First Frost Read online

  ‘But why?’ asked the store manager. ‘Why would they do that?’

  Frost wasn’t going to admit he had no idea. Though it seemed like someone was trying to make a point by it. ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me.’ Unless it really was coincidence – that the mannequin parts were already in the van when the armed gang stole the vehicle. The van having previously been owned by a low-rent, opportunistic thief. Frost disconsolately exhaled a large plume of smoke.

  ‘I just can’t help you, Detective,’ said Butcher. ‘Sorry.’

  Frost wasn’t getting anywhere here. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve tried to contact your missing security guard?’

  Butcher stood up. ‘Of course we have. When there was no answer on his phone, I even sent a lad round to his home. The curtains were shut, no one in.’

  Frost wasn’t surprised. Blake Richards had probably well and truly scarpered by now. ‘Did he ever mention any friends, acquaintances he had round here?’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Butcher. ‘I barely knew him. Just seemed to be a rather solitary figure.’

  Butcher walked with Frost to the door. ‘Why are you so interested in him, anyway?’

  Frost laughed, walked down the corridor, and threw over his shoulder, ‘Armed robbery, murdering a police officer . . . and that’s just for starters.’

  ‘I want my mum,’ said Kevin Jones. ‘I want to go home.’

  Were those really tears welling in his eyes? ‘You should have thought about that before pushing a blind man into the canal,’ said Clarke.

  They were in Interview Room One, just her and him, in clear contravention of the procedure governing the formal questioning of a minor. But Clarke didn’t care. She was going to break him down.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Jones said. ‘Want me to say it again? I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t.’

  ‘Who did, then?’

  ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it.’

  Though it wasn’t strictly a formal interview, Clarke had made sure it was being recorded. She knew she could always dispose of the tape if things didn’t go according to plan – that’s what everyone else did.

  ‘At last, you admit you were there,’ said Clarke. ‘Don’t bother denying it. We’ve got all the evidence we need.’

  ‘Me and my mates always go down to the canal. What of it?’

  ‘Kevin, things aren’t looking very sunny for you, are they? You’ve admitted you were down by the canal, you’ve admitted you know who pushed a poor, defenceless blind man into the drink. At the very least you’re looking at accessory to murder – that’s still a life sentence. You won’t be going home for a very long time indeed.’

  ‘He attacked us,’ Jones suddenly said, brightening up.

  ‘With what?’ said Clarke. ‘His white stick?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘How would he see to do that?’ protested Clarke. ‘He was just waving it randomly about, was he? You stupid little shit.’

  ‘And then he fell in,’ Jones added, with a smirk.

  She slammed her hand on the table top and stood up, kicking her chair back. ‘If you don’t start cooperating . . .’ She calmly walked round the table, leant in close to him, seeing something resembling panic cross his face, and shouted in his ear, ‘I’m going to make sure you never see daylight again.’

  As she slowly backed away, towards the door, Kevin Jones looked up and straight into her eyes, and said, ‘It’s not my fault he died. We were just messing about with his dog and stuff. Having a laugh. We didn’t kill him. Not our fault he couldn’t swim. You can ask my mates, they’ll tell you the same.’

  ‘And who are they?’ said Clarke, returning to her seat. ‘I want all their names, addresses. Miss anyone out and you, me and a few of my friends from the station – and they’re all bigger than me – will be going back down to the canal. See if that jogs your memory.’

  Thursday (6)

  Feeling an increasing sense of urgency to confirm his suspicions about the gang – and to start making some arrests – Jack Frost pulled into the Coconut Grove’s weed-strewn and pot-holed, dimly lit car park. He knew he was clutching at straws. But Blake Richards wasn’t the only collar he wanted. There were at least three other members of the gang.

  It was just after five, and Frost realized he was starving, realized also that there was unfinished business with Maurice Litchfield.

  Turning the engine off, he lifted the handset and called the station, leaving a message with Control for DC Clarke: she was to meet him at Maurice Litchfield’s place in Denton Close in twenty minutes. He didn’t expect to enjoy the Coconut’s exotic hospitality for very long.

  He climbed out of the Cortina and stepped straight into a massive puddle. He swore, and lit a cigarette. He started to walk round to the entrance of the sleazy strip joint, but was overwhelmed by an acute stab of pain in his lower abdomen. ‘Christ,’ he uttered, bending double. As the pain eased a little he shuffled on until he was thumping at the heavy, fortified door, bearing a brass plaque with the words Gentlemen’s Club.

  Eventually a mountain of a man opened up, eyeing Frost suspiciously. ‘Yeah?’ he barked. His head was round and bald and shiny, like a huge billiard ball.

  ‘Harry Baskin in?’ Frost wheezed.

  ‘Depends. Who wants him?’

  ‘An old friend,’ Frost said, the pain now rapidly easing – yet he found it had brought him out in a sweat. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his mac.

  ‘He’s got plenty of those,’ the man said. ‘Doesn’t need any more.’

  ‘Really? You can never have enough friends in this business.’ Craning round the man Frost saw some punters in the bar; looked like a performance was going on. ‘Wasn’t aware you had an all-day licence for this joint.’

  The bouncer stepped forwards, blocking Frost’s view. ‘Auditions, isn’t it. What’s it to you, anyway?’

  Frost produced his warrant card and waved it at the bouncer. ‘Tell Mr Baskin that Jack Frost’s here to see him.’

  Two minutes later Frost was in Harry Baskin’s office. The black gloss walls were studded with chrome-framed photographs of Harry with an array of long-forgotten VIPs and strippers. Baskin’s desk was also black, glinting under the soft spotlights. Baskin was smiling away, his dyed-black hair slicked back and glinting too, along with his gold front tooth.

  ‘Snifter?’ Baskin said, picking up a smouldering cigar from a huge chrome ashtray.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, Harry,’ Frost said. ‘Thought I’d stop by and thank you personally for giving us the nod with Lee Wright.’

  Baskin laughed deeply. ‘Think nothing of it – well, not for now, at least.’ He retrieved a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers from a desk drawer.

  ‘But I’m not sure Wright’s who we really want, Harry,’ Frost said, before taking a long sip of neat whisky. He felt it working its way straight to his empty stomach, and feared another stab of pain.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Seen any other blasts from the past?’ prompted Frost. Thankfully, the whisky seemed to be going down well. He scrabbled for a light and Baskin leant over with a hefty, gold-plated Ronson.

  ‘To be honest, I try not to look too closely at my punters. Ugly lot.’

  ‘Come on, Harry, you always know who’s who,’ said Frost. ‘George Foster been in recently?’

  ‘Georgie Boy? Haven’t seen him for years. I’ll tell you who was in here yesterday, though. Sir Peter Farnsworth, chairman of the Fortress. Nursing his wounds, I guess.’ Baskin stubbed out his cigar. ‘Big raid, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Know anything I don’t?’

  ‘I just keep an eye out for my birds, you know that, Jack. I leave the big-game hunting to the big boys.’

  ‘Why did you chuck us Lee Wright?’ Frost winced as a wave of pain shot through him. He knocked back the rest of his whisky, took a last drag of his cigarette.

  ‘He was making a fool of himself. I don’t like gropers and I don’t like big-mouths. He
might have seen a few things inside but he needs to learn to keep his gob shut. Or one day I fear someone will shut it for him, for good. Not a nice lot, those ex-cons.’

  ‘Who duffed him up – Baldie on the door?’

  Baskin slicked back his Brylcreemed hair with a meaty palm. ‘Don’t think he was working yesterday.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Frost, rising from the chair. ‘Well, thanks for the drink, anyway.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Baskin uncertainly. He remained behind his desk. ‘Look, Jack, for what it’s worth George Foster’s niece is in town – Louise Daley. She did the odd performance for us too, when she first arrived. Saucy little brunette. Seems to have recently found other employment.’

  As Frost reached the door he turned back to Baskin, and the wall of tacky photographs behind him, tits looming everywhere. He could still picture clearly the slim, foxy Louise Daley, tousled dark-brown hair, hazel eyes, in that skimpy, maroon dressing-gown, trying to shut her front door on him. Bright and early, Sunday morning, Carson Road – a different world. ‘I’m surprised her knockers were big enough.’

  Baskin laughed. ‘She had other assets. Quick off the mark, if you know what I’m saying.’

  Frost stared at Baskin, took a deep breath as he waited for another stab of pain to subside, then asked, ‘Bloke by the name of Blake Richards mean anything to you?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Baskin said, too quickly.

  ‘Joe Kelly?’

  ‘Look, Jack – go easy. Evil breeds evil.’

  ‘As if I don’t know that,’ said Frost.

  Thursday (7)

  Superintendent Mullett was standing in front of the new canteen serving hatch, tapping the makeshift incident board with a ruler and addressing a sparse crowd, uniform and plainclothes. Hanlon, Frost could see, was among them. As was DCI Patterson.

  Frost marched straight up. ‘What exactly do we know about Blake Richards and his life in Denton?’

  Mullett looked bemused. ‘Ah, Frost, good of you to join us at last.’

  ‘He works for Aster’s,’ Hanlon said hopefully, ‘though as a temp from a company called Security Guard. They provide both manpower and security installations.’

  ‘Who else uses this company?’ Frost asked, lighting a cigarette to ease the ache in his stomach – the waves of pain were coming faster now.

  ‘Everyone from banks and building societies to department stores and clubs, from what I’ve managed to find out so far. However, they’re a cagey lot – perhaps not surprisingly. If you ask me, the company must possess some interesting security information,’ Hanlon replied.

  ‘More than useful, if you’re planning to rob a bank,’ said Frost.

  ‘I imagine they are very particular about who they employ,’ offered Mullett, stroking his moustache.

  ‘Like the Met,’ said Frost.

  Mullett looked away. Patterson looked more interested.

  Mullett turned back to the group. ‘I’m not sure where this is all leading. Perhaps you’d like to explain, Frost.’

  ‘We need to haul Blake Richards in,’ said Frost, torn between revealing everything he knew and suspected, and trying to keep some information to himself. He still didn’t know what Bert’s rationale had been for keeping so quiet, and why Bert had even been in contact with Blake Richards. ‘Urgently,’ Frost added, knowing he’d have to give his superior something more. ‘I’ve got a pretty strong idea that Blake Richards was involved in the raid on the Fortress, and probably the raids in Rimmington and Wallop.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking this is Blake Richards, formerly of the Met?’ Mullett’s brow furrowed.

  Just then there was a loud clatter behind them, though no sign of who or what was causing it.

  ‘Who’d have thought a bit of painting and decorating would create such mayhem.’ Mullett glanced over his shoulder and shook his head in dismay. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Richards, sir,’ Frost replied. ‘He’s been providing the intelligence, at the very least.’

  ‘Richards? But the man’s been put out to grass,’ countered Mullett.

  ‘His past connections and his present job mean he’s ideally placed,’ persisted Frost. ‘And he’s a violent sod.’

  ‘Ideally placed for what again, Frost?’

  ‘For providing the information a gang would need to pull off a series of raids,’ said Frost. ‘What the hell do you think I’m talking about?’

  ‘Is this another one of your hazy hunches, Frost?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Super.’ Frost was suddenly aware of Patterson, standing just to the side of the group, staring at him. ‘It looks more than likely that George Foster is involved too, and this ex-IRA man Joe Kelly. Foster and Kelly met in Dartmoor nick, and Blake Richards knew Foster in London. That’s been clearly recorded.’

  ‘Just because someone might once have met someone doesn’t mean they’re involved in a criminal gang together,’ said Mullett loftily. ‘Precisely what evidence have you got?’

  ‘Phone records,’ Frost said, exasperated.

  ‘Phone records?’ huffed Mullett. ‘I don’t remember sanctioning a warrant on anyone’s phone recently.’

  ‘Neither do I, which was why I had to resort to other means, given the urgency of the situation.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Frost,’ said Mullett. ‘How many times have I told you that if evidence is not legally obtained, so that it won’t stand up in a court of law, then I simply don’t want to know about it. Bring me something solid, and we’ll have another chat.’

  ‘It’ll be too late by then,’ pleaded Frost. ‘Believe me. You think they play by the rules?’

  ‘Have you even spoken to this chap Richards?’ said Mullett. ‘What does he have to say for himself?’

  ‘He’s gone missing,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll need to search his house.’

  ‘And how do you propose I’m going to justify a warrant for that? Get me something more substantial to go on, Frost, and I’ll get that warrant. We do things properly here, by the book, or not at all.’

  Mullett looked about the room, as if he were dismissing Frost. Though, appearing to have second thoughts, he quickly added, ‘By the way, I hear the forensic report regarding the late DI Williams’s car is in and has been delivered to your desk. What’s it say?’

  ‘It says, sir’ – Frost looked away himself for a moment, gathering his strength and his thoughts – ‘that the damage done to the car, most noticeably to the near-side wing, was consistent with an impact of no more than twenty miles per hour. The car went down the ditch at an angle, rising up and hitting the steep bank the other side.’ He coughed, suddenly thinking he was going to be sick – he shouldn’t have had that whisky with Harry Baskin. He should have had a sandwich instead.

  ‘Did they manage to lift any prints?’ asked Hanlon keenly. He and Mullett were now the only people left by the incident board, Patterson having walked away.

  ‘No,’ answered Frost, ‘not on the car. Inside or out. Let’s hope they’ve done their job properly.’

  ‘As I suspected,’ said Mullett, tutting. ‘A tragic accident. Narrow lane like that. Bert no doubt taking the back route home from that fancy country pub out on the Rimmington Road. Not realizing how much he’s had to drink – and the next thing he knows he’s in the ditch, mortally injured. We must make sure we go to town this Christmas on our drink-driving campaign. Too many lives are needlessly wasted.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said Frost quietly, clutching his side, ‘while that’s what Forensics say, the pathologist, Dr Drysdale, is certain that Bert’s injuries are consistent with an impact of much greater force. A crash at forty or fifty miles an hour at least, with the victim slamming into the steering wheel. Bert’s chest was all but caved in, his ribs crushed. Yet, as Forensics noted, there’s no real damage to the steering wheel – it’s not even buckled.’

  Frost felt he was breaking out in a sweat again. He really wasn’t well. But it was no time to be ill. Wiping his brow, he continue
d, ‘He was smashed up first, outside the car, probably by one or two severe blows to his chest with a cricket bat.’ He felt in his pockets for his cigarettes, before resuming, ‘They’ve found traces of linseed oil on his clothes.’

  Mullett was speechless, whilst Hanlon became more animated. ‘I think I know what’s coming next,’ Hanlon said, nodding at Frost. ‘He was put back in his car and the car was either pushed or shunted into the ditch, the door flying open.’

  ‘Looks like it – from the blood found in the car and on the inside of the door. Forensics also found some unexplained pressure marks both on the rear bumper and the boot.’ It was dawning on Frost that perhaps he hadn’t been as appreciative of Hanlon as he should have been over these last few days. He’d make amends.

  ‘I see,’ Mullett finally said sternly. ‘But the area was roped off. Scenes of Crime must have found corresponding tyre marks and footprints nearby.’

  ‘They weren’t so lucky there,’ said Frost, his queasiness now passing. ‘Some berk parked his Rover in the wrong place.’

  Clarke was waiting for Frost in his filthy office, standing in the corner of the cramped room in the only free space. She was livid.

  Frost eventually ambled in, making straight for his desk. He slumped down in his chair, not bothering to remove his mac. ‘Ah, Sue,’ he said brightly, acknowledging her at last, ‘popped by for a cup of tea and a Penguin?’

  ‘Where the hell were you?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, where the hell was I? Trying to knock some sense into the super. There are three or four people out there we urgently need to talk to, regarding this Fortress raid, not to mention the death of a police officer, and bloody Mullett is fussing about dotting the “i”s.’ Frost paused. ‘Still, I do believe I’m getting somewhere, Sue.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I feel it here.’ He patted his heart.

  Disarmed – his eyes did have a twinkle when he was cheerful – Clarke calmed down a little. ‘Well, I’ve been hanging around Denton Close for the last half an hour, when I could have been rounding up some little hooligans on the Southern Housing Estate.’