First Frost Read online

  ‘So he was fatally attacked sometime Saturday afternoon,’ said Frost.

  ‘I’d be very careful about using that word “attacked”,’ said Drysdale.

  ‘Come on, Doc, was he left to die, or did they think they’d already killed him?’

  ‘Looking at the injuries,’ said Drysdale, ‘and at this stage strictly between you and me – I always did have time for the inspector – I’d say they intended to kill him, eventually. Not easy to get that sort of thing just right.’

  ‘A botched job? Amateurs?’ thought Frost aloud.

  ‘Perhaps they were disturbed. But this is all supposition. I won’t be held to this. I need to do more tests and your lot need to come up with some other evidence.’

  ‘Thank you, Doc, thank you very much,’ said Frost, hurriedly backing out of the freezing room. He’d misjudged Drysdale. He vowed to give the pathologist his ear in future.

  For now, though, he wanted to have a word with someone who he didn’t think he’d misjudged: Blake Richards. The Aster’s security guard knew more than enough about bank jobs, intimidation, bribery, extortion, rape and murder. What’s more, Richards had a link to former local bad boy George Foster – it was all there in the blue Met file.

  Frost, slowly making his way across the car park, knew it was a big leap, but could Foster be back, orchestrating these heists in Wallop, Rimmington and now at the Fortress in Denton?

  Bert Williams had been working on something like that, Frost could see now. And then the inspector suddenly had known too much.

  While Richards’s involvement and motives were still to be discovered, Foster’s would be clear as day. Professional thugs like Foster didn’t change for the better – they only got greedier and greedier. Until they made a mistake.

  It was never a good idea to return to your old stamping ground, thinking there’d be easy pickings. Because word would get around. Somebody would see you.

  Frost, now in his car, his mind flying off in all directions, thumped the steering wheel. Who else was involved? Lee Wright’s mum telling him about Lee being spooked because he’d run into an ex-con in Denton, a former IRA hard man, suddenly seemed very significant. Bomb alerts, recognized code words. Terrorists turned professional criminals.

  Frost lit a cigarette, turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the car park, with the light fading, winter fast descending. He was beginning to realize just what he was up against. But heading back to Denton, aiming for Aster’s and Blake Richards, Frost just couldn’t understand why Bert had been acting on his own.

  Wednesday (6)

  ‘Bloody Frost,’ said Hanlon, gripping the sides of the passenger seat. ‘Went to the morgue ages ago, hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘You don’t think Drysdale’s cut him up by accident?’ Clarke laughed.

  ‘If only,’ Hanlon said, watching the badly lit Wells Road speed by. Clarke’s driving was giving him the jitters. But at least she was accompanying him to Liz Fraser’s, even after the day she must have had, and on a case that wasn’t strictly hers. Though he’d agreed to then swing by the Southern Housing Estate with her.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road, please, Sue,’ he couldn’t help saying. Worryingly, she kept looking at him, smiling happily enough, the Escort roaring ahead.

  ‘God, I’m pleased to be out of the station,’ she said. ‘With everyone running around like blue-arsed flies on this Fortress investigation, it’s driving me nuts. They’re all in too much of a panic to make any headway.’

  ‘That car you saw reversing on Lower Goat Lane,’ said Hanlon. ‘I reckon that’s the best lead we’ve still got.’

  ‘Maybe, but without a registration number, it’s not going to get us anywhere fast. I reckon we’ll get further with the masks. Can’t be too many places that sell them.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Hanlon. ‘There, on the left. That’s the turning to Forest View.’

  ‘Nice around here,’ said Clarke, rapidly slowing the car and screeching on to the bumpy, unmade lane. ‘I’d like to live near the woods. Have a big, comfy house one day.’

  ‘It’s a bit mixed, I reckon,’ said Hanlon. ‘You get a lot of space for your money, so I’ve heard, and the views of course, but much of this is still council. Here’ – he pointed to number twelve – that’s Liz Fraser’s house. One day it will all be tarted up, I expect.’

  Clarke had to stop a couple of houses away. Cars were parked badly all over the place, some partly in front gardens, others way out into the lane.

  ‘Forest View’s got a lot more up-and-coming to do,’ said Hanlon, climbing out. ‘See what I mean?’

  It was suddenly very dark, as they made straight for Liz Fraser’s modern but scruffy terrace. It must have been under-lit at the best of times, but now a couple of the streetlamps were out.

  ‘Wow, it’s chilly,’ said Clarke, wind whistling through the nearby trees. ‘Feels like it could snow.’

  ‘There’ll be a frost tonight, I reckon,’ said Hanlon. ‘Hang about.’ He walked just beyond Liz Fraser’s house to a car that had been half reversed on to the garden of the neighbouring home.

  It was a dark-coloured Mini Metro, brown. The driver’s front wing was badly dented and there were long scuff marks along the whole of that side. Hanlon could have sworn the car wasn’t damaged when it sped past them on Sunday.

  ‘Social Services meeting us here?’ asked Clarke, shivering.

  ‘That’s what they said. But I’m not banking on it – one of the reasons why we needed to get here this evening.’ Hanlon made for Liz Fraser’s front door. ‘Looks like she’s got another visitor, though.’

  ‘You can piss off,’ Frost said rushing towards the station entrance.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Mr Frost,’ said Sandy Lane, loitering in front of a panda car in the dim station yard. ‘I understand that the Star Wars mob have struck again. In the heart of Denton, while you were fumbling around in the back of a van.’

  Frost slowed, glared at the tall, sleazy reporter. ‘If you hadn’t spent all your time and energy whipping up scare stories about rabies, you might have been on hand to record a real incident. Recognized code words are not taken lightly. Instead you screwed up, and you’re still no better informed.’

  ‘Well, tell me, then, what happened to DI Williams?’ Frost heard Lane shout behind him. ‘All sorts of rumours flying around. Come on, Jack, give me a couple of minutes.’

  Frost only increased his pace, slamming through the double doors into the station lobby. It stank to high heaven of flowers, and in the middle of all the tributes was Bert Williams’s tired face, in black and white, grinning hopelessly.

  Frost found himself nodding at the portrait, saying, ‘I’m getting there, my friend. I’ll nail them.’ Williams would have hated the fuss, though. The flowers, the messages. He was a man who rarely betrayed his emotions.

  ‘What was that?’ said Bill Wells, pushing aside a bouquet of already wilting lilies. ‘Know something I don’t?’

  ‘Bill,’ said Frost, walking straight towards the cramped, no doubt frantic bowels of the building. ‘There are some vicious bastards out there, believe me.’ Trouble was, with Aster’s on half-day closing, Frost hadn’t got any closer to them. He’d had a pint and gathered his thoughts in the Bricklayers instead.

  ‘I hear you did a good job this morning with the bomb scare,’ Frost said, ‘until I buggered it up. You see, that’s the problem with this game: there’s always some idiot throwing a spanner into the works. I’d stick to your flower arranging, if I were you.’

  Instead of turning right, towards his office, Frost made for the stairs. Taking two at a time, he barely noticed constables Baker and Miller coming the other way, and then a WPC whose name he’d forgotten, if he’d ever known it.

  ‘Steady on, Jack,’ she said, as he knocked against her arm, nearly making her drop a couple of files.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ Frost was miles away already.

  The door to Mullett’s outer office was open
and he walked straight in, glancing at Miss Smith, who was on the phone, playing with her hair with her other hand.

  ‘You can’t go in there!’ she shrieked, as he opened the door to the inner sanctum.

  ‘Oh yes I can,’ he said, suddenly facing Mullett, who was perched behind his desk, a look of angry bemusement quickly spreading across his neatly bespectacled and moustached features.

  As Mullett started to rise from his chair, Frost noticed that the superintendent was not alone. Spilling over the edges of a chair opposite him was a man Frost immediately recognized.

  ‘Trying to buy your nephew out of here, are you?’ Frost said to Michael Hudson, the manager of Bennington’s Bank, as he realized he hadn’t yet authorized Steve Hudson’s release. Perhaps he wouldn’t bother now. Frost had always hated any hint of nepotism, let alone moneyed patronage and privilege.

  ‘DS Frost,’ Mullett said firmly, ‘could you wait outside?’ Mullett paused, turned his attention to Michael Hudson, ‘I’m so sorry, Michael. This is most irregular.’

  ‘The only thing that’s irregular,’ said Frost, slowly backing out, ‘is Bennington’s investment policies. I’d still like to know the precise terms of your loan to Hudson’s Classic Cars.’

  ‘Frost, if you must know, Mr Hudson and I are discussing local security arrangements following the raid on the Fortress,’ said Mullett sternly. He had come round from his desk, and was almost pushing Frost out of his office. ‘This has got absolutely nothing to do with his nephew.’

  ‘Hasn’t it?’ said Frost.

  ‘I’m seeing all the local bank managers,’ spat Mullett.

  As the door slammed shut in Frost’s face, he heard Miss Smith, sitting at her desk in the outer office, rapidly replace the receiver. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Frost said, patting the pockets of his mac – where the hell were his fags? ‘I can keep a secret. Who’s the lucky chap now?’

  Miss Smith blushed scarlet. ‘If you must know, I was talking to my dad. He wanted to know the latest about the bomb scare. Whether it was safe to take his dog for a walk.’

  ‘Nowhere’s safe round here any more,’ said Frost, stepping into the corridor.

  Wednesday (7)

  ‘Where does he think he’s going?’ said Hanlon.

  They’d finally been let into the house by a flushed Liz Fraser, and were just walking into the lounge when Hanlon spotted a man in the backyard, trying to climb over the fence.

  Liz Fraser looked at Hanlon and Clarke, weariness and something more sinister etched on her plump face. ‘For a walk?’ she said.

  ‘For a walk – at this time of night?’ Hanlon quickly moved over to the opened French doors, stepped into the yard. ‘Oi!’

  The man, half over the fence, turned to face Hanlon. The light from the lounge was just strong enough to pick out his features: he had a hollow face, dark squinty eyes, and very short light-brown hair. He was wearing a pair of jeans and what once must have been a smart suit jacket over a thick jumper.

  ‘I’d come back here, if you know what’s good for you,’ shouted Hanlon.

  ‘Why? Who the hell are you?’ the man stayed perched where he was.

  ‘Police. DC Hanlon, Denton CID.’

  ‘It’s her you want to arrest, not me,’ he said, nervously. ‘She’s the nutter. I haven’t done anything.’

  Hanlon could see Clarke standing by Liz Fraser’s side in the lounge. He wondered where the child was.

  ‘Why don’t you climb back down – Simon, isn’t it? Simon Trench? – and we can have a chat?’ said Hanlon, walking closer to the fence. Gusts of wind were ripping through the trees.

  ‘No one’s going to believe me, are they?’ Trench wailed.

  ‘Not if you run off.’

  ‘Simon!’ Liz Fraser shouted from the lounge. She and Clarke were now by the open French doors. ‘It’s over, all over. Don’t make it worse for yourself.’

  ‘Where’s your little girl?’ Clarke asked Liz Fraser, concern clear in her voice. ‘Where’s Becky?’

  ‘She’s killed her!’ Simon Trench yelled. ‘She’s fucking killed her.’

  ‘No,’ said Liz Fraser, standing very still and staring out into the yard. ‘She’s asleep. We just put her to bed. Like we always do.’

  Hanlon didn’t like the look on Liz Fraser’s face one bit; he was finding her way more disturbing than dark-eyed Simon Trench.

  ‘Go and look for yourself,’ Liz Fraser said to Clarke. ‘She’s upstairs.’

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ said Clarke, taking Liz Fraser by the arm.

  Hanlon watched them walk out of the lounge, then turned to Simon Trench. He could easily have grabbed Trench’s leg, but he didn’t sense he was about to drop down the other side and run off into the woods. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s really been going on here?’

  ‘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?’