First Frost Read online

  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 g
ood 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.

  ‘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 f
ound 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?’