First Frost (38 page)

‘Appendicitis, eh? You need to stay put, Jack,’ said Clarke, flicking her hair off her face. ‘You could have died from a ruptured appendix.’

‘We all could have died last night,’ grumbled Hanlon, rubbing his wrists. They were badly chafed and bruised.

‘Goes with the territory,’ said Frost dismissively. ‘Where is Blake Richards exactly?’

‘He’s under police guard on the second floor,’ said Hanlon. ‘Don’t think he’ll be walking again.’

‘I messed up.’ Frost struggled to sit up. Clarke rushed forward and helped position the pillows behind his back. ‘You are making a fuss of me, Sue. I hope you’ll be lending a hand when it’s time for my enema.’

‘You didn’t mess up,’ said Hanlon. ‘Any more than any of us.’

‘Should have been on to the girl sooner.’

‘One-track mind,’ said Clarke.

‘And bloody Blake Richards,’ added Frost. ‘The signs were all there. Once a bent copper, always a bent copper. Shouldn’t have let him out of my sight.’

‘You think Bert was on to him?’ asked Hanlon.

‘It appears so. But something’s still troubling me.’

‘Jack,’ soothed Hanlon, ‘something’s always troubling you.’

‘I need to have a word with Richards. I still don’t quite get why he was in contact with Bert. And then why he killed him – if it was him.’ Frost shook his head wearily.

‘There’ll be plenty of time to grill him,’ said Hanlon. ‘Though Scenes of Crime have found a bloodied snooker cue in the back of Richards’s Range Rover, the one parked up in Denton Woods. You reckon that could have been the weapon?’

‘Quite possibly. We’ll need to see whose prints are on it, anyway. And if the blood matches.’ Frost coughed painfully.

‘You really mustn’t worry about that for now,’ said Clarke. ‘The gang’s been smashed.’

‘But the bird got away,’ grumbled Frost, rubbing at his stubbly chin.

Clarke nudged his arm and said, ‘You’ll be able to go after her, when you’re better.’

‘She better bloody well have been caught before then. Come to think of it, I know just the person who might be able to help.’

‘Oh?’ said Hanlon.

‘Steve Hudson.’

‘Steve Hudson?’ said Hanlon and Clarke in unison.

‘He’s been knocking off Louise Daley. Hadn’t I told you? Bet he might have some ideas about where she’s gone.’

‘Hudson’s still banged up,’ said Hanlon, ‘on an attempted murder charge.’ He looked enquiringly at Frost. ‘Or was, earlier this morning. With all the fuss Mullett seems to have forgotten about him.’

‘Attempted murder? You could probably get that changed, say, to common assault, if he leads us to Daley.’ Frost sighed. ‘I’m dying for a smoke. Can either of you two help me out?’

‘It’s not allowed on the ward,’ said Clarke.

‘You think that would stop me?’ said Frost.

‘What makes you think Steve Hudson wasn’t part of this gang?’ said Hanlon. He certainly wasn’t going to fetch Frost a cigarette, and hoped Clarke wasn’t, either.

‘He’s a lightweight,’ explained Frost. ‘Besides, if that was the case, that gang wouldn’t have carried out the raid on the Fortress, knowing Steve Hudson was already helping us with our inquiries.’

‘Good point,’ said Hanlon.

‘I shouldn’t think he had a clue about Louise Daley’s involvement,’ added Frost. ‘She was probably just using him to tune up her motor.’

‘I wonder if that informer, Brendan Murphy, knew anything of Steve Hudson’s entanglement with Louise Daley, given that he was working with him at Hudson’s Classic Cars,’ Hanlon speculated. ‘And whether Murphy knew about her link to Joe Kelly?’

Frost shrugged, looking dejected.

‘Well, Murphy found out about what was going to be happening in the woods. He must have tapped into Joe Kelly’s network somehow. And you have to say Patterson came good,’ said Clarke.

Frost coughed, then said, ‘Where’s Patterson now?’

‘At home, I should think,’ replied Hanlon. ‘Suspended, pending the usual inquiries following a fatal shooting, or two.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Mullett’s giving a press conference about it all right now, though apparently he’s not allowed to mention the ATB’s involvement. The IRA is off-limits, for operational reasons – they still think a sleeper cell might be in the vicinity.’

‘Yeah, Patterson said as much. I’d love to hear Mullett explaining what went on last night.’ Frost laughed weakly. ‘Any water anywhere?’

Clarke moved to get the plastic jug, which had been perched on the windowsill, and poured him a glass of water.

‘My throat’s killing me,’ complained Frost. ‘No air in here. How’s Lee Wright, by the way? What ward’s he on?’

‘He appears to have made a remarkable recovery,’ said Clarke. ‘With all the drama last night, he wasn’t being properly guarded, and he’s legged it.’

‘I thought he’d do as much,’ said Frost.

‘Mullett doesn’t know yet,’ admitted Clarke. ‘He’ll hit the roof.’

‘Still, Wright was very useful, coming up with those names. He’ll turn up one day soon, I expect. In a load more trouble. Shame, I would have put a word in with his probation officer. The person who’s really wasting our time is Maurice Litchfield.’

‘Not any more,’ Hanlon said.

‘He’s confessed?’ asked Frost brightly.

‘No,’ said Clarke. ‘He’s killed himself, I’m afraid. Earlier this morning an area car found him hanging from a tree in his front garden. He was naked.’

‘Used the belt from his dressing-gown, did he?’ said Frost. ‘Jesus wept. I suppose he wasn’t going to make a mistake. Shit. Another tragic waste.’

‘Quite a shock for the other residents of Denton Close, too, I should think, doing it like that,’ said Clarke. ‘Horrible.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frost, clearly trying to lighten the mood, ‘they’d probably got used to some strange sights around there. Which reminds me, I never did get to the bottom of who it was I saw crawling around that garden on Sunday night.’

‘A peeping Tom?’ said Hanlon.

‘It was a woman.’

‘So?’ said Clarke. ‘There are women who get off on all sorts of strange things. You should know that by now.’

Just then the curtain was swept aside and a formidable-looking nurse, holding a clipboard, barged to the foot the bed. ‘Time to take your temperature, Mr Frost,’ she said. ‘Then time for a little nap!’ She was holding a formidable-looking syringe.

‘Time for us to leave,’ said Hanlon, not sure which way to look as Clarke reached over and squeezed Frost’s hand.

‘Take it easy,’ she said.

Walking down the long corridor towards the lifts, Clarke said, ‘While I’m here I might as well drop by to see how Mrs Hudson’s getting along.’ She couldn’t quite face going straight back to the station.

‘I wonder what will happen to her marriage,’ said Hanlon. ‘Curtains, I should think.’ He tapped the call button by the lifts.

‘Some people hang on for very odd reasons,’ Clarke said, as the lift arrived and the doors opened to reveal a petite, red-haired woman wearing a fitted, knee-length, red leather coat, with a matching handbag and black leather boots. Clarke was immediately struck by her presence. Her shoulder-length hair had been tightly permed and she had a freckled face and green eyes and was, Clarke guessed, in her mid thirties. She was smiling brightly – too brightly.

‘Hello, Mrs Frost,’ said Hanlon.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ she said, stepping out of the lift and warily eyeing Clarke from head to toe. ‘Where’s William?’

‘Ward at the end of the corridor,’ said Hanlon.

‘
William
?’ said Clarke, as the redhead walked away.

‘Jack’s real name,’ said Hanlon. ‘William Edward Frost.’

Detective Inspector Jim Allen had to park on Eagle Lane, back by the Territorial Army headquarters, as the station yard was filled with cars and vans he didn’t recognize. He presumed the press conference, which he’d been watching at home on television, would have ended by now.

Then it occurred to him that the cars could well belong to officers from other divisions, and lawyers, independent advisers, people from the Police Complaints Board and government officials, you name it. A shoot-out in the woods. A notorious gang smashed. Everybody and his dog would want to be involved, himself included.

He hurried up the steps, feeling surprisingly fit and refreshed, despite the fact that his wife had just left him, and pushed open the doors to the lobby.

Coming the other way was
Denton Echo
reporter Sandy Lane, a fag in his mouth, a pork-pie hat askew on his mop of hair. ‘Ah, Mr Allen,’ he said. ‘Where have you been all week? Tucked up in bed? On your own too, nowadays, if a little bird told me right. Marital difficulties? You wouldn’t be the first.’

‘Piss off,’ said Allen, barging the sleazy hack out of the way and striding straight up to Bill Wells at the counter. ‘Hello, Sergeant.’

Wells raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit late, aren’t you, Inspector?’

‘Still some clearing up to do, isn’t there? At least that’s what Superintendent Mullett implied on the TV – what with this stripper on the loose. Got here as soon as I could.’

‘You and everyone else,’ said Wells.

‘Been a hell of a journey trying to get back,’ said Allen, ‘train strikes, roadworks, demonstrations, riots, you name it. The country’s in a right mess.’

‘Where were you? The Peak District, wasn’t it?’ said Wells dismissively.

‘Somewhere like that. Any idea where Mr Mullett is?’

‘About to hold a briefing, so I understand, in the canteen.’

‘In the canteen?’

‘Renovations,’ said Wells, wearily. ‘Final phase.’

‘Right,’ said Allen, confused. Just what the hell had been going on? It was like he’d landed on Mars.

The moment he caught a flash of red coming down the corridor, Frost shut his eyes, feigning sleep. There was the unmistakable clip-clop of her heels, like a Welsh pony he’d often thought, and she could certainly kick like one.

Presently he heard the curtain being pulled shut around them and his wife sitting down in the chair beside his bed, and the creak of that bloody expensive coat. He could smell her, her perfume, the faint whiff of her make-up and of new leather.

‘Haven’t seen you in bed for a while, William,’ she said.

Frost opened his eyes slowly, but made little effort to sit up. ‘Oh, hello, love,’ he said, yawning. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The station were good enough to let me know that following an armed exchange in Denton Woods my husband had been hospitalized. It wasn’t until I got here that I was informed that you hadn’t actually been shot but were suffering from appendicitis.’

‘They’ve whipped it out already,’ Frost said gamely.

‘Is that all they’ve whipped out? Must be plenty of other rotten stuff inside you they could have cut out while they were at it.’

‘You’re in a good mood, Mary. Makes a change.’

‘William’ – she leant closer, put her hand on the edge of his bed – ‘I’ve been sick with worry – all week for that matter. Which has not been so different from the week before and the week before that. You have no idea what it’s like being married to you.’

‘I’ve only been doing my job,’ he replied.

‘You only ever do your job. That’s the problem.’

‘Please keep you voice down, Mary, people are trying to die in here.’

‘Why can’t you get a normal job? It’s not as if they even appreciate what you do. You’ve been there for years, slaving away, and you’re still only a sergeant.’

‘Detective sergeant,’ Frost said with a sigh.

‘When are you going to be made an inspector? A superintendent? Someone with a bit of status, like your boss – what’s his name? The one who is always on the telly.’

‘It’s not all about a few gold stripes and fancy medals. You’d be surprised – not all superintendents are quite what they’re cracked up to be.’

‘That’s as maybe, we’re all human.’

‘Mullett’s not,’ insisted Frost.

‘He did a good impersonation of being one – one who cared. He made it sound like the police smashed this gang with real guts. No mention of you, mind.’

‘If I’d wanted my name in lights, on telly, I’d have joined
The Sweeney
, not Denton Police Station.’

‘You’re impossible,’ Mary sniffed. ‘Why can’t you go into business then, the private sector? You could get a job as one of those security guards, couldn’t you? Earn some proper money, too.’

‘Nick it more like. Which reminds me, love,’ Frost said, making more of an effort to sit up, ‘there’s someone I need to see.’

He pulled back the sheet and tried to get out of the bed, remembering he was wearing not pyjamas but a hospital-issue nightshirt. The injection had made him feel so much better, but there was still a terrible pain in his stomach. ‘Be a love and pass me my mac, will you,’ he wheezed. ‘I think you’re sitting on it.’

His raincoat, he could just see, had been draped over the back of the visitor’s chair. ‘I need a smoke,’ he added.

‘Get back into bed. You’re in no fit state to go anywhere.’ Mary looked over her shoulder and, realizing she’d been sitting on his mac, quickly stood up. She lifted the garment up at arm’s length, as if it were infected with something fatal. ‘William, what the hell has happened to your mac? Dirt, rips … are those bloodstains? I only bought this for you the other week. Your birthday present, ruined already.’

‘Nonsense, now give it here.’

‘You just don’t care, do you? Not about me. Everything I ever do for you gets thrown back in my face.’ She brushed at the mac with a neatly manicured hand. ‘I suppose you’ve forgotten what day it is today, as well.’ There was a quiver in her voice. Tears were imminent.

Frost sat on the edge of the bed, thinking hard, frantically looking about him. ‘Friday?’

She threw the mac at him, stamped a foot, and turned to go. ‘Only our bloody wedding anniversary.’

His eyes settled on the flowers on top of the locker. ‘I know that, love.’ He reached over, managed to grab them by the stems. ‘Here,’ he said, holding them up, ‘these are for you.’

Mary turned back. ‘Oh, William.’ She was surprised, all right. ‘Didn’t think you’d remember.’ There really were tears in her eyes now.

Friday (3)

With the briefing over, officers were starting to come through the lobby, while others could be heard milling about the newly painted corridors, laughing and joking, an air of jollity sweeping through the station. Webster and Pooley were already standing just outside the entrance doors, chatting on the steps in the late-autumn sun. Mullett was no doubt back in his gleaming office, contemplating the successes of the past twenty-four hours.