First Frost (22 page)

‘Something just came up,’ said Frost, looking over his shoulder. ‘I need a bit of help.’ He paused. ‘On the quiet, if you know what I mean.’

‘For you, Jack, I’m always happy to help. If I can. But is it wise you standing around here? Not worried about being seen?’

‘I’m in a rush, Mike. Take a look at this, can you.’ Frost handed Ferris the piece of paper he’d ripped from his notebook. ‘Any names and addresses you can match to these numbers, also the dates and times of any calls between them – this one’s a call box, by the way – will make me a very happy man.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Ferris carefully folded and slipped the note into his back pocket.

‘I owe you,’ said Frost, turning to leave.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Frost could hear Ferris saying. ‘You’ve more than helped me out in the past.’

Frost smiled to himself as he left the building. Letting Ferris’s batty wife off a shoplifting charge had more than paid for itself already. And if Ferris could come up with some meaningful names and addresses, not to mention dates and times of calls, Frost knew the net would be closing in on whoever killed Bert. It wasn’t just a vague hope, he was convinced there was a connection.

‘Not parked illegally, are we?’ Frost said to Hanlon cheerfully. Hanlon was out of the Cortina, talking to a tiny female traffic warden in a uniform far too big for her, her cap comically askew.

‘I was just explaining,’ said Hanlon, brandishing his warrant card, ‘that we’re on official police business. Isn’t that right, Detective?’

‘Official or not,’ the traffic warden said – she must have been pushing sixty – ‘you still can’t park here. There’s no emergency that I’m aware of and you’re on a double-yellow line. You’re obstructing the highway, and as such are in breach of bye-law—’

‘Don’t tell me what I’m in breach of,’ Hanlon interrupted.

‘Come on, Arthur,’ said Frost, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘We’ve all got jobs to do. And that poor old dear is about to get drenched.’

‘Serves her right,’ mumbled Hanlon, looking up at the suddenly leaden sky, before easing his great bulk inside the car.

Station Sergeant Bill Wells found he was biting his nails, staring at the large black phone on the front desk. With everybody at County seemingly involved in the ridiculous rabies press conference, including of course Mullett, Wells was waiting for the Anti-Terrorist Branch to confirm whether the code word used in the bomb scare was correct.

It seemed to be taking them ages.

At least Wells had just taken the precaution of calling over the Tannoy for all officers present to assemble in the briefing room. Not that he knew who would then direct the operation – if it came to that.

He couldn’t raise Frost or Hanlon on any car radio. Which, as far as his panicked mind could work out, meant that the only people of rank left in the building were Clarke and himself.

The sound of hurrying feet and banging doors filled the station, as Wells felt his heart beat faster and faster.

Superintendent Mullett followed Assistant Chief Constable Winslow out of the County Headquarters press room, believing he’d managed to swing the blame on to the papers for creating all the hysteria about the rabies scare.

‘Well done, Stanley,’ said Winslow. ‘I think Denton Division comes out of this almost blemish-free.’

‘Thank you, Nigel.’

‘Superintendent Mullett,’ a voice hollered down the corridor. ‘A quick word, if I may.’

Mullett watched with great irritation as the
Denton Echo’s
chief reporter, Sandy Lane, pushed past two WPCs and planted himself so close to Mullett that he could smell bacon on his breath.

‘A quick word about that blind man who was murdered by the canal,’ Lane pressed.

‘Murdered?’ snapped Mullett. ‘I think you’re leaping to conclusions, as ever.’

‘I’ll put it another way, then.’ Lane grinned. ‘Surely the police are linking his death to the recent spate of youth violence and vandalism on the Southern Housing Estate? By all accounts, the man had been subjected to a vicious beating.’

‘I don’t know where you get your information from, Mr Lane,’ said Mullett, fully aware of Winslow’s scrutinizing eye, ‘but we will let you know in due course. The investigation is in full swing.’

Still undeterred, Lane continued, ‘I mean, can you assure the
Echo
that the elderly population of Denton is safe? Only last month a pensioner was kicked to the ground and robbed, on the very same street where Graham Ransome lived.’

‘At this stage there is absolutely no evidence to link the two incidents,’ Mullett replied firmly. He could see the headline now: DENTON OAPS TOO TERRIFIED TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES. Though yobbish behaviour on the Southern Housing Estate was an increasing problem, the mugging of the pensioner was unresolved: after several line-ups it was clear the woman was both senile and a drunk and had no idea what her assailants looked like.

‘When do the police expect a breakthrough?’ Lane just wouldn’t let it go. But fortunately for Mullett, a colleague of Lane’s had materialized, slapping him on the back, and diverting the hack’s attention.

‘When are you going to start reporting the truth?’ hissed Mullett, before rushing after Winslow.

‘What a tiresome fellow,’ Winslow said, once Mullett had fallen into step. ‘And he was the bugger who created all that rabies trouble. I’d have a word with his editor, Stanley. Get him shifted over to the sports pages. The way Denton are playing at the moment, that’ll give him plenty to contend with.’

They’d reached the double doors to the assistant chief constable’s suite of offices. Mullett was about to make his excuses when Winslow tapped him on the arm and said quietly but firmly, ‘Spare me a moment. Coffee?’

Mullett glanced at his watch. He wanted to be back in Denton by ten thirty at the very latest. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, through gritted teeth. He was nervous enough about leaving Frost in charge of the briefing, let alone the station.

‘It’s important, Superintendent, and I won’t keep you long.’ Winslow ushered Mullett through.

Mullett sat down, placing his cap on the chair next to him. The room was large enough to host a conference.

Winslow buzzed his secretary for coffee, before fixing Mullett with a penetrating stare. ‘Inspector Bert Williams,’ he eventually sighed, before removing his wire-framed glasses and vigorously cleaning them with a special lens cloth. ‘Very sorry to hear he’s passed away.’

‘Yes, it’s awful news,’ replied Mullett. ‘Days away from his retirement, too. What a tragedy.’ He didn’t know where this was leading, but didn’t like Winslow’s tone.

‘And I thought he was at home, with the flu,’ Winslow tutted, replacing his glasses. ‘Instead he was gallivanting down country lanes, Rimmington way.’ He paused. ‘Look, I’ll come straight to it, Stanley. Was Williams on the level?’

Mullett couldn’t help but look away from those beady eyes, magnified through crystal-clear lenses. ‘On the level? Do you mean, did he have a drinking problem?’

‘That wasn’t what I was getting at,’ Winslow said. ‘Though it might not be entirely unconnected. Remember our conversation just yesterday – about a leak, in your division, connected to those brutal Rimmington and Wallop heists?’

Mullett hardly needed reminding. However, he had certainly not made any connections to Williams, the longest-serving member of the division. A drunk maybe, but he was not disloyal.

‘As I’m sure you are aware,’ continued Winslow, ‘I was a great admirer of Bert’s, but by all accounts his drinking and absenteeism had been getting rather out of hand. Clearly he could no longer be relied upon.’

‘I don’t know how you could know that,’ said Mullett, defensively. ‘Really—’ They were interrupted by Winslow’s frumpy secretary reversing into the room with a tray of coffee and biscuits.

Winslow waited for her to pour the coffee, proffer Jaffa Cakes and disappear, before he piped up again, ‘Allegiances go out of the window with alcoholics. Besides, the latest intelligence suggests that this gang, aside from having a police insider on their payroll, have links with some seriously dangerous individuals over from Northern Ireland. You can probably imagine what I’m getting at – terrorists turned professional criminals – and I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge any more at this juncture. But needless to say, it’s imperative that we make headway urgently.’

‘Obviously I’ll do what I can,’ said Mullett, more than a little exasperated. He didn’t like being kept in the dark where County, or he presumed National and the Anti-Terrorist Branch at that, were concerned. ‘Given what you’ve told me.’ He coughed. The coffee was too strong for his stomach. He wondered whether he might be getting an ulcer.

‘What was Williams working on when he died?’ Winslow asked.

Mullett had no idea. The old biddy who’d been mugged? A possible arson attempt? An aggravated burglary? Nothing major. ‘A number of routine investigations,’ he said. ‘With his retirement imminent, he was winding down, of course.’

‘Has the post-mortem thrown anything up?’

‘Too early.’ Mullett took another sip of the coffee, feeling it go straight to his bowels. ‘We should hear the preliminary findings this afternoon.’

‘Well, keep a very close eye on it.’

‘Sorry, Nigel, it’s been a long morning already – what exactly are you implying?’ Mullett was becoming more uncomfortable by the second.

‘Come, come. Do I really need to spell it out?’

Mullett grimaced as another shockwave rippled through his bowels.

‘All right, I will. Could Williams have been tipping this gang off … and then something went fatally wrong?’ The assistant chief constable didn’t appear very interested in a reply, barely pausing before he continued, ‘Why not get that fellow Jack Frost on to it? If anyone has any idea about the skeletons in Williams’s cupboard, it’d have to be Frost. He was his partner, wasn’t he?’

‘Nigel, with all due respect, I’d have thought that Frost’s relationship with Williams is precisely the reason not to—’

‘Oh, rubbish. If there’s any question over Williams’s demise, Jack Frost will want to clear his name,’ said Winslow. ‘Can’t believe Frost is bent. And he’s certainly not stupid.’

‘But Nigel, there is no question mark over Williams’s death, at the moment.’ Mullett couldn’t believe Winslow was taking this line; unless, of course, Winslow was party to some information that he wasn’t. Or, unless – he shuddered – it was a test to smoke out the real mole, and someone was actually pointing the finger at him. ‘I have to say, sir, that I just don’t think Frost is experienced enough.’

‘Precisely, precisely,’ Winslow said, rubbing his hands. ‘Something like this needs an untrained eye.’

Maybe, but not uncouth, Mullett could have added. Instead he said, lamely, ‘We do have the very capable DI Allen.’ Not that Mullett had yet been able to track him down to cancel his leave.

‘Put Frost on to it, right away. There’s a good fellow.’

‘To be honest, sir’ – Mullett was not going to let this go without a fight – ‘I had thought it might be advisable if Frost had a few days off. You know, compassionate leave? He was very close to DI Williams. I don’t want him making any irrational moves. He’s working on a couple of sensitive cases as it is.’ Mullett paused for effect. ‘Don’t forget the whole rabies thing started with him. I wouldn’t like to put him under any more pressure.’

‘Nonsense. Pressure brings out the best in a chap.’

Mullett’s bowels twitched urgently for attention. ‘If you insist,’ he said crossly. He got to his feet, and began shuffling backwards out of the room.

Winslow’s attention was diverted by his desk phone, which had started to ring and flash.

Mullett barely made it to the corridor before he heard Winslow shouting after him, ‘Superintendent, you have a bomb in Market Square! Mobilize your troops – sounds like the real thing.’

*

Hanlon left his finger on the doorbell for a good few seconds. A pessimist by nature, he didn’t hold much store that whoever answered would even have heard of the Dixon woman. He’d struck it lucky with the last address and the boffin. Twice in a row wasn’t going to happen.

The fact that Frost had turned off the radio and so they were out of contact with Control was also making Hanlon more anxious and downcast by the minute. He knew that Frost had his own issues with Mullett and procedure, but he didn’t see why he had to expose himself to such a serious misdemeanour as well.

And who knew what Frost had been up to when he popped into the telephone exchange? Another skirting of the rules, was Hanlon’s guess. Though if, as he suspected, it had something to do with Bert Williams, then Hanlon was more than happy to forgive Frost anything. Jack might have been putting a brave face on it, but Hanlon knew what the inspector had meant to him.

‘Nobody in,’ Hanlon said to himself, not in the least surprised. Relieved in a way. He’d decided he wanted to get back to the station. Make his presence felt.

‘Give them a chance,’ said Frost, who had now climbed out of the car and was puffing away on the pavement behind him. ‘Probably can’t hear the bell with that racket going on.’ Frost raised his eyes to an upstairs window.

Hanlon stepped away from the porch. He’d somehow missed that, pop music coming from one of the bedrooms. Frost moved forwards and gave the doorbell another go. Hanlon could now hear a voice from inside. Saw a figure through the frosted-glass door coming towards them.

A plump and kind-faced grey-haired woman, in her late fifties, opened the door. She looked suddenly resigned. ‘He’s not here,’ she muttered.

‘Lee’s not our concern, right now,’ said Frost presumptuously.

Bloody hell
, Hanlon thought.
Jackpot
. Adrenalin was surging through his body. ‘Denton CID,’ he said, shoving his warrant card in the woman’s face. ‘Are you Joan Dixon?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the girl,’ said Frost gravely. ‘Julie, Julie Hudson. It’s her safety we’re most concerned about.’

‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in,’ Joan Dixon said.

As the dank countryside flashed by, Mullett, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, tried yet again to reach Control on the handset with the other. The airwaves were either jammed, or Control was blocked. What the hell was going on at the Eagle Lane station? He couldn’t bear to think.