‘It was unfortunate that Lane was skulking about there. His mother’s ill, apparently.’
‘I don’t give a damn about his mother,’ said Mullett.
‘No, sir.’
‘No, sir?’ Mullett shouted. ‘This whole rabies nonsense has got completely out of hand already, for which you, Frost, are entirely to blame.’
‘It was the health and safety of a little girl, Becky Fraser, that was my most pressing concern,’ said Frost. ‘Thankfully she’s being well cared for right now. To be honest, an opportunity arose and I went for it. At least it’s given us some time.’
‘No, Frost, that’s exactly what we don’t have – time. Not now. What the hell were you doing at the hospital late last night anyway? Presumably little Becky Fraser was safely tucked up in bed.’
‘I was checking on Wendy Hudson, sir. The woman who was nearly battered to death?’ Frost said angrily. ‘We had a call yesterday evening – after you’d gone home, I presume – saying that she’d woken up. All on her own.’ He looked his superior in the eye. ‘With no bloody WPC at her bedside, ready to record anything she might say, because someone wasn’t prepared to sanction any further overtime. So when I eventually get there—’
‘Oh yes, the case of the missing girl.’ Mullett frowned, stubbing out his cigarette and looking at his watch. ‘Have we found the chap yet? The husband? This thing should have been wrapped up by now.’
‘No, sir.’
‘How hard can it be?’
‘I’m more concerned about the girl, Julie Hudson. Her mother was nearly clobbered to death – her disappearance has to be related.’ Frost paused. ‘We’ll pick her father up soon enough. But it’s Julie Hudson’s safety I fear for. She’s not even thirteen.’
‘She’s still on the run, is she?’
‘She’s still missing, if that’s what you mean,’ said Frost, despairing.
‘Well,’ said Mullett, ‘you’ll have to make do with the resources at hand. Unless you’re as stupid as you look, you must realize we’re suddenly facing a very grave personnel crisis at the station, and when the whole of Denton is about to explode with anxiety over rabies scare stories. DI Allen, as you know, is on annual leave for the rest of this week, and there is still no sign of DI Williams – I don’t suppose you have any idea where he is? You’re his partner in crime, aren’t you?’
‘No, sir, sorry. I’ve no idea where DI Williams is. Some sort of domestic crisis, I imagine.’
‘It had better be good. By God.’ Mullett scratched at his moustache, before resuming, ‘I need time to think and plan a course of action, before this morning’s briefing. Just don’t go opening your great gob again, not to anyone, or you can kiss your job goodbye. Call yourself a detective? At least you’re wearing some approximation to a suit today.’
With that Mullett made an about-turn, only to bang straight into Grace’s tea trolley, which had silently appeared in the doorway.
‘What on earth …?’ said Mullett, kicking the trolley away.
‘Cup of tea, sir?’ Grace asked.
‘Tea? Tea? I haven’t got time for tea.’ Mullett rubbed his knee and made off down the corridor.
‘What’s got into him?’ said Grace.
‘He’s been bitten by something horrible,’ said Frost, lighting another cigarette, straight off the butt of his last one.
‘Needs a nice cup of sweet tea to calm him down, I should say.’
‘He needs something, darling,’ said Frost, thinking hard. ‘I’ll certainly take a cuppa.’
‘Biscuit?’
‘Why not.’
Sipping his tea, Frost thought that Liz Fraser really had quite a lot to answer for. News that she’d made previous dubious calls to the police, and that the father of her child, Simon Trench, had no obvious form (though at least they knew he had a chocolate-brown Mini Metro) was beginning to worry him more and more. With Mullett on the warpath and Denton gripped by fear – at least according to the Echo – the stakes had been raised considerably.
It would almost have been funny had it not been for the child. Which reminded Frost, he still hadn’t yet spoken to the paediatric consultant, let alone dug around in Social Services’ records. Now that Hanlon was back on duty, his mother thankfully not as seriously ill as first thought, Frost knew exactly who could do the legwork there.
Just as he was contemplating putting in an appearance at the briefing – he didn’t see the point in giving Mullett any further ammunition – the phone went. It was Drysdale, the pathologist.
‘Good morning, Doc, someone back from the dead?’ said Frost.
‘Detective Frost, I’ll get straight to the point. The man pulled from the canal? Having done some further tests and consulted a top Harley Street eye surgeon, who happens to be a very good friend of mine—’
‘Go on, get to the flaming point then,’ snapped Frost.
‘He was blind.’
‘Are you positive?’
‘Yes, there’s no doubt at all.’
‘Thank you, Doc. I just happen to know where his dog is.’
The briefing-room door squeaked open and Sue Clarke glanced round in time to see Jack Frost sneak in, a biscuit between his teeth. He raised his eyebrows at her, before sitting down next to PC Derek Simms.
She returned her attention to the front, where Superintendent Mullett had moved on from rabies and his contingency plan, and was discussing Julie Hudson, and why the devil her father hadn’t yet been apprehended, and this distracting, domestic mess all sorted out.
Clarke was amazed that the super seemed more concerned at this stage with finding Steve Hudson than Julie. But she supposed he had his reasons. She continued to take notes.
‘Clarke, Hanlon, Frost?’ Mullett was suddenly saying.
‘Yes, sir?’ she replied nervously, looking up and realizing she was the only one of the trio to reply.
‘Anyone checked out the girl’s school yet?’
‘No, not yet, sir,’ she said. Why hadn’t she thought of that yesterday? Too busy boozing at lunchtime with that rascal Frost, only to be spotted by Derek Simms, who, drawing the wrong conclusion, had given her a right earful late last night. Simms was the jealous type, that was for sure.
‘We’ve made arrangements to meet the headmistress within the next hour,’ said Frost, much to her surprise. ‘DC Clarke and myself. Thought it would be good to have Clarke there, you know how prickly these women teachers can be around men.’
Mullett looked confused. Clarke turned to Frost, who gave her a wink.
‘Err … yes … that’s right, sir,’ she said, turning back and addressing the divisional commander. She’d forgotten what school the girl went to. Oh, where were her notes? It was all very well scribbling everything down, but if you couldn’t find the right page, or even read your own handwriting …
‘Just make sure the staff don’t go blathering to the Echo,’ Mullett instructed. ‘I still want this kept quiet – operational reasons dictate as much.’
Clarke didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘God forbid,’ Mullett continued, ‘that the press get hold of this one, as well as the rabies nonsense, then we’re all done for.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘We’ll be very discreet.’
‘As always,’ sighed Mullett. ‘Now, this body dragged out of the canal. Where are we with that?’ He looked enquiringly around the room.
Clarke hadn’t done anything about this, since mooting the idea to Frost yesterday that the man may have been blind. She felt badly out of sorts today, her disastrous late-night date playing havoc with her concentration.
She’d have to shape up if she was to grab one of the new promotions Mullett had dangled in front of the division at the start of his tenure. With two DIs down, now was a chance for her to shine, surely.
‘We’ll be able to confirm his identity at least very shortly – if not the exact cause of death,’ piped up Frost again. ‘The pathologist has just confirmed that the poor man was b
lind, which was only what DC Clarke had already deduced. And, fortunately, PC Simms here’ – Frost patted the PC on the back – ‘has a way with dogs, ensnaring, I believe, what was the man’s guide dog in Denton Park yesterday afternoon. The mutt had been disturbing some mothers and kiddies.’
Clarke stared back at Frost. She was delighted that her speculation about the man being blind had been proved correct, and also that Frost had given her the credit in front of Mullett. But – feeling her cheeks burning – was that reference to Simms having a way with dogs anything to do with her? No, surely not.
‘You look dreadful, Wells.’
Station Sergeant Bill Wells sat up straight. Mullett had appeared from nowhere.
‘Touch of the flu yesterday,’ he said. ‘Haven’t completely shaken it but thought I’d struggle in, knowing how short-staffed we are at the moment.’
‘Very good of you, Sergeant.’
Wells watched Mullett brush his moustache with his forefingers, a puzzled look creeping across his face. ‘What are they doing there?’ the super asked sternly, pointing to a stack of paint tins in the corner of the lobby.
‘Your paint, sir?’ Wells answered feebly.
‘I know what it is, you fool – why is it there?’
‘Nowhere else to put it?’ Wells had no idea. ‘It turned up yesterday, when I was at home, ill.’
‘Where’s your initiative, man? It’s in the way – can’t you see that? Someone could trip over it, and then we’d have the union come down on us like a ton of bricks.’ Mullett stood in the middle of the lobby, hands on hips, pouting. ‘Still no sign of DI Williams, I suppose?’
‘No sir. Not a peep.’ Wells watched Mullett glare at the paint, as if it signalled everything that was wrong with his life. Though of course it was the super’s half-brained idea to tart up Eagle Lane in the first place.
Mullett marched off, leaving Wells wondering just what he had really wanted. To check on the tidiness of the lobby? The sort of welcome the division now offered the good citizens of Denton? Simply to moan? It was all getting more ridiculous by the day.
Bleeding hell, Wells had a headache – his throat was raw, too. Having had a more than deserved lie-in yesterday (that’ll teach them for giving me two double shifts in a row) he’d gone and got hammered last night at the Cricketers. Bumping into bloody Jack Frost while he was at it. At least Mullett thought he looked ill.
The phone rang, again.
‘Nice safe place, Denton,’ said a quiet Irish voice.
‘I beg your pardon? This is Denton Police, front desk.’ Was Control still putting outside calls straight through to him when they were jammed solid?
‘I said it was a nice safe place, Denton.’
What on earth? Wells’s head was throbbing like a bastard. ‘Excuse me, what did you just say?’ But whoever it was had hung up.
Struggling to keep the contents of his stomach down, Wells tried to get his head around the significance of what he’d just heard. It was the second peculiar call he’d taken from an Irishman in the last couple of days, the first being the one on Sunday about a van being driven slowly around Market Square.
He was thinking back to something Frost had said in the pub last night – something crass about the pope and then how he’d better keep his voice down because Denton was suddenly crawling with Irish.
Wells found himself thinking about the hunger striker who’d died back in May and that IRA bloke who’d escaped from prison in the summer, and the resulting number of security alerts Scotland Yard had issued. He scratched a side-burn thoughtfully.
The station sergeant reached for the call log, his pen and blotter, but was disturbed again by Mullett, who reappeared in the lobby with Pooley. The super was gesticulating wildly at the paint, while Pooley looked on vacantly. Finally Pooley seemed to get the message and gingerly picked up a couple of tins.
‘Sir, Superintendent Mullett, sir,’ Wells said, as loudly as he could manage.
The super spun round. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.
‘While you’re here, thought I should mention this call I just received.’
Mullett glared at him across the lobby. ‘You know the procedure, if it’s important …’ The super looked away.
‘I know, sir, but Control seem a little stretched again, and DS Frost is not at his desk, and as I said, while you’re standing right there, thought I’d—’
‘I don’t have time to listen to your burblings, Wells,’ Mullett cried out, with a look of disgust as he watched the laden Pooley struggle down the corridor.
‘Sir, I really—’
Wells couldn’t finish what he was going to say, because Mullett suddenly marched up to the desk and sniffed loudly. ‘DI Williams is not hiding behind that counter, is he? I smell whisky.’
Tuesday (2)
Speeding along Denton High Street, Frost noticed a couple of punks, pink hair silhouetted against the black-and-white facade of the new Andy’s Records. He frowned. ‘I don’t mind the fact they’ve raided their mum’s make-up box, but I don’t understand the gobbing.’ He glanced over at Clarke.
‘They’re letting us know how pissed off they are,’ she said. ‘Showing their disrespect for the world they live in.’
‘Well, that’s not going to make it any better, is it?’
‘They’re just kids.’ She smiled. ‘You must have been rebellious when you were younger.’
‘Who’s to say I’ve changed?’
‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘Thanks, by the way, for earlier.’
‘For what?’
‘You know, for crediting me with spotting that the body in the canal was a blind man, in the briefing. And for saying we’d already organized this meeting at Julie Hudson’s school.’
‘I was saving my bacon too,’ said Frost. ‘I should have thought about the damn school yesterday.’
‘It was good of you, anyway.’
Frost coughed, suddenly relieved that she wasn’t going to castigate him for his joke about Simms and dogs; she was a good sport, all right. Could take it. ‘Steady on, love,’ he said, as she sped on. This was going to be another hair-raising ride.
For once Frost felt some results were coming in. The blind man had quickly been identified as Graham Ransome, a resident of the old folks’ flats on the Southern Housing Estate’s Arberry Close.
A frogman had pulled a guide dog’s harness from the canal on Monday afternoon, which was linked to both Ransome and the black Labrador Simms and Baker had found in the park the same afternoon. Initial studies of the harness, torn and frayed, indicated that there had been some kind of scuffle, probably leading to the distressed animal breaking free, running off and later causing havoc in the park.
Frost’s focus now was on how exactly Ransome had ended up dead in the canal, given Drysdale’s account of him having been badly beaten.
Something crossed Frost’s mind. ‘Why didn’t Scenes of Crime seal off the canal bank?’
‘It didn’t appear to be necessary, I guess,’ Clarke said. ‘Looked like an accident,’ she added lamely.
Frost supposed she was covering her back. ‘Not even the odd footprint?’
‘Too many fire service and frogmen, trampling all over the place, trying to fish the body out.’ Clarke slowed, a little too late, and narrowly missed a wobbling cyclist. ‘I don’t know, Jack. I supposed I messed up. I mean, I was the first officer at the scene.’
‘Don’t worry, love. We’ve all been there. The thing is, best never to admit it. I can keep a secret.’
‘I’m glad I can be of some help this morning.’
‘Seemed the obvious thing to do, bring you along,’ coughed Frost. ‘A school full of ripe young girls – wouldn’t be appropriate for a healthy young man like myself to go wandering around on my own.’ He lit another Rothmans, inhaling deeply. ‘Anyway, Hanlon says he’s got a stomach bug. Thinks he’ll have to go home.’
‘I heard about his mum. That got something to do with it?’
‘His mo
ther – how do you mean?’
‘Has he caught something?’
Frost laughed. ‘He’s caught something, all right – it’s called keeping a low profile having put your foot in it.’ Though not completely surprised, Frost still couldn’t believe that the great oaf had blabbed to a bunch of old biddies in the hospital about rabies. ‘They think his mum’s had a very minor stroke. She’ll live.’
Clarke overtook a sugar-beet lorry.
‘By the way, I liked your thinking about the poor bugger being blind,’ said Frost thoughtfully. He was glad he was with Clarke, now, rather than Hanlon. ‘That was smart.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Before you know it, you’ll be a DI. We’re certainly short of them at the moment.’ His mind leapt uncomfortably to the fact that Bert was still missing.
‘I’m in it for the policing, not the promotion,’ Clarke said. ‘I want to serve and protect the public.’
‘I bet you do.’ Frost didn’t believe her for one minute, but there, looming in front of them, was St Mary’s School for Girls. The school, once a Georgian stately home, was set back from the main road. Topiaries separated the long drive from the opulent grounds filled with ancient oak and yew trees. It was imposing and impressive, and reduced both Frost and Clarke to silence.
The car rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop on the gravel drive.
Frost, sweaty from his alcohol intake the night before, found his eyes drawn to a gaggle of girls in shockingly short skirts standing by a low wall to the left of the main building. A teacher, a lithe brunette in a tracksuit, seemed to be admonishing one of the girls. The altercation held the attention of the others.
‘That’s Mrs Litchfield,’ said Clarke. ‘She’s the woman who discovered the dead man in the canal. I forgot she was a teacher at St Mary’s.’ She paused. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t taken a few days off work … after such an experience.’
‘Can’t say stumbling upon a stiff would put me off turning up for work here,’ Frost mused. ‘Oh, the privileged few …’ He glanced at the notes he’d hastily compiled after the rushed call to the school – following the briefing. ‘The headmistress is a Mrs Rebecca Sidley. This could be fun.’