been found dead, at home.’

‘Dead? No, please God,’ said Frost, standing and grabbing his mac with his free hand. He felt dizzy. ‘Becky Fraser, are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, Jack. Hanlon and Clarke are with the parents, a Liz Fraser and a Simon Trench. Apparently they’re cooperating.’

‘Cooperating? I’d like to hear that.’

‘You need to get to Denton Close, Jack.’

‘Right, OK. I’m on my way. Where exactly?’

‘Number eight.’

‘Why does that ring a bell?’

‘Series of noise complaints.’

‘I was thinking of a curry.’ Frost replaced the receiver, adjusted his crotch and rushed out of the room.

‘You know,’ said Clarke, driving slowly for once, ‘I guess there are some cases that you’ll never understand.’

‘Human behaviour,’ said Hanlon. ‘They don’t teach us enough about that at Hendon.’

The meat wagon containing Simon Trench and Liz Fraser overtook them on the Wells Road.

‘It’s going to take quite a few shrinks to sort this one out,’ said Clarke, watching the vehicle disappear into the distance.

‘Liz Fraser’s been crying out for help for some time. I suppose we didn’t realize that she was the one who needed protecting, from herself.’ Hanlon sighed. ‘But I guess they’re both responsible.’

‘What’s the betting he gets the longer sentence?’ Clarke slowed right down for a roundabout. A Cortina thundered across in front of them.

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. She’ll probably just get a stint in a secure mental institution.’

‘Not sure I’d fancy Broadmoor much,’ said Clarke, then adding quietly, ‘what’s going to haunt me, though, is the fact that if we’d got there just a bit earlier that little girl would still be alive. I can’t bear to think of her being suffocated – if that is how she died. And then the way they’d tucked her up in her bed, as if for the night.’

‘Social Services should have been there,’ sighed Hanlon. ‘Their blasted new directive – there’s always one. Christ, they should have been there months, years ago.’

‘We should have made a stronger case,’ said Clarke.

‘What would have been the point? They wouldn’t have listened. They only hear what they want to hear.’

‘I feel sick. Not sure I’m up for the Southern Housing Estate tonight.’

‘We can’t protect everyone, Sue,’ said Hanlon.

Wednesday (9)

Lost behind sad, stinking bouquets of flowers, Station Sergeant Bill Wells finally had a moment to contemplate his new Pools coupon. Sighing loudly, he scanned the Saturday fixtures. Low down in the leagues he noticed that Denton were playing Rimmington at home: the local derby.

Wells was rudely torn from his football considerations by the sharp ping of the desk bell. Pushing aside his Littlewoods booklet, he glanced up to see the pointy-nosed and bespectacled head of Assistant Chief Constable Winslow. He scrambled to attention. ‘Evening, sir.’

‘I know DI Williams will be sorely missed, but this is a little over the top, isn’t it, Sergeant?’ said Winslow, gesticulating at the flowers.

‘The staff wanted to express their feelings,’ Wells found himself saying, knowing he was responsible for the memorial. ‘Williams had been with us for a long time.’

‘Too long,’ muttered Winslow.

‘What was that, sir?’

‘Tell Superintendent Mullett I’ve arrived, will you?’

‘I do believe Sir Peter Farnsworth, the chairman of the Fortress, has just popped by to see him,’ said Wells, knowing full well that Sir Peter was in with Mullett and the super had left clear instructions not to be disturbed.

‘Even more reason, then, to tell him I’m here.’

Wells tried Miss Smith’s extension, half remembering having seen her leave for the day. Not surprisingly, there was no reply. Winslow was looking impatient. ‘Not answering,’ said the sergeant. ‘Look, why don’t you go straight through, sir?’ At least it wasn’t Wells who’d be disturbing the super.

Winslow promptly marched off, leaving Wells to return to the Pools. Yet before he had a chance to find his place, another man slipped into the building. He was in his mid thirties, solidly built, with a five o’clock shadow, shoulder-length dark hair, a scruffy black leather jacket, jeans and dirty white plimsolls.

‘Hello,’ the man said, approaching the front desk. The distinct Irish accent didn’t make Wells any more relaxed. ‘I’m here to see the divisional commander, Superintendent Mullett.’

‘And you are?’ Wells said.

‘Patterson, ATB.’

Wells frowned.

‘DCI Patterson, Anti-Terrorist Branch,’ the man quickly added.

‘Oh, right, of course, yes,’ Wells mumbled. ‘Wasn’t expecting …’

‘What?’ the man enquired.

‘Nothing, nothing.’ Wells was too embarrassed to ask for the man’s ID. ‘It’s just that the super’s a little tied up at the moment.’

‘I bet he is. Tell him I’m here, will you?’ Patterson said, raising his eyebrows hopefully, or perhaps it was disdainfully. ‘I’ve just driven down from London.’

‘How was the traffic?’ said Wells, picking up the phone once more, though not sure whether he dared dial Mullett’s personal extension.

‘A joke. Much like Denton, from what I’ve already seen of it.’

‘Line’s busy,’ Wells lied. ‘Why don’t you wait over there.’ He pointed to the bench running under the notice board.

The Anti-Terrorist Branch officer swaggered over to the bench, his leather jacket swinging open to reveal that he was packing a Smith & Wesson Special.

Frost pulled up in Denton Close, almost exactly where he’d been positioned on Sunday night, and switched off the engine. Looking at the very same house, number eight, as the drizzle now smeared the windscreen, he tried to recall what he’d seen.

Once more soft orange light was seeping around the curtains of the front room, but there was no movement inside this time. He remembered the tall, thin man on the doorstep, kissing people goodbye. Then there was the woman he’d nearly knocked over when he opened the car door, and her running away – who the hell was she? He’d clean forgotten about her. And then the sensation of hot curry in his lap – he hadn’t forgotten that.

What struck him now was how still and dark and quiet it was. The only sign something terrible had happened were the two PCs stationed outside the front door.

Frost shook his head as he got out of the car; his limbs were feeling heavy and cumbersome. Fatigue wasn’t the only battle he was fighting.

‘Evening, boys,’ he called out, squinting in the rain as he hurried towards the porch. He slowed by the entrance. ‘What we got?’

One of the sentries, PC Simms, appeared desperate not to make eye contact, and continued to look into the wet night, ignoring Frost’s question.

‘Dead woman,’ PC Baker said, sniffing, his nose reddened with cold.

‘So I’d heard,’ said Frost, ignoring Simms’s attitude – just a boy, that one. ‘And the husband … he’s inside, is he?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Baker.

‘His name?’ asked Frost.

‘Maurice Litchfield.’

‘Litchfield? Heard that name somewhere this week … Well, let’s take a look inside, shall we? Lead the way, will you, Baker.’

Baker pushed open the front door. It had something to do with the blind man, Graham Ransome, Frost suddenly remembered.

‘Husband is in the lounge, on the phone, or was.’ Baker indicated a room off the hall to the right.

As Frost vigorously wiped his feet on the doormat, he cupped his hand to his ear. He could make out a broken, low voice emanating from the lounge.

‘The body is upstairs. Front bedroom,’ said Baker.

Gingerly stepping on to the luxuriant, deep-pile, cream-coloured hall carpet, Frost made for the lounge and peered round the corner. A man in a dark suit sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, talking softly into the phone. A tumbler of Scotch was balanced precariously on the Dralon arm of the sofa. Beside him was the source of the mellow lighting, an orange lava lamp.

He certainly appeared to be the bloke in the silk dressing-gown Frost had seen on Sunday evening: thinning hair, aristocratic profile, lanky build …

Frost stepped back abruptly, straight into Baker, who gave an audible start.

‘Blimey,’ Frost mockingly protested. ‘No need to keep that close.’

‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Baker said, whispering, ‘I was just trying to see if Mr Litchfield was all right.’

‘All right?’ Frost hissed. ‘Of course he’s not bloody all right.’ Frost made for the stairs, knowing he’d have to face the worst sooner rather than later. Baker followed, but giving Frost a bit of space.

‘Where is she, then?’ Frost stood in the doorway of the ransacked master bedroom. Drawers had been pulled out, clothes were strewn everywhere. A jewellery box lay on the floor, along with heaps of make-up and accessories. ‘Where?’ Frost repeated.

‘In the bed, under the duvet.’ Baker pointed at the crumpled, purple-coloured bedding.

Frost stepped towards the bed, careful not to disturb the debris on the floor. Gently he pulled back the covers. ‘Wow … what a shame.’ Despite the grey pallor of death, this was a striking female corpse. Frost couldn’t help thinking of a classical marble statue.

‘Sorry, sir?’ Baker said, hesitantly. ‘What was that?’

‘I said … forget it. What’s her name, first name?’

Staring at the body, Baker appeared suddenly lost for words.