Fatal Frost (DI Jack Frost) Read online

  ‘Sorry, sir, ran out of change.’

  ‘Where exactly are you?’ Mullett asked, exasperated.

  ‘On my way to the lab, to find out more about this dead girl, the one found this morning …’ The line crackled.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know which one.’ Mullett’s secretary, Miss Smith, appeared in his peripheral vision and he waved her away without looking up. ‘But what I want to know is, where exactly was the body found?’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir? By the train line.’

  ‘Wells told me it was more or less in Rimmington.’

  ‘Between the two.’

  ‘Well, can’t our Rimmington colleagues deal with it?’ Mullett was eager to offload the case. Dead girls were not the way he wanted a bank holiday weekend to finish up.

  ‘A Denton resident reported it,’ Frost said sharply. ‘There’s no ID – we’ll run the description through Missing Persons; might be local, might not.’

  ‘That’s a shame. So was it suicide?’ Mullett said hopefully.

  ‘Can’t rule it out. I’ll find out more when I get to the lab. Sir, while I’ve got you, about DI Williams’s paperwork. I appear to be continuing to handle it, while DI Allen—’

  ‘We can talk about that later,’ Mullett interjected quickly as he lit a cigarette. ‘You get what you can from Drysdale, then get back here pronto, there’s something special I …’

  The pips went once more, and Mullett was left talking to himself.

  No sooner had he replaced the receiver and taken a drag of his cigarette than the phone began flashing angrily at him again. Mullett was about to sound off at Frost for not carrying more than tuppence, but instead it was the doleful voice of Desk Sergeant Wells that greeted his ear.

  Clarke clutched Myles’s arm as she hobbled through to A&E. Her leg was numb, her hands sticky with congealed blood and she felt light-headed. She couldn’t have lost that much in, what, twenty minutes, could she? Her jeans were pretty damp …

  ‘Let’s stop here a sec.’ Myles propped her against a wall, the surface feeling cold against her cheek. Where is he? she thought. Surely Jack must’ve heard by now? Myles had whacked the blue light on the roof but it had still taken her a fair while to get across town through the bank holiday traffic.

  ‘Did you tell Eagle Lane what happened?’ Clarke asked again – meaning Jack Frost does know, doesn’t he?

  ‘Yeah, Control are notified. And uniform are all over central Denton. But you can bet those kids are dust by now. Here, flop into this.’ Myles pushed a wheelchair towards her. ‘We’ll get you seen to straightaway.’

  Clarke pulled tighter on a makeshift tourniquet – an old scarf they’d found in the boot of the Escort – to stem the bleeding. Christ, it hurt.

  Frost returned to the car after smoking two cigarettes outside the phone box. ‘Something special,’ Mullett had said. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. Smacked of a stitch-up, if he knew the super. He looked at the names and addresses the cab controller had given him and then at his watch: 12.05. Six hours’ sleep would be enough for a taxi driver; more than he ever got, anyway. He’d pay them a call before he headed back to Eagle Lane; the super’s special project could wait. The radio was crackling nineteen-to-the-dozen so before setting off for the lab he picked it up.

  ‘Afternoon, Bill. Lot of noise out there. What’s up?’

  ‘Sue Clarke, Jack. She’s been stabbed.’

  Frost held his breath, then said, ‘Where?’

  ‘Outside Baskin’s sauna place.’

  ‘Not where – I meant, is she badly hurt?’ Frost snapped.

  ‘In the leg. Lost a fair bit of blood. But hopefully nothing serious, mate,’ Wells crackled. ‘Myles took her over to the General. Sorry, I didn’t want to panic you – just thought you should know.’

  ‘She all right, though?’

  ‘She’s fine – probably.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ Frost said, relieved. ‘I’m on my way to see Drysdale.’

  ‘Before you do, Mr Mullett wants you to call in at Singh’s the newsagent’s, on the Southern Housing Estate.’

  ‘Can’t he get his own newspaper?’ Flamin’ hell, he’d only just got off the phone to the man.

  ‘They’ve had a robbery – a gang of armed midgets, by all accounts,’ Wells explained.

  Frost choked on his cigarette. ‘Armed midgets? Do me a favour.’ He snorted. The first time he and Clarke had been on a date came to mind, when he was recuperating last year, to see a fantasy flick she fancied. ‘Maybe they’re the Time Bandits, though why anyone would want to drop in on Denton in 1982 is beyond me.’

  ‘Straight up. I took the call myself.’

  ‘Surely such a small problem can be handled by uniform.’

  ‘You know the super: anything involving shooters is CID.’

  Frost sighed, watching a fox leisurely pad across the road. ‘Can’t somebody else take this?’

  ‘Everyone else is out.’

  ‘I’m out!’

  ‘Sorry, Jack. And Jack, the vicar called again.’

  ‘Again?’ Frost exclaimed. ‘I only spoke to whatshisname, the church warden, on Saturday.’

  ‘Turner, George Turner.’

  ‘That’s him. I said, leave it with me and we’d catch the bugger. Blimey, it’s only Monday!’

  ‘He wanted to know how he was going to get the church roof repaired.’

  ‘I don’t bleedin’ well know: ask the Almighty. Or, better still, ask his punters to dig deeper next Sunday, ’cos that lead’ll be halfway to Eastern Europe by now.’

  Frost hung up. Poor Sue; he should really get over to Denton General. He’d go after he’d seen the cabbies. On top of that, and a dead girl, he was now being lumbered with a ‘gang of midgets’; well, he was adamant – somebody else could pick that up. He would do as planned and see Drysdale at the lab. So much for a quiet bank holiday.

  Monday (4)

  IT WAS JUST gone one o’clock when Chris Everett arrived at the Denton branch of Regal Estates. Having abandoned the trains, he’d been out to Mount Pleasant in Rimmington to value a property, a three-storey Victorian terrace. Its owner, an attractive and recently widowed woman, had decided it was time to scale down.

  He nodded to Vicky, who was taking down details, phone cradled between neck and shoulder, and she offered up a half-hearted smile. Head office had applauded his initiative to open on bank holiday Monday but the girls had been none too pleased. He headed for his office at the back of the building, passing Sandra at the window, fiddling with the Lettings section. After quietly shutting the door he slid his leather briefcase on to the bare desk, flipping out the Echo from inside.

  Once again the front page was trumpeting the bravery of a Denton boy off to the Falklands. Every day it was the same – how many more spotty youths could there possibly be left to send? He flicked through the pages impatiently. Nothing – it must be too soon.

  He realized that killing the cat in the same way as the dog the previous week was presenting the police with a pattern, but they might not assume it was a local man, as he’d also had forays into Rimmington, including one unpleasant encounter with a Jack Russell. He didn’t feel too worried, though; after all, as regional branch manager of a respected chain of estate agents they’d never suspect him in a million years.

  There came a rap on the door. He looked up to see Vicky staring through the office window. He gestured at her to enter.

  ‘Afternoon, Chris,’ she said. ‘Good morning?’

  Everett grunted. ‘Pair of dithering old time-wasters first thing, then something more promising. I’ve the details here.’

  ‘Oh right,’ she said. Luckily his staff never questioned too deeply his movements or motives – he’d said he’d been valuing property in Rimmington – which made conducting a furtive double life that much easier. She ran through the morning’s events. ‘Just got another signing over at Baron’s Court. Shall I nip down to give it the once-over?’

  ‘Sure, you get over there.�
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  ‘That’s the third from there in a fortnight,’ she added.

  Everett nodded approvingly. He realized the likely connection was Baskin’s new venture, but he didn’t let on; after all, he’d been meaning to give it a try himself, once all the hubbub had died down.

  ‘Good, good. Right, here’s the particulars of a nice Victorian place, Mount Pleasant area of Rimmington. Sole agency, owner selling due to bereavement. Very sad considering the two young kids.’

  ‘Oh – I read about that. A famous writer, wasn’t he? Had a heart attack?’

  ‘Yes, famous by Rimmington standards, at least.’ Everett laughed nervously, sliding the details over. ‘Right, I’ll just have a coffee and then I’m off up to town. That meeting at head office has been rescheduled for this afternoon.’

  Frost shivered as he entered the lab. No warm spring sun could penetrate this labyrinth of doom.

  ‘Morning, Sergeant. Or is it afternoon?’ said Drysdale, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘One loses track of time in here.’

  ‘Just slipped into the p.m., Doc,’ Frost replied, wishing he hadn’t left his mac in the car.

  ‘If you’re here about the young girl, she’s only just arrived. I’m about to take a look.’ As if on cue his assistant appeared through a set of double doors with a sheet-draped trolley.

  ‘Well, maybe I can give you a hand,’ Frost quipped sardonically.

  Drysdale raised an eyebrow and moved the trolley to align it with the overhead light. ‘Flying solo? Don’t you usually have a sidekick – the chubby fellow, or that attractive brunette?’

  ‘The chubby fellow’s burying his mother.’

  ‘Oh dear. He ought to take stock of his diet, that one, or he won’t be long behind her.’ Drysdale had removed the sheet and stepped back to survey the body, hands on hips as an artist appraising a fresh canvas. His assistant pulled out a small trolley of tools from the dark recesses of the lab. ‘And the girl?’ said the pathologist eventually, looking from the corpse directly at Frost.

  ‘DC Clarke is otherwise engaged.’

  Frost moved close to the corpse, his face inches away from Drysdale’s, which in the striplighting had taken on a greenish hue.

  ‘A bit of space please, Sergeant.’

  While Drysdale examined the girl Frost allowed his mind to wander. He wasn’t one to dwell on personal issues, but just lately he’d had more than his fair share. His wife had been unwell, but he’d found his sympathy lacking, believing it was largely an act – a ploy to stop him leaving her. But as the suffering dragged on and the visits to the doctor continued something had begun to nag at him: what if she really wasn’t well? It was nothing, he was sure – she just couldn’t face up to the fact their marriage was over.

  ‘Here.’ Drysdale’s voice brought him thankfully back to the lab. He pointed to a blue-tinged hand. ‘Take a look at the fingers.’

  ‘What? Black nail polish? Kids today will do anything to be different.’

  ‘No, under the fingernails. Skin.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Frost squinted closer. ‘Blasted eyes. Everything starts to pack in when you’re pushing forty … oh yeah.’

  ‘Apart from that she’s not marked.’

  ‘Nothing? No bruising? Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Drysdale repeated.

  ‘If someone were forcibly ejected from a moving train one would expect some bruising; finger marks maybe, or signs of a struggle.’ Frost was thinking aloud. ‘So there’s nothing of that sort. But what we do have is a suggestion of self-defence, lashing out, scratching an attacker perhaps? It’s a conundrum.’

  ‘A conundrum indeed, for you, anyway,’ said Drysdale.

  ‘Yes, quite.’ From a tagged tray Frost picked up the polythene bag containing the girl’s personal effects.

  ‘No ID,’ commented Drysdale.

  Frost emptied the contents – a purse and hair clips – into the tray regardless. ‘What age would you put her at?’

  ‘Fifteen, sixteen.’

  Frost nodded. Not old enough for a driving licence, that would explain the lack of ID. He rummaged through a small black purse embellished with a silver star, found near the body by the SOCOs. He made a mental note to check with British Rail; although he had a ticket stub already, he felt sure there must be a bag. All girls had bags.

  After some further reflection, he asked, ‘Is she, you know …?’

  ‘I’m not there yet,’ Drysdale muttered.

  A few moments passed. Thoughts intruded again, and this time it was the spectre of Sue Clarke that drifted across his mind. He should have gone to the hospital. The depressing aura of the clinical room and his troubled thoughts combined to make him crave a cigarette. In fact he was desperate. Drysdale loathed smoking, so rather than weasel out for a fag break he decided to make his excuses. ‘Right, I’d better go, they have kittens at Eagle Lane if I’m off the radar for more than five minutes.’

  ‘But I’ve barely begun.’

  ‘Needs must, Doc. Let me know if the autopsy shows up anything interesting.’

  ‘Very well. Toxicology with you by the end of tomorrow.’

  ‘Too kind.’

  ‘My pleasure – oh, before you go. I have something for you.’ Drysdale went to the rear of the room and returned with a package.

  ‘What’s this?’ Frost asked as he took the large Jiffy bag.

  ‘A cat for Detective Simms.’

  Frost slung the package in the passenger footwell of the Cortina and lit a cigarette. He was angry with himself. Having sacrificed seeing out the full autopsy he still felt positively unwilling to go and see Clarke. He knew he was avoiding talking to her properly. And it wasn’t because she was injured; no, it was the realization that he no longer felt comfortable at work, a place that had always been more home to him than home. It was because of her. Things had got out of hand. He hadn’t thought it through.

  He was getting a headache, and commanded himself to focus on the job. Maybe it was the heat; the day had already slipped into a scorching afternoon. At least he had the dead girl’s train ticket, which could turn out to be useful. Somebody must have seen her leave Denton yesterday morning on a train bound for London.

  Having picked up the armed-robbery alert minutes after Wells had first radioed Frost, DC Simms gunned the Cortina through hot, busy streets. Simms desperately wanted this case: armed robbery, that was more his scene, not burgled houses and dead cats. Waters sat in silence next to him.

  ‘Well, Sarge, it’s only your first day and already you’re experiencing both sides of Denton – from Forest View to this.’ They sat at the lights at the bottom of Foundling Street, a vandalized phone box standing like a gatepost at the entrance to the Southern Housing Estate over the canal bridge. ‘This is where all the scum and riff-raff live,’ he continued. ‘It’s pretty much a certainty that the Hartley-Joneses’ video recorder is sitting in one of these front rooms.’

  This place gets worse with every visit, he thought. A chest freezer sat in the garden of a house with boarded-up windows. Sprayed on the wooden boarding were the letters NF and a swastika. Simms glanced over at Waters, who sat smoking and taking in the scenery.

  ‘Nice,’ he quipped. ‘But listen, don’t you want to check on your pal first?’ They’d picked up Myles and Clarke’s distress call from the massage parlour, but Simms had chosen to ignore it.

  ‘Who says she’s my pal?’ Simms retorted, and then after a pause added, ‘It was the wrong side of town for us, anyway. Uniform will have had it covered. Or Frost.’

  ‘Pretty harsh, an officer getting stabbed like that—’

  ‘Well, they weren’t in uniform,’ Simms said, ‘and let’s face it, the pair of them hardly look like coppers. Especially Kim. I mean, the skirts she wears – Baskin probably thought she was applying for a job.’

  Waters’ expression was stony. No sense of humour, thought Simms.

  ‘Right, the newsagent is just on the corner here, I think. Cromwell Road.’ Simms pa
rked the car half on the kerb and quickly scanned the street. No sign of Frost’s car. Good.

  The pair of them entered the shop. ‘Newsagent’ hardly did it justice; it was crammed from floor to ceiling with everything from household detergent to cat food, alongside the cigarettes and girly mags. Behind the counter was a portly Asian man in a cardigan, shirt and tie. They had barely crossed the threshold when he launched his offensive.

  ‘Where you people bloody been? Robbed – I have been robbed!’ He thumped the counter, a cushion of Denton Echoes absorbing the thud.

  ‘We got here as soon as we could, sir,’ Simms said. ‘Is anyone hurt?’ Though he knew this was unlikely.

  ‘Nobody bloody hurt,’ Mr Singh replied.

  Except your pride, Simms thought. ‘How much did they get away with?’

  ‘Three of the buggers, there were. Wearing this.’ Singh covered his face with his hands, signifying balaclavas. Simms knew this area well from his time in uniform. The post office on the estate was turned over regularly: balaclavas, sawn-offs. Real mean bastards. But never a corner shop.

  ‘Could they have been children?’ Waters questioned.

  ‘We’re not in the East End now, Sarge,’ Simms said authoritatively. ‘Kids with shooters? Not in Denton.’

  ‘Did you see the weapon?’ Waters asked.

  ‘In pocket, like this.’ The newsagent shoved his hand in the cardigan pocket and thrust it forward. Waters raised his eyebrows.

  ‘How much did they get away with?’ Simms insisted again.

  ‘Three pounds and fifty-five pence,’ said Singh vehemently. ‘And many, many cigarettes.’

  Simms was incredulous. ‘Three quid and a packet of fags? Is that all?’

  ‘Money not important.’ Singh was indignant.

  Simms was visibly deflated. Waters, however, stepped forward decisively, clapping his colleague on the back.

  ‘You’re right, sir, it doesn’t matter if it’s three pounds or thirty grand, we can’t have people just wandering in and nabbing stuff when they feel like it, can we? Can you give us any further description?’

  Frost had driven past Simms’s motor as he turned off Cromwell Road and into Milk Street. He hadn’t been down here for ages but little had changed. The street was lined with identical 1930s council houses, pebble-dashed like dirty beaches, and he pulled up outside number 20.