First Frost (37 page)

‘Sod that, Hanlon’s in there,’ said Frost, limping towards the path, one hand pulling his mac together, the other clutching his gut and a torch awkwardly.

Patterson followed close behind, Clarke taking up the rear. Frost, holding the Maglite, pushed his way through the dripping foliage, stumbling over ruts and roots, through puddles the size of small lakes, his mac snagging on brambles, but going as fast as he could, as fast as the cramping pain in his stomach would allow him.

‘Hold up,’ Patterson whispered loudly. A sudden break in the clouds afforded them some moonlight as they approached a clearing, where the path diverged. ‘Where are we, Frost?’

‘It all looks different in the middle of the night, but from memory,’ Frost said, ‘the left fork leads straight to Thorley’s carriage, the right continues through the woods.’

‘If you go right, any way back round to the carriage?’

Frost could make out Patterson had drawn his gun and he could hear Clarke breathing hard behind him. ‘Through a right load of crap, I’d imagine. It’s like a jungle over there.’

‘We’d make too much noise that way, anyway,’ said Patterson. ‘OK, here’s what we do.’

‘Since when have you been in charge?’ objected Frost.

‘We’re not playing cowboys and Indians,’ said Patterson.

‘Shush. Someone’s coming,’ warned Clarke.

Hanlon was all too aware of Desmond Thorley fidgeting and grunting uneasily in what little space there was beside him on the filthy, damp carriage floor. The poor old tramp had taken a bit of a kicking.

Hanlon had fared better at the hands of the gang, complying with their demands to walk back to the carriage without turning round, and then to being trussed up, gagged and blindfolded. With what felt like a double-barrelled shotgun in his back he wasn’t going to do anything else. Thorley, the fool, had expressed his outrage at the inconvenience.

There’d been at least four of them, an Irishman and a woman among them, so Hanlon had clearly heard. Though he hadn’t managed to see any of them. They were pros, knew what they were doing.

Hanlon didn’t know where the gang had gone now. He was badly shaken, but at least he was now thinking he might not actually die.

Then, instinctively, Hanlon ducked, or tried to, banging his head hard on the floor as the unmistakable crack of a pistol shot, then another, ripped through the woods, the carriage. It was met by two blasts from a shotgun. And one further, single crack.

Clarke, her ears ringing from the blasts, could just make out Patterson hunkering down behind a tree, both hands on his revolver. She and Frost were on the other side of the path, crouching half inside a rhododendron bush in the dark, a small branch jabbing her right in the ear. Shaking, she was clutching on to Frost for dear life, terrified of moving even an inch.

Some twenty yards further down the middle of the path lay a body. Just to the right another body was sprawled in the dirt, a shotgun on the ground a couple of feet away.

From the moving shapes and panicked voices and one high-pitched scream during the initial volley of shots, Clarke reckoned there were at least another two gang members in close proximity. She was relieved that Patterson was proving to be such a good shot, but knew he could easily be outgunned. Clarke prayed that they didn’t work out only one of them was armed. Though those still alive must have been sensing that if they didn’t make a move soon they’d be facing a whole lot more.

Clouds were scudding overhead as near-pitch darkness fell on the woods, to be replaced, almost as quickly, by eerie moonlight.

Then suddenly a short, wiry man, clutching what looked like a holdall in one hand and a sawn-off shotgun in the other, appeared right in front of them. Clarke screamed – she couldn’t help herself.

Frost immediately dived forwards, knocking the man to the ground.

There was the deafening crack of a pistol again, a groan of agonizing pain, swiftly followed by two more shots. Another figure was pelting away up the path, someone smaller, more nimble, with long hair. A woman.

Standing up, Clarke saw that both Frost and the man he’d tackled were lying twisted together and far too still on the wet ground. Patterson hurried towards her, breathing heavily, as she moved nearer the bodies.

‘Frost, is he alive?’ said Patterson, crouching. ‘Not easy to tell in this light.’

Clarke, kneeling by Frost’s body, and finding a wrist to feel for a pulse, could hear someone struggling to breathe. Leaning closer, she realized it was Frost.

Patterson quickly pulled the other man off, and returned to Frost.

‘He’s still alive,’ said Clarke. ‘Jack’s still alive.’

‘Of course I bloody well am,’ croaked Frost, trying to sit up.

Clarke attempted to help him, but he was heavier than she expected, and he wouldn’t stop clutching his stomach. ‘Have you been shot?’

Patterson was running his hands over Frost, trying to move his arm away, looking intently. ‘He hasn’t been shot,’ he said.

‘It’s my gut,’ Frost groaned. ‘Terrible pain.’

‘He must have ruptured something,’ said Patterson to Clarke, still checking him over.

Realizing how relieved she felt that Frost hadn’t been shot, she said, almost joyfully, ‘Or eaten something dodgy.’ She stroked Frost’s head and, wiping the mud from his face, said, ‘You’ll be all right, Jack.’

‘Who’s been shot?’ whispered Frost.

‘Joe Kelly, for sure,’ said Patterson. ‘That’s him there, dead.’ He pointed to the man Frost had tackled to the ground, dark blood visible in the moonlight pooling by his head and torso.

‘Could have done with him alive, at least,’ said Patterson. ‘Oh, well, he didn’t give me a lot of options. Thought he was going to put one in you, Frost.’

Patterson walked down the track, stooping over the other two bodies. ‘One’s still alive. Guy with a beard. But he’s in a bad way.’ Patterson kicked the nearby sawn-off shotgun further down the track.

In the distance Clarke could hear sirens and a helicopter. ‘The woman got away,’ she said.

‘She’s quick that one, all right,’ said Frost, still half prone on the ground.

‘If they set up some roadblocks fast enough, they should get her,’ said Patterson.

‘I somehow doubt it,’ said Frost.

‘What about Hanlon?’ said Clarke, worry in her voice. ‘Where could he be?’

‘Try Thorley’s carriage,’ suggested Frost weakly, as torch beams and the sound of men running moved rapidly towards them.

‘I’ll check it,’ said Patterson, drawing his gun. ‘You wait with Frost.’

‘You’re quite handy with that thing, aren’t you?’ said Clarke.

‘Needs must,’ said Patterson. ‘But it’s never easy taking someone’s life,’ he added, walking off in the direction of the tramp’s shelter.

Hanlon heard footsteps closing in, and the carriage door opening. Was this it?

‘You two all right?’ an Irish-accented voice asked.

It took Hanlon a moment to realize it was Patterson. But because of the gag, he couldn’t answer, and only managed to nod his head weakly. Then he felt Patterson cutting the ties around his hands and feet. Once free, Hanlon struggled to sit up, pulling the gag off, as Patterson attended to Thorley.

‘Who’s been shot?’ said Hanlon.

‘Three of them,’ replied Patterson.

‘Any of us hit?’

‘No. We’re all OK. Except Frost.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hanlon stood up. ‘What’s happened to Jack?’ He felt dizzy. Then he heard a helicopter hovering overhead.

‘Got a problem with his stomach.’

‘Is that all?’ huffed Hanlon, stiffly making for the carriage door. Stepping through the opening he saw a blaze of torchlight, and the beam from the helicopter highlighting swarms of armed officers. Mullett, in a penguin suit, was striding into the clearing.

‘Will I get a reward?’ said Thorley behind him.

Friday (1)

In full ceremonial uniform Superintendent Mullett sat awkwardly at his vast desk. As much as he enjoyed being able to display the totality of his medals and ribbons it was impossible to get comfortable. The collar of his shirt had been starched stiff as cardboard, and the serge of his jacket and trousers was so thick and itchy he could barely bend his limbs, or scratch himself where he needed to. The only thing the fancy garb was good for was standing to attention on a freezing parade ground.

However, he’d thought that the seriousness of the situation and his impending national exposure warranted a certain gravitas. Elsewhere in the building the press were already assembling – local and national, print, TV and radio.

Mullett sighed, attempting to gather his thoughts. He was tired out. He’d managed no more than two hours’ sleep last night. In fact, he’d been deprived of a proper night’s rest the whole week, as Mrs M was only too keen to remind him over the breakfast table.

There was the briefest of taps at his office door before Assistant Chief Constable Nigel Winslow marched straight in, his right hand outstretched. ‘My dear Stanley.’

Mullett struggled to his feet, struggled to reach across the desk to shake Winslow’s hand, struggled to move his arm as he did so. ‘Nigel.’ He’d already had two telephone conversations with the assistant chief constable that morning.

‘I think congratulations are in order,’ said Winslow, helping himself to a seat. ‘Bit bloody though. You’ll need to think very carefully about what you say to the press.’ Winslow grimaced. ‘Patterson’s role in particular. We still don’t want the public alerted to the fact that an anti-IRA undercover operation was in place – and that comes from above.’

So Mullett was going to have to explain away the carnage, was he? And to think there’d be inquiries, inquests, endless probing questions from all and sundry about, among other things, why his own Tactical unit had not got there in time.

‘I’m still livid that there’s been some kind of undercover operation going on here for months, without my knowledge,’ said the superintendent, his uniform giving him courage. ‘Why the hell was I not informed at the time?’

‘As you know, the ATB moves in mysterious ways, in these troubled times,’ said Winslow, looking flustered, and making Mullett wonder once more how much he really knew.

‘And then there’s the issue of you accusing the Denton Division of harbouring a mole …’ persisted Mullett.

‘Crossed wires, I believe,’ Winslow said, wiping his brow. He changed the subject. ‘I hear DCI Patterson did remarkably well under the most testing of circumstances last night. He’ll be up for a commendation, I expect.’

Mullett walked over to the window. After the storm it was a beautifully crisp, autumn day. Though, there, lurking in a corner of the station yard like a black cloud, was a BBC van, a massive aerial extending up through its roof at that very moment. ‘I have to say, my unarmed officers on the scene were every bit as brave, not to mention the fact that one of my men was bound and gagged at gunpoint.’

‘Shame they couldn’t stop the woman, though,’ said Winslow, now frantically polishing his lenses. ‘Not sure how she could have evaded the roadblocks, presuming they were put in place quickly enough.’

‘We did everything we could,’ countered Mullett, ‘including calling up the helicopter.’

‘At some expense.’

‘Well, at least this Joe Kelly is out of the picture for good, and George Foster too – finally. While Blake Richards has a bullet lodged in his spine, and will probably never walk again.’ Mullett rubbed his hands. ‘The masked gang has been well and truly smashed, and we’ve recovered most of the money. All thanks to our solid detective work.’

‘I thought it was the ATB’s informer who gave the crucial lead on the night?’ queried Winslow.

‘Merely confirming what we already knew. DC Hanlon was on the scene first. I have to say, Denton CID is a credit to the force.’

‘I take it, then, you’ll have a good idea where to find Louise Daley.’

‘Absolutely,’ bluffed Mullett.

‘Just make sure her picture is handed to the press in any case – they’ll love this one,’ said Winslow.

‘I bet they will.’ Mullett could just see the headline: STRIPPER FOXES DETECTIVES. ‘Maybe we do need to parade Patterson in front of the press, after all. Have him explain himself. We don’t want this … young woman in the limelight.’

‘As I said, Stanley, we need to be very careful about exactly what we tell the press. I fear also it would be putting Patterson under too much pressure.’

Mullett coughed grumpily. As if
he
wasn’t under enough pressure.

‘You handled that rabies nonsense with some panache,’ continued Winslow. ‘I’m sure you won’t let the force down with this one. Just keep any mention of the IRA well and truly out of it. It’s possible this cell is still here in Denton.’

‘And DI Bert Williams’s death?’ said Mullett, looking the assistant chief constable in the eye. ‘What do you suggest I say publicly about that?’ There was no scenario there which would provide Mullett with much comfort.

‘Tell them that new lines of inquiry are being followed up. For God’s sake, Stanley.’ Winslow replaced his glasses, put away his lens cloth, stood, and smoothed his jacket. ‘If stuck, that’s
always
the answer.’

Friday (2)

‘How you feeling, Jack?’ said Hanlon, by Frost’s hospital bed, having adjusted the curtain to afford them some privacy.

‘Not so bad,’ said Frost weakly. His stitches were beginning to irritate him as the anaesthetic wore off. ‘Be better when I’m out of here, though.’

‘I got these for you, Jack,’ Clarke stuck her head through the curtains and smiled sweetly. ‘For saving my life.’ She made to hand Frost the flowers she had bought from the stall in the lobby, a bunch of white roses, then placed them gently on the bedside locker. ‘They’ll need a vase,’ she said.

‘No need for that. They look lovely just as they are. Thanks, Sue.’

Hanlon thought Frost looked terrible, his skin all waxy. ‘Well, you’ve got Richards for company. And the super’s coming down later.’

‘Even more reason to get the hell out of here,’ said Frost.

‘You need to rest – when did they operate?’ asked Clarke.

‘Sometime last night,’ said Frost.