Fatal Frost (13 page)

‘If there was any such stuff going on I rather doubt it would occur on a Monday night …’

‘I want that place under surveillance!’ the superintendent snapped. ‘And stop rocking back and forth on that chair – it’s not a toy.’ Frost abruptly halted. ‘Come on, we can’t have this sort of thing going on in the centre of town. I don’t care so much about that seedy club of his, but even you must agree that this completely lowers the tone.’

‘But there’s no evidence of anything “going on”,’ said Frost seriously. ‘What are we basing this on – a gripe from an old biddy who may or may not have seen something?’

‘A detective was stabbed on the premises.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it!’

‘I don’t care, I want that place watched – tonight, understood?’ Mullett waited for Frost’s acknowledgement, which came in the form of a slight tilt of the head, before continuing. ‘The attack on DC Clarke – of course, I accept it could be unrelated, but in any case, it’s extremely important we get it resolved, without further ado. I can’t have police officers getting stabbed. So what are you doing about it? I’ve already ordered Myles and Clarke to skim around the schools to get a
list
of the truants, but more than likely it’s one of the riff-raff on the estate.’

‘Might not be.’

‘And lean on Baskin, Frost, make sure he knows it’s in his interest to help resolve this.’ Mullett paused, before asking hopefully, ‘Now then, this girl, are we any further? Could it have been suicide?’

‘More likely murder,’ Frost replied.

‘Are you sure?’ Mullett grew vexed.

‘As sure as I can be at this stage.’ Frost scratched the back of his head vigorously in a way that reminded Mullett of an animal dealing with an unwelcome tick. He flinched at the thought of his unkempt detective’s poor personal hygiene. ‘I don’t get why you’re so eager for a suicide verdict, Super. We’ve had two this year already. It hardly does the Denton Tourist Board any good, does it – come to Denton and top yourself …’

‘Neither does murder, Frost. For goodness’ sake. The parents IDed her, didn’t they?’

‘Yes. Samantha Ellis. Fifteen-year-old Denton resident.’

Mullett reached for the Senior Service and offered them to Frost, who took one, tapping it on the desk before lighting it. ‘Any suspects?’

‘Yes, as it happens, there is one.’

‘Already? May I ask who? Come on, don’t hold back – this is’ – Mullett smiled tightly – ‘shall we say, unusual for you to make a break in a case …’

Frost stared at him, unmoved.

‘… so early on,’ Mullett finished.

‘As it happens, I’ve just come back from seeing Harry Baskin. He’s … helping us with our enquiries.’

‘Listen, Frost, I want you in the office more. I can’t have all this …’ Mullett waved his hand airily. ‘Coming and going alone, all this vagueness.’

‘I’ve no idea what you mean, sir.’

‘Come, come, you’ve been skulking around on your own like Williams used to do. Nobody has a clue where you are. Operating on your own. It’s not good.’

‘Hanlon is off on compassionate leave.’

‘Well, continue to keep an eye on Waters until he returns. Simms is proving too much of a hothead. And I want somebody brought in for the assault on Clarke.’

‘What, as a priority over the Ellis case?’

‘Yes. As I said, we can’t have officers being stabbed in broad daylight. Just bring somebody in.’ He almost said
anybody
; it was what he was thinking. He looked at his watch. ‘Right, I must be off …’

‘Ah, the golf course beckons.’ Frost was an obstinate sod who clearly enjoyed winding him up.

‘If you must know, Denton Golf Club has been shut for the best part of the year. The completion of the new grounds overran.’ Mullett stroked his moustache. ‘Not surprising, as it’s the same shabby lot that are sorting this place out. But, happily, there’s an inspection of the new clubhouse tomorrow morning for a select few, ready for the official opening on Friday. Denton now boasts a premium eighteen-hole course.’

‘Smashing.’

‘It may mean nothing to you, but it signals a move up for the town. You wouldn’t understand. What’s that you have there?’ Mullett peered at a crumpled sheaf of paperwork Frost had slid across the desk.

‘Expenses.’

‘I haven’t got time for this now. Leave it with Miss Smith and I’ll look at it tomorrow morning.’

Tuesday (5)

‘RIGHT, YOU’RE DRIVING,’
Simms said as he and Waters strode out of the station and across the car park, the late-afternoon sunshine hitting them full on. ‘Only way you’ll get to know your way around.’

‘Sure thing, but not in this rust bucket,’ quipped Waters, thumping the vinyl roof of the Cortina.

‘Fine with me, we can go in your Vauxhall, then. Just let me grab my shades.’

Waters was beginning to feel more at ease. Confessing to Frost that he’d volunteered for secondment to Denton had made him feel less like an alien and more like someone others might identify with.

Frost himself looked as if he had his fair share of problems; he seemed on the verge of exhaustion, and whilst Waters guessed his age at mid-forties he wouldn’t be surprised if he was in fact younger. Whatever his true age, Waters felt far more empathy with Frost than with the young, naive DC he’d been saddled with again this afternoon.

Simms and Waters were off towards Two Bridges to interview the girls who’d been on Samantha’s train. Frost’s hunch that they attended St Mary’s private school had proved sound, and thanks to the addresses Simms had garnered from Feltham they now had two names, plus a bit of family background. As suspected, both girls were squarely in the well-off bracket.

They inched through the centre of Denton past graffiti-daubed walls and bus shelters invariably urging ‘wogs’ and ‘Pakis’ to ‘go home’.

So far the locals had seemed pretty wary of him, Waters reflected. It was as though Shaft had walked out of the TV set on to their plush carpet without wiping his feet. In awe, but slightly affronted at the same time, and too polite to comment.

As they finally hit open road and Waters punched through the gearbox, Simms gave him the lowdown on Two Bridges.

‘It’s not really a village. More of a hamlet.’

‘What, long and slender, like the cigar?’ Waters grinned at his own bad joke.

‘Not a million miles off. There’s one narrow street neatly top and tailed by …’

‘A bridge at either end?’

‘You win the cuddly toy.’

Waters had pegged Denton as a classic 1960s new-town project where the majority of the town was purpose-built, destined to soak up London overspill. Prior to that it had probably been a quiet village community minding its own business. It surprised him how quickly the urban gave way to the rural. The day was drawing to a close and the sun hung low across the fields, reminding his East End sentiments of a TV commercial for chocolates.

‘Up here on the left, behind this boozer.’

Waters swung down a cobbled lane that ran past the leafy
beer
garden of the Fox, and pulled up behind a white Saab. A bank of pastel-coloured cottages greeted them, their façades adorned with hollyhocks and clematis like something his ex would coo over on the box – a scene from a gentle TV period drama. On the opposite side of the road, a huge willow hung mournfully over a pond on a small, neat green, flanked by pristine high-end motors.

‘Nice,’ he said, reaching back to grab his denim jacket; the temperature still dropped after sunset. ‘So what’s the background?’

‘Gail Burleigh is the name of the girl. Father Max is a lawyer, a partner in his firm. The wife is a lady of leisure. Little Gail is the apple of their eye. According to Mrs Burleigh she’s the perfect student, predicted straight As in her O levels. And once she’s spun through those, she’s expected straight back in the autumn for A levels.’

The Burleighs clearly took the visit from the police very seriously. They’d secreted Gail upstairs in order to have their say first. The father was keen to convey that they were both au fait with their daughter’s movements in every particular. She’d been to a gallery on Saturday. Yes, they’d read in the
Echo
that a girl had been found by the railway track, but no, Gail did not know a Samantha Ellis, and of course they were sure, she would have said if she’d known her. Compared with what he was used to when interviewing families, Waters found the air of control and protection almost stifling.

‘Can we have a word with her, then?’ Simms urged. ‘I assure you we’re not intending to unsettle Gail.’

‘Good,’ said her mother with a piercing look. ‘She’s taking her O levels in under a month and we don’t want her studies upset.’

‘No exams right now?’ Waters asked.

‘You mean CSEs?’ replied Max Burleigh scornfully, removing his pipe. ‘No, Gail isn’t sitting
those
.’ It was difficult to take
him
seriously, sitting there in his antique leather chair with his pipe and cravat.

‘Well, we won’t detain her any longer than necessary,’ reiterated Simms. As if on cue Gail herself peered coyly round the living-room door.

She had long, dark curly hair and looked far more womanly than Waters had expected. Simms asked her to come in and looked expectantly at the parents, but they were clearly not in any hurry to leave, and one look at Mrs Burleigh’s anxious face told them it was fruitless to ask. ‘Of course, you may sit in while we ask a few questions, but I insist you let Gail answer for herself,’ Simms said firmly.

Gail perched on the edge of the settee. On closer inspection she was more typical of a girl of her age, heavily made up but in an over-plastered way that gave away her immaturity. Her kohl-rimmed brown eyes were mischievous and lively. Bet she runs rings round her dullard parents, Waters thought.

‘So, Gail,’ opened Simms, flicking out his notepad. Mrs Burleigh visibly stiffened at this formal gesture but Gail remained unmoved. ‘I understand you went up to London for an art exhibition on Saturday. Can you tell me what it was you saw?’

‘Titian,’ was the soft reply.

‘He’s her favourite Italian,’ the mother chipped in. Simms shot her a glance so sharp she looked shocked and her gaze fell to the floor. Well done, mate, Waters thought.

‘And after that?’ Gail turned her head and stared into the fireplace, avoiding everyone’s gaze. ‘I assume the gallery would have shut by, what, six? And yet you got the last train home.’

‘We went to see a band,’ she replied quietly. ‘At the Shepherd’s Bush Empire.’

Waters noticed this was news to her mother. ‘Who was it?’ he said with a wry smile.

‘Culture Club.’

‘Ah, the gender-benders …’

‘The
what
?’ Mrs Burleigh almost screeched.

‘Nothing you’d know about,
Mother
,’ spat Gail petulantly.

Waters sniggered inwardly at the horror on Mrs Burleigh’s face – she was clearly not as au fait with her daughter’s movements as she thought – but he didn’t want to alienate Gail so he attempted to draw her in. ‘Cool band – a little too much war paint for me but some good tunes.’

‘A bunch of woofters, aren’t they?’ was Simms’s helpful response.

‘It’s just an image thing,’ said Gail in irritation. She caught Waters’ eye and gave him a coy little smile.

‘So let’s get this straight,’ said Simms, attempting to regain some direction. ‘You and—’

‘Sarah.’

‘You and Sarah went to London for the day to see some pictures, followed by some pop music. Samantha Ellis also went to London that day. Did you see her?’

Gail maintained that she hadn’t, and that she and Sarah didn’t know Samantha Ellis. Simms chose not to press her on this; they went to different schools and lived in different areas, so it seemed fair enough. The fact they’d caught the same trains that day could easily be a coincidence; the majority of Saturday’s day-trippers had departed on the 10.15, the ticket clerk had confirmed as much, and teenagers were notorious for hanging around until the very last train of the night.

He made to wrap things up. He’d been easy on the girl in order to gain her trust, but he’d left one important question to last. ‘Gail, thanks for that. One final thing – had you been drinking alcohol?’