Fatal Frost (15 page)

‘Think you might have a bit of a wait, pal.’ Frost sighed, slumping into a kitchen chair.

Suddenly the phone rang.

‘Jack?’ It was Desk Sergeant Bill Wells.

‘Still there, old son?’

‘It’s not quite eight yet; I’m counting off the minutes.’

It was a novelty for Frost to be called at home by Bill Wells; he was seldom there in the hours Wells manned the desk, and was far more accustomed to the voice of Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson on the other end of the line. It wasn’t unusual to be woken in the middle of the night by such calls.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s the super, Jack. He rang to ask who’s watching Baskin’s sauna tonight.’

‘Flamin’ hell, Bill!’

‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger! Sorry, but he was insistent. He’s waiting for me to call him back, and he said he’d left it with you. So, who’s gonna watch it?’

‘Me.’

‘What, from home? Shall I tell him you’re using binoculars?’

Frost sighed again. There was no way around it; he’d have to go himself. With Hanlon off, Williams dead and Allen on that stupid computer course, Denton CID was reduced to a pack of inexperienced kids. He didn’t want Simms near Baskin – he was too green and hot-headed, with none of the razor-sharp instincts needed to deal with a seasoned gangster. The girls were a risk, too; they had it in for Harry, maybe not undeservedly, but he didn’t want them throwing the book at him just because they saw crumpet hanging around his premises.

No, he could handle it quite comfortably.

Tuesday (6)

FROST SAT IN
the car on the corner of Foundling Street enjoying Kung Po beef, special fried rice and a tinny.

After Wells’s call, he’d left home straightaway and stopped for a couple of pints in the Bull, across the road from his current position, just to get the lie of the land. It had been too early to be watching the massage parlour; any lewd goings-on surely took place much later. He then drove north on to Queen Street and stopped in at the Jade Rabbit to try and smooth things over. His apologies were graciously accepted and returned in equal measure with the offer of a free dinner, which was gratefully received. It was in their interest to promote goodwill; Frost was something of a regular there, but also they were clearly still on edge with regard to the errant nephew. If they’d previously been protecting him, it seemed they’d now decided on a different tack; the proprietor raised the topic before Frost had even mentioned it. He claimed to be outraged that the boy was in trouble, and that he would urge him to present himself to the police should he reappear. Frost was dismissive; the lad was
on
Baskin’s payroll, ergo he would do whatever Harry wished, regardless of the urgings of his uncle.

Now, at close to ten, while slurping from a tin of Harp, Frost noticed some interesting activity. A black Ford Granada pulled up, and two men in penguin suits emerged from the rear and made their way towards the parlour, the smaller of the two swaying noticeably. The man seemed vaguely familiar, despite being fifty yards off and visible only from the back. The door to the Pink Toothbrush was opened before the men had reached the threshold, and they both staggered in. The Granada remained in situ. Frost was just deciphering the registration, an X plate, new last year, when the lights were killed and the exhaust extinguished.

The Kung Po had filled him up and was the only thing he’d eaten since breakfast. He felt strangely content alone in his car. His elusive, possibly ill wife and his wounded, upset girlfriend were far away in another world. He released the ring pull on another can of Harp.

The next thing he knew, it was 3 a.m. and a flashlight was being tapped remorselessly on the windscreen. He was just coming to when it moved round and blazed through the driver’s-side window, startling him fully awake. He wound down the window.

‘Evening, Officer.’ He smiled.

‘Sergeant Frost?’ said a uniform in surprise.

‘That’s me. Oh, blast,’ Frost said, looking past the officer towards the Pink Toothbrush; the lights were out and the Granada gone.

Frost turned the ignition key, causing the constable to step back. ‘The going-over I got in there must have been so good I dozed off!’ he called after him, smiling lamely. Kung Po and lager moved deep within his insides, necessitating an unsettling belch. He fished for a cigarette and reached for the final can of Harp to wash away the after-taste before pulling away.

Wednesday (1)

SIMMS HAD WOKEN
early in spite of, or perhaps because of, the previous night’s heavy booze intake, and getting up had been a monumental struggle. As he and DS Waters left their police quarters on Fenwick Street, the searing brightness of the early-morning sun made his head pound. The booze had afforded them both a poor night’s sleep, and in Simms’s case a powerful hangover was kicking in.

Neither he nor Waters had meant to get quite so blasted. On the way out of Two Bridges they’d had several pints in the Fox before checking in at Eagle Lane, albeit briefly, then had decided on a Chinese takeaway and some tins from the Unwins next door. It would have all been fine had it ended there, but upon arrival at Fenwick Street they’d found Miller slumped in the lounge watching confiscated video nasties on the misappropriated Betamax video recorder. It was just too easy to crack open a bottle of Scotch – also confiscated – and settle down for an early-hours session of
Driller Killer
and
Deep Throat
. Now, of course, Simms felt like he’d actually starred in a video nasty.

He slipped a cassette of Queen’s
The Game
into the car stereo, in the hope it’d perk him up a bit. But the opening thud of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, usually a spirit-lifter, merely served to make his headache worse.

‘Got a new album out this month,’ he said to Waters, who looked equally pained in the passenger seat. ‘A mate’s getting me a bootleg tonight.’

‘So you like them, do you?’ Waters asked.

‘Queen? You bet.’

‘Just wondered, since you disapproved mightily of Culture Club yesterday evening …’

‘Eh? Yeah, too right. A pansy in make-up – got no time for that. This is rock, mate.’ And he turned up the volume despite his throbbing head.

Eagle Lane wasn’t far from the police billet, but for Simms, perspiring heavily and feeling shaky, the journey was taking an eternity. To begin with, they’d been stuck behind a rubbish truck, its progress excruciatingly slow. The jollity of the binmen just beyond the Cortina’s bonnet, laughing as they emptied the clanging steel cylinders into the jaws of the truck, grated annoyingly. The collections had all been delayed a day because of the bank holiday.

‘About time too,’ Simms grumbled. ‘The whole of Denton pongs, especially in this weather. We still have to clear up the filth, bank holiday or not. I don’t see why that lot should be an exception.’

The lorry finally indicated left. Simms impatiently put his foot down.

‘Jesus – watch it!’ Waters shouted and the car screeched to a halt. A paperboy on a BMX had hopped off the kerb and into the path of the accelerating car. Simms stopped just in time. The boy, wearing a blue-hooded tracksuit top, acknowledged his good fortune by spinning round and giving them the finger.

‘Cheeky sod!’ Waters wound down the window as Simms
drew
up to the boy at the traffic lights. ‘Oi, you, if you didn’t have that hood up you might …’ But the boy had begun to pedal off, paying no attention to Waters.

‘Oi!’ Simms shouted, leaning across his colleague. The boy finally turned and scowled. He was fair-haired and wearing a pair of earphones.

‘No wonder he’s behaving like a muppet. He can’t see or hear with that get-up on.’ Simms shook his head in disbelief. ‘That reminds me. The Ellis girl had a Walkman on the train with her.’

‘Oh yeah? What was she listening to?’

‘Listening to?’ Simms replied, bemused.

‘On the tape? Might be worth a listen.’

‘Mmm, good idea. Remind me when we get in, if we get there in one piece, that is.’

Superintendent Stanley Mullett brought the Rover to a halt in the car park of Denton Golf Club. The quality of the vehicles around him spoke volumes. There were two Jags, several Rovers and even a Rolls, which must belong to the mayor. The very cream of Denton was here today.

He got out and sniffed the morning air. It was 8.15, and an extravagant breakfast awaited him in the clubhouse before the mayor officially opened the new course to the members. Yes, Denton at last had an eighteen-hole course, an expansion funded by a local investment committee and designed to attract big business. In addition to today’s opening, there would also be a charity match on Friday afternoon, followed by a gala dinner, the whole thing intended as a lavish corporate schmoozing event. Mullett couldn’t quite see how a retired boxer and one of the Two Ronnies appearing at a golf-club jolly would promote investment in Denton, but his was not to reason why. He was simply delighted to be on the guest list.

All was right with the world today, he thought. A chinwag
with
a couple of notables and then tee-off at nine; how civilized. He straightened his Windsor knot, smoothed his V-neck and checked his plus-fours. Fortunately, none of these items had been at the dry cleaner’s – he knew better than to let that lot loose on the merino or herringbone tweed.

He flopped on his hat, pinged open the boot and pulled out his clubs. What a fantastic morning! He even found himself humming as he strolled across the gravel and into the new clubhouse.

‘Stanley, old chap, good to see you.’ It was Hudson, the portly manager of Bennington’s Bank, who met him at reception, a glass of champagne in hand. Of all the people who could have greeted his entry, Hudson was probably his least favourite. ‘Come and grab yourself a glass of fizz.’

‘Morning, Hudson.’ Mullett smiled tightly. ‘Bit early in the day for me.’ Or for anyone apart from alcoholics – it wasn’t even 9 a.m. – but clearly not for you, you corpulent windbag.

‘Nonsense – wouldn’t be a champagne breakfast without it, would it?’ The bank manager looked distinctly flushed already.

‘I guess not.’

Hudson led him up a small flight of stairs and into the main club room, where a dozen or so members loitered expectantly. Mullett found himself rather disappointed with the decor. It seemed gauche and resembled an airport lounge; not exactly how he’d pictured an elite golf club. The only thing that gave a clue to the building’s function were the photographs transferred from the previous clubhouse – shots of members, of holes-in-one and of minor celebs shaking the incumbent club secretary’s hand, all of which looked totally incongruous in the new surroundings. Hudson led him on through to the main attraction – an entire plate-glass wall looking out on to the fairway.

‘Impressive, eh?’ said Hudson, as if he were personally responsible for this majestic glass showpiece. And to a degree he was. Bennington’s had bank-rolled the improvements on a
loan
with repayment terms that Mullett suspected were more than lenient. There was nobody more suitable to the role of club treasurer – especially given the bank manager’s handicap. Hudson was a truly awful golfer – a blindfolded monkey with a spade could get round the course more quickly.

‘Yes indeed,’ said Mullett, accepting a flute of champagne from a girl dressed for a cabaret, ‘it certainly is.’ At that point a burly fellow broke away from the cluster standing in front of the plate-glass window and made his way over.