First Frost (7 page)

Butcher fidgeted uneasily in his chair. ‘There were two on duty, I believe. Keith Nelson, our full-time store detective (been with us for years), and Blake Richards, who’s on temporary loan from Security Guard. Good solid chap, though. I’d hire him if we had the funds.’

Hanlon was incredulous. ‘Two … and one of those not even a full-time member of staff? This is a multi-storey department store, the biggest retail concern in Denton!’
The pride of Denton
was how his mother, and practically everyone else for that matter, still referred to Aster’s.

‘Christmas might not be too far off,’ said Butcher stridently, ‘but we are in the middle of a recession. Maggie will pull us through, of that I’m in no doubt. Have a lot of respect for that woman. Give her time, that’s what I say, and she’ll transform this country.’ Butcher was becoming increasingly animated.

Fortunately for Hanlon, who hated talking politics, Frost now walked straight into the room, saying, ‘You the boss, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Butcher, remaining seated behind his desk. ‘I’m the store manager of Aster’s.’

Frost didn’t offer his hand. ‘We are seriously concerned about the safety of a twelve-year-old girl, last seen in this store.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Butcher, ‘but I’m still not sure what help we can give. If she’s run away, it’s hardly our fault, is it? Aster’s has numerous exits.’

‘Who said anything about running away?’ said Frost, now looking at Hanlon.

‘Well, I presumed …’

‘We want to know who might have seen Julie and her mother yesterday afternoon,’ said Hanlon, rising to his feet at last. He couldn’t remain in that stupid chair a second longer.

‘And we particularly want to know if anyone saw Julie on her own, or even with someone else,’ said Frost.

‘A man, say,’ said Hanlon. He looked at Frost. But Frost had turned towards the window and was lighting a cigarette.

‘Where would your store detectives have been positioned?’ said Frost, exhaling, and not bothering to face the room.

‘There would always have been one near the main front door on the ground floor, and frankly, the other one could have been anywhere – patrolling at random,’ explained Butcher.

‘Is it possible the man on the front door might have seen something if, say, a girl rushed out, distressed?’ Hanlon asked.

‘I suppose, yes, if she was making a big song and dance about it,’ said Butcher. ‘But my security staff are trained to capture shoplifters, not runaways. Sorry for saying this, gentlemen, but would your attention not be better directed at the girl’s friends and family?’

‘Do you think,’ said Frost crossly, ‘your security staff would have noticed a young girl being dragged out of the store, by a man?’

‘Against her will,’ Hanlon added, he knew, stupidly.

‘They are not imbeciles,’ Butcher said, getting up. ‘Now if that’s all, gentlemen? I’ll see the photograph is circulated tomorrow.’

‘Not quite,’ said Hanlon. ‘We obviously need contact details for’ – Hanlon flicked back through his notebook – ‘Nelson and Richards.’

‘And one more thing,’ added Frost, by the door, ‘any other way out, apart from the ground-floor doors?’

‘The fire exits, I suppose. Access to them is clearly marked on every floor.’ The store manager looked at his watch, a fancy gold piece with a crocodile strap. ‘I’ll show you, if you like,’ he offered, suddenly sounding helpful. He walked round from behind his desk.

‘Thanks,’ said Hanlon.

‘Let’s go straight to where the girl was last seen,’ said Frost.

‘Uniforms and lingerie,’ said Hanlon.

‘Yes,’ said Butcher, taking the lead.

‘Tell me,’ said Frost, as Butcher took them down the back stairs, ‘why are uniforms and knickers on the same floor?’

‘I’ll fill you in,’ said Hanlon.

Butcher was soon pushing open the door to the third floor. He flicked a panel of light switches.

‘No stocktake going on here, then?’ Hanlon asked.

‘We’re doing one department at a time,’ Butcher said. ‘We’re working on the toy department today. Here you go, school uniforms. And there’ – he indicated to his left – ‘are the changing rooms.’

Frost, Hanlon noticed, was looking intently across the shop floor, in quite the opposite direction.

‘At the back of that curtained-off area is the fire exit,’ Butcher continued. ‘See, it’s all properly marked as such there.’ He pointed to a small sign.

Hanlon and Butcher made straight for the changing rooms, with Frost following a few yards behind. Butcher then pulled aside the curtain to reveal, at the end of a row of cubicles, a fire door. They paused for a moment before walking further forward.

‘Is the exit alarmed?’ Frost asked from behind Hanlon’s back.

Butcher stopped still. ‘Yes,’ he said, sounding unsure.

‘Right, so anyone barging through these and you’d have known about it,’ said Frost, moving to the front. He began rattling the doors. ‘What’s the system? Mains or battery?’

‘Battery,’ said Butcher nervously.

‘How often do you check it’s all operating properly?’ said Hanlon.

‘Oh, very regularly,’ Butcher said.

With a clang the doors sprang open. ‘Not regularly enough,’ said Frost, engulfed by a blast of icy fresh air. ‘I wonder what the fire department would have to say about this.’ He quickly pulled the doors shut.

‘And Julie Hudson’s parents,’ added Hanlon.

‘The battery must have just gone,’ said Butcher hurriedly. ‘But it wouldn’t have made any difference. Because there’s always a changing-room attendant on duty – on Saturdays anyway. No one could have simply let themselves out and walked down the fire escape.’

‘OK, Arthur,’ said Frost, ‘I’ve seen enough. For the time being. Best leave Mr Butcher to get on with his stocktaking. We don’t want him ruining Christmas for everyone.’

The light was beginning to fail and there was drizzle in the air. Frost was niggled. Liz Fraser and her poor, bruised little girl had clouded his focus on Julie Hudson. He was missing something obvious, he was sure.

Hanlon piped up, as if reading his thoughts, ‘Why didn’t Wendy Hudson report her daughter missing while she was at the store?’

The fat detective constable was deftly and swiftly reversing the Cortina out of its tight parking space next to the loading bay at the back of Aster’s.

‘I don’t know, Arthur,’ Frost said. ‘Flaming hell! Why didn’t you ask her last night?’

‘She was in a right state.’

‘Obviously,’ Frost said. But he could see why she might not have immediately informed the authorities. Past experience had taught him how often kids that age stormed off in a huff. Any parent would give it a bit of time before ringing the cop shop, surely, not wanting to create a fuss. Hoping for the best.

Frost wanted to try the hospital again, to see whether the mother had communicated anything yet. There was still no news of the father, despite numerous alerts having been put out, and all the relevant agencies and Controls having been informed.

‘Roger that,’ Hanlon said before replacing the handset, and bringing the car to a sudden stop, then indicating, as if to do a U-turn.

‘More bad news?’ Frost asked. He’d been miles away.

‘Disturbance on the Southern Housing Estate. Control want us to check it out.’

‘You
are
joking. It’s nearly five, and apart from everything else I’ve got to get that paperwork done – the crime clear-up stats? Where’s the bloody area car?’

‘Kids terrorizing some oldsters,’ continued Hanlon blithely.

‘Nothing new there, then.’ Frost sighed, relieved, and not for the first time in the day, that he wasn’t a proud dad. Mary, of course, was still hoping for a miracle. Perhaps it would stop her nagging him. He looked through the Cortina’s windscreen, slick with fine rain. ‘But where the bloody hell are uniform?’ he said, livid.

‘Shift changeover, apparently, and as we’re out and about, Control thought … it being a Sunday and everything …’

‘Sod Control,’ said Frost, sparking up. ‘We’re within spitting distance of Eagle Lane. I’m not trekking out to the Southern Housing Estate, even if there’s a flaming riot.’

‘There’s a good chippy out there,’ said Hanlon, licking his lips.

‘I’ve promised the missus a takeaway, from that new tandoori. Uniform will get there in the end. Here, hand me the radio, and I’ll tell Control where to stuff it.’

*

PC Derek Simms left his smaller and older colleague PC Baker, who was still pissed off because he hadn’t had time to finish his tea, inside the panda, and made his way over to the fish and chip shop.

The rain had increased with the wind, which was blasting through the dismal, low-lying estate, and forcing Simms to squint as he dashed across the road. Outside the Codpiece was a small gang of teenagers, half a dozen or so boys, in jeans, tracksuit tops and Denton FC scarves, of various colour and slogan combinations. They appeared unfazed by the weather, or the sudden presence of the police, and were more than enjoying themselves as they heckled an old couple shuffling stiffly up the road. Chips were being lobbed at the pensioners’ backs.

Attempting to make his presence felt, Simms brushed at the rain on his uniform jacket. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a crooked nose and a crew cut. He was twenty-four years old and felt invincible.

He waited until the old couple were well out of harm’s way before he barged through the gang and entered the chippy. Ignoring the queue and passing straight to the counter, Simms said, to the diminutive spotty proprietor, ‘How long have your friends outside been hanging around?’

‘An hour or two,’ the man replied without looking up. Simms watched him slide golden battered fish into the hot display alongside an array of saveloys.

‘They often here, at this time?’

‘Where else have they got to go on a Sunday evening?’

Simms was going to say
Home
, then thought better of it. Scrutinizing the yobs through the shopfront more closely, he was pretty certain he recognized two of the more boisterous boys: Kevin Jones, a skinny little sod with spiky, peroxide-blond hair, and Sean Haynes, a short, fat thug with a babyface. They were always in trouble, yet too young to be prosecuted. It meant a ton of paperwork, and the heavy hand of Social Services breathing down the division’s neck at every stage. And everyone knew it.

One of the smaller boys had a BMX and kept shooting off into the middle of the wet, dimly lit road, pulling wheelies.

‘Give me a couple of bags of chips, will you?’ Simms said, searching his pockets for loose change.

Clutching the hot bundles he stepped back outside. All quiet – the gang had suddenly disappeared. Or so he thought.

Just before he reached the panda he felt something hit him in the back. Swiftly turning, and dropping the chips in the process, he faced a barrage of missiles: balls of newspaper, sauce sachets and empty Coke cans.

PC Baker was out of the car in a flash, hand on his truncheon, but before the constables could give chase, the kids had streaked off, laughter echoing around the dark corners of the rotten estate.

Back in the car, with the remains of the chips, Simms said, ‘I think I know who two of them are. Time for a couple of house calls?’

‘What’s the point?’ said Baker, relaxing into his seat.

‘We could take them down a dark alley and rub their faces in a bag of cold chips – something like that,’ said Simms.

‘And then get the boot for our troubles? Everyone saw you in the chip shop.’

‘Can’t wait to get out of this uniform,’ Simms was desperate to become a detective.

‘You’ll be lucky, with this new chap Mullett in charge. I hear he does everything by the book. What’s more, I hear there’s been a freeze on promotions – cost-cutting, apparently.’

Sunday (8)

Bert Williams felt very cold. Night had fallen once again, thick and wet and freezing. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.

The tall hedge the other side of the ditch had become an impenetrable brick wall. A prison wall. He was now a prisoner. The metallic smell, the clanking noise. The cramped spaces. The bars and uniforms and pasty, blank faces. The tables had finally turned.

All the scum he’d once put away were on the outside, in the warm sunshine, with their wives and families, their dolly birds and little bastards, drinking and laughing. Living it up on the Costa del Sol. The world was upside down.

Bert tried to clench his fingers, tried to pull himself back to the present. But all he kept thinking was that the wrong people were always one step ahead. That he’d been playing a game of catch-up all his life.

Yet Betty, bless her, had stood by him, hadn’t she, through thick and thin. His mind wandered back to when they first met. He was on leave after Dunkirk, a welcome-home dance. There she was across the hall, blonde hair shimmering …

His body was numb. The pain had all but gone, leaving just this terrible chill.

He’d tried his best to keep Betty happy, to keep Denton safe. There was just too much evil in the world.

There … Williams thought he could make out a light in the distance, moving his way, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to focus. Was it a flashlight, car headlamps?

No, there was no one. No one was coming to his aid. He was going to die here, and very soon. He should have been more flaming organized. But he only had himself to blame.

Why he’d become so hooked on smashing this gang, all by himself, he really didn’t know. Because he’d been handed a lead on a plate … maybe? Because all along he hadn’t known quite who to trust …

Also, he supposed, he hadn’t been sure whether he was on to something at last, whether he was about to crack the case of a lifetime, one that would see him retire with his reputation restored. Or whether he was barking up the wrong tree. He’d grown scared, scared of the truth.

And then the truth got scared of him. Three people he hadn’t been expecting at the usual rendezvous. That was a shock.

He couldn’t stay awake.
Sorry, Jack – you’ll have to find your own way now
.

Sorry, Denton
.

Sorry, Betty
.