Fatal Frost (11 page)

Frost exhaled and said nothing, thinking back to the events of last year.

Baskin misinterpreted his silence as disbelief. ‘Come on – if I was interested in that sort of thing I’d run it from here, wouldn’t I? Not set up in the middle of town next door to bloody Aster’s.’ His eyes were flicking nervously between the two policemen.

‘Harry,’ said Frost, reaching across and squeezing Waters’ forearm firmly, ‘I’d like to introduce Detective Sergeant Waters from the Met Vice Squad.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack, that’s a bit heavy!’ Baskin exclaimed.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, Harry.’ Frost smiled. ‘It’s just a fact-finding mission; you know, information exchange, that sort of thing.’

Baskin raised his eyebrows and muttered, ‘Fact finding,’ as he weighed up the possible implications. Still looking uneasy, he twisted open a cigar case that resembled a torpedo and silently offered one to Waters.

‘Don’t mind if I do. These look like quality.’

‘Cuban.’ Baskin nodded, relief washing over his features. Frost knew his reasoning; if the man could appreciate a good cigar, then he couldn’t be all bad.

‘Romeo and Juliet, Churchill’s favourite,’ said Frost, stubbing out the Rothmans which appeared like a child’s sweet cigarette in comparison.

‘Really?’ said Baskin with genuine interest. ‘Well, I never. Great man. Great man.’

‘I wouldn’t get carried away. I imagine that’s all you’ve got in common – though you could probably match his post-war waistline. Listen, I’m not interested in your sauna place, Harry. I’m sure there’s nothing going on there apart from the odd Sunday-school lesson.’

‘Knew you’d see it that way, Jack.’

‘No,
I’m
not interested in that,’ Frost said, taking a sip of the single malt Baskin had just poured, ‘though the super has other ideas. You know how it is with him, mixing in powerful circles, playing golf with important people. The manager of the bank next to Aster’s, for example. He doesn’t want anything unsightly within teeing-off distance of Market Square. The super takes these things very personally.’

‘Well, you tell him, Jack, I’ve taken that on board and I’ll see him right.’ Baskin paused for second. ‘So, if you’re not here about that, then what are you here about?’

‘A Chinese lad got a taxi from the station to Market Square on Saturday night. I’m guessing he works for you.’

Baskin looked momentarily stumped. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The sauna, it used to be a Chinese laundry. We believe you “inherited” a number of the staff …’

‘Maybe.’ Baskin shrugged non-committally. ‘But I don’t have a monopoly on employing Chinamen. There’s that Chinky opposite the Cricketers, for starters.’

‘Granted, but you’ve certainly got a number on your payroll – Clarke and Myles were speaking to one young girl only yesterday, just before Clarke got stabbed in your car park.’ Frost reached for another cigarette.

‘Now wait a minute,’ Baskin said hastily, ‘that has absolutely nothing to do with me.’

‘Did I say it did?’ Frost replied quickly. ‘However, you know
the
press – if that hack Sandy Lane gets hold of it, it certainly won’t do your business any good. I can see the headlines now: “Copper Stabbed in Massage Parlour Car Park”.
Copper
. If the plod aren’t safe, then who is?’

Baskin’s face was hardening but Frost continued to push.

‘Something tells me he works for you. I don’t care what he was doing in London, or what he does for you, I’m only interested in what he might have seen on the train on Saturday night.’ Frost noticed Baskin’s features relaxing as soon as he realized that he and his operations were not under scrutiny. He didn’t give a toss about his employees, that much was certain.

‘I see, I see. I think Mark’s the lad you’re after,’ he said finally. ‘He went up to the West End on Saturday to Chinatown to see his grandma. But I couldn’t tell you where he is now.’

‘Mark?’ Frost said, surprised. ‘Doesn’t sound very Chinese to me.’

‘So what?’ Baskin smiled. ‘Not prejudiced, are you, Mr Frost?’

‘He doesn’t seem all that bad,’ Waters said as they got in the car. Compared with some exchanges he’d witnessed, he felt the one between Frost and the corpulent gangster had practically verged on the friendly. The Cortina juddered, jolting him in the back. ‘
Jesus
,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Sticky gearbox,’ Frost grumbled. ‘Do you have to smoke that thing in here?’

Waters wound down the window rapidly; cigar smoke and the smell of hot vinyl that had filled the car was gradually replaced with fresh air. ‘Why did you say I was with the Vice Squad?’

‘It beats saying you’re part of some poncey government experiment, or whatever it is. Besides, Harry has been shunting more porn videos than you can shake a stick at. Doesn’t hurt to make him sweat a bit.’

‘OK, fair enough. Where to now?’

‘We need to try and find this Mark, so we’ll swing by the
new
dry cleaner’s on London Street where the other refugees from the laundry are. If we get no joy there, we’ll head over to the Chinese restaurant. We’ll just have to hope the boy hasn’t gone far.’

‘Sounds reasonable to me. The grand tour of Denton Central continues, then.’

‘Yep, and the great thing is we can grab a bite at the same time. Ever had Chinese takeaway for lunch? I wonder if it tastes as good without half a dozen pints of IPA.’

Waters thought the prospect nauseating, especially in the current heatwave. ‘A little hot for that, isn’t it?’

Frost looked at him in genuine puzzlement. ‘Talking of which, grab me that sunhat and shades out of the glove box. Pounding the streets in the midday sun doesn’t really agree with me.’

Waters passed over the shades and crumpled panama and then relaxed in the passenger seat, toking on the Cuban cigar. He was glad to have explained his personal predicament to Jack Frost. He’d instinctively struck him as genuine and dependable – a good bloke to have on side. On the others the jury was still out.

Derek Simms was in a jubilant mood. He’d been pivotal in ID-ing the dead girl by the train line – an impressive piece of detective work, he thought. He’d also managed to establish that a bag had been found by a cleaner in an empty train carriage on Sunday. The guard had agreed to bring it back on an incoming train, so Simms was on his way to pick it up.

He arrived at the station ahead of the 2.45 to Paddington, on the off-chance he’d catch Feltham, the second taxi driver that Frost had identified. The cab controller said he was on an airport run and would be back any time now.

The photo of Samantha Ellis lay on the passenger seat. Simms had showed it to the station clerk, who remembered her buying
a
ticket at around 10 a.m. on Saturday. The man checked off the ticket sales that day, day-returns mostly, all purchased around the same time. Given it was a bank holiday weekend there was a fair bit of through traffic.

Christ, it was hot. His back began to sweat against the plastic Cortina seat. He chucked the
Auto Trader
to one side and got out to stretch his legs, wandering over to the kiosk next to the photo booth. He was thirsty as hell.

‘Can of Coke and a pack of Bensons, please, mate.’

‘That’ll be eighty-six pence, please, guv.’

Simms pulled a pound note out of his wallet.

‘Nasty business, that girl,’ the vendor said.

Simms looked at the man who had handed him his change: flat cap, denim jacket, late fifties. ‘What do you know about it?’

The man shrugged his shoulders. Just then Simms heard the train pull in. He quickly made his way down the stairs and on to the London-bound platform, a dribble of alighting passengers greeting him on his descent. The guard was waving from his van a couple of carriages down. Did he really look that much like a copper? He jogged along the platform and the man handed down a sequinned bag. It looked like a teenage girl’s, all right. Result. Now all he needed to do was speak to that taxi driver.

Tuesday (4)

‘HE NO HERE!’

Frost’s seemingly innocuous request to speak to Mark appeared to have sent the owner of the Chinese takeaway, the Jade Rabbit, into something of a rage. He gesticulated angrily, banging a large serving spoon on the counter, causing an array of soy-sauce bottles to vibrate.

Waters watched from near the doorway as Frost, still dressed in a panama hat and Polaroids, proceeded to wind him up.

‘Yes, he bloody well is!’ Frost shouted back. ‘Your brother from the dry cleaner’s down the road just told us he’s living here!’

‘He no here – you go, I call police!’

‘I am the flamin’ police!’

The small, moustachioed owner looked defiantly at the sweaty, middle-aged detective without recognition. If he did know, he wasn’t letting on.

‘Listen, I know all about the laundry your brother’s family ran, I know it was bought out by Baskin and they had to
downsize.
But I’m afraid to say I’ve just been down to see them, and bailiffs have locked the place up. Understand? Bailiffs?’

The man retained his silent, inscrutable stare.

‘The place has gone bust, so Mark is staying with you. Your bleedin’ brother just told me that!’ Frustrated, Frost felt for cigarettes, snatching off the hat and shades. The owner’s face was suddenly alight with recognition.

‘Flost! Mr Flost!’

‘He thought you were undercover!’ Waters laughed. ‘Those dodgy shades and that straw hat – more appropriate on the Riviera.’

Frost responded by jetting a plume of smoke in his direction.

Suddenly, the door of the takeaway opened and in walked a Chinese youth of around twenty, a large scratch adorning his left cheek. He clocked Frost and Waters and immediately turned on his heel, dashing out of the restaurant with Frost launching after him. Twelve stone of detective in full swing caught Waters’ little toe through the thin canvas of his Green Flash trainers, causing him to cry out and stagger back. It took him a moment to regain his balance. He limped out of the takeaway just in time to see Frost at full pelt down the middle of Queen Street, ignoring the traffic at the upcoming junction. A car sped out from the left and was forced to swerve wildly around him, horn blaring as it mounted a traffic island and Frost collided with the boot. When Waters arrived at the scene Frost was bent over double, wheezing as if oxygen was going out of fashion.

‘You all right?’ exclaimed Waters.

‘Of course I’m all right! Nearly had the little blighter.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure you did. He had a head start, though; gave him the edge.’

‘Something like that,’ Frost puffed. ‘Think I’ve got a stitch. Anyway, where were you? Big lad like you, thought you’d nab him easily …’

‘Bit of foot trouble.’ Waters smiled at Frost. He did like this
unconventional
guy who seemed on the verge of a coronary. ‘He probably won’t get far. Anyway, we should see what this character, his uncle, has to say about Mark’s activities on Saturday.’

‘Oi, you!’ The driver of the stricken Volvo, a bearded, balding man in a polo neck, had climbed out of his car and was shaking a fist at Frost. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing in the middle of the road! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you!’

DC Clarke pushed aside a Tupperware of cottage cheese and picked up a pen. She was following up on the case of the missing boy. Sixteen-year-old Tom Hardy, a conscientious boy just starting his O level exams, had vanished into thin air, which according to his mother was not like him at all.

‘So, Mrs Hardy,’ Clarke said, mustering her patience. ‘Let me get this straight. You and your husband went away for the weekend, leaving Tom on his own—’

‘No, he wasn’t on his own – his sister Emily was at home.’

Clarke took down the particulars. The similarities with the Ellis case were not lost on her. It seemed that as kids reached a certain age the parents wilfully abdicated their responsibilities, and their offspring were taking advantage of the situation and exercising their new-found freedoms, sometimes with dire consequences.

‘OK, Mrs Hardy, we’ll be over. Is your daughter at home?’ She thought that the girl in all likelihood would be the last to have seen her brother.

‘She’s at school sitting exams. I don’t want her getting distressed over this.’