Fatal Frost (24 page)

‘The good father asked after you,’ he lied.

‘Did he?’ she replied. ‘Well, it was only the other day I was at St Jude’s – after Easter …’

‘We talked about Mary, mostly,’ he fabricated, confident that she was too preoccupied to question his veracity, ‘about when she was a teenager.’

‘A teenager?’ Beryl Simpson’s pencilled eyebrows moved upwards to meet a raft of forehead creases.

‘Said she was a smashing kid,’ Frost gabbled on, shifting uncomfortably against the kitchen work surface – he’d have killed
for
a cigarette – ‘but got mixed up in some sort of a teenage cult.’

Mrs Simpson said nothing.

Frost continued, ‘Yes, a bunch of girls messing around with witchcraft. I can’t imagine it got that far, myself. Though for one girl it ended tragically …’

Beryl Simpson moved to the bag of ice on the counter that now sat in a growing pool of water and banged it to loosen the cubes with a ferocity that made Frost jump. Slowly and methodically she fixed herself a refill.

‘Tell me … William,’ she said slowly, turning to face him with a look filled with malice. ‘Or is it “Jack”? … Tell me honestly that you’re not here on business. This evening. Now.’

Frost felt his throat seize up.

‘Yes,’ she said spitefully, ‘here you are – good old “Jack” Frost from Denton CID – asking questions about my daughter, your wife. Not about how … how she is … or your sham of a marriage, but obscure questions about what she got up to twenty years ago. A witch! Have you no shame?’

Frost reached for his cigarettes and moved towards the door, but the vision in the doorway stopped him dead.

‘The School of the Five Bells,’ Mary Frost said.

Thursday (1)

FROST PULLED UP
behind a panda car. He was clearly the latecomer to the scene; Maltby’s old Hillman was already there, next to an ambulance.

Frost had waited nearly an hour for DS Waters at Eagle Lane, but at ten to nine had given up. He should have arranged to pick him up at Fenwick Street. He’d telephoned but there was no reply. Cheeky sod has overslept, Frost thought – up all night humping, no doubt. He tried to smile but found it only brought him close to tears – if it wasn’t for the hangover from last night’s bottle of Black Label keeping him together he felt sure he’d crack.

Is Mary all right?
The thought he was trying to ignore kept piercing his consciousness, making him shudder every time. As a distraction, he tried to focus on what she’d said about the teenage ‘witches’, or the School of the Five Bells, as she had referred to them, but the tired look of Beryl Simpson resurfaced in his mind, pushing everything else out of the way.

On reflection he thought his mother-in-law looked drained.
Was
something up? No, she was probably going through ‘the change’. He should have insisted Mary came home. If anyone’s really knackered, it’s me, he thought.

Frost gripped the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. ‘Right, son. Keep it together,’ he said to himself, lighting a cigarette before getting out of the car.

The area was cordoned off and police tape flickered in the early-morning breeze. The white van, complete with its macabre cargo, stood in the middle of the Pink Toothbrush car park, front and rear doors open. So, he thought, here’s where it’s all happening this week; Clarke being stabbed, his own late-night vigil after the soliciting accusations, and now this. Harry Baskin was giving a statement to PC Jordan, gesticulating angrily with his cigar. He caught Frost’s eye but the detective decided he could wait.

He did a reconnoitre of the scene. As indicated by the earlier complaints about soliciting, the car park was overlooked by the flats at Baron’s Court. Uniform would carry out a door-to-door, though he bet when it came to something this important those nosy bleeders wouldn’t have seen a thing.

Frost wandered over to the crime scene, a white Bedford van. The dishevelled Maltby emerged from the rear, and two Forensics officers in boiler suits exchanged remarks with him before climbing in. Frost glanced inside briefly, taking in the poles and brushes – a chimney sweep’s van, as the caller, Harry Baskin, had explained down the phone to a half-asleep Sergeant Johnny Johnson at seven o’clock this morning.

‘Ah, Sergeant Frost. Good morning to you,’ Maltby said.

‘Doc,’ Frost nodded. ‘The sun’s out, so it can’t all be bad.’

‘Yes, it seems the fine weather has returned after yesterday’s deluge.’ The crumpled doctor looked around him appreciatively. Frost peered into the van cabin before being ushered away by Harding, the senior Forensics officer; the cab had yet to be dusted for prints.

‘What have we got, then?’ Frost asked Maltby, lighting a cigarette.

‘Male, mid sixties.’

‘Dead?’

‘Very.’

‘Not here to try out Harry’s new massage parlour, then?’

‘It would take more than a rub-down from one of the ladies to bring
him
back.’ Maltby sniffed. ‘Been dead at least a full day – thirty-six hours or so.’

Frost moved to the front of the van and noticed the windscreen wipers were stuck in mid-sweep. The only rain in the last week had been yesterday afternoon. ‘You sure about that?’

‘That’s as accurate an approximation as I can give in the field,’ Maltby said, removing his gloves. ‘Rigor has passed. The corpse is softening.’

‘That’s good enough for me, Doc. Garrotted, wasn’t he?’

‘No, stabbed through the throat, though by what it’s hard to say. I’m satisfied that it didn’t happen in the van; there would have been a tremendous amount of blood, much more than is in there, so I would hazard he was murdered elsewhere and dumped here.’

Frost looked in the back again and waved at one of the Forensics men.

‘Fancy a video cassette player?’ he muttered, seeing half a dozen assorted machines stacked in the back.

‘Not in the slightest – I don’t own a television set.’

‘Wise move,’ Frost said, taking in the severed leads poking out of the VCRs. Was the man a thief on the side, he wondered? He stepped back to allow the Forensics officer out. ‘All filth and corruption, Mrs Whitehouse would have us believe.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Maltby muttered. ‘Anyway, as I say, the man’s been dead at least twenty-four hours, killed by a wound to the neck.’

Frost clambered into the back of the Bedford and opened the
dust
sheet to reveal a dead man in overalls, mouth wide open, guppy-like. Extraordinary: a dead chimney sweep found with half a dozen stolen VCRs in a massage-parlour car park. He scratched his head thoughtfully.

‘Don’t suppose there was an appointment book helpfully left behind?’ Frost called out to Harding who he could see through the open doors removing his rubber gloves. The Forensics officer shook his head. Frost thought that would be too good to be true. They’d have to find some other way to trace the sweep’s movements.

‘Frost? Where are you?’ a voice called from beyond the police tape.

‘Here.’ Frost climbed out of the van.

‘This ain’t good.’

Frost turned to face a worried-looking Harry Baskin. ‘Morning, Harry. You look troubled.’ A Chinese girl hovered behind the gangster like a diminutive shadow.

‘Somebody’s got it in for me,’ Baskin rasped, toking deeply on his cigar, gold-ringed knuckles glinting in the May sun. ‘First the bird getting cut on Monday, now this …’ He flicked ash dismissively in the direction of the van.

‘Popular bloke like you, Harry?’ Frost said. ‘Can’t see it myself.’

‘Don’t get smart. Someone’s trying to shag up my new business. Palmer, I reckon – always had it in for me.’

Martin ‘Pumpy’ Palmer – Frost knew him, a wide-boy wheeler-dealer from Rimmington. ‘The Pump? Not his style. No, I doubt it, not unless the pair of you are trying to muscle in on the chimney-sweep business.’

Baskin shrugged.

‘A sweep with a side line in VCRs,’ Frost added.

‘He could have the whole of Rumbelows in there for all I care. I want him shifted, pronto. How long are your lot going to be here? We open at eleven.’

‘Keep your hair on, they’ll be done soon,’ Frost said, watching Forensics lift the body from the van. Baskin’s Chinese companion looked nervously down as Frost made eye contact with her. She was slight, but very cute. Must pay the parlour a call, he thought – if he ever had time, that is.

‘I thought it was strictly a nocturnal establishment?’ Frost enquired.

‘Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays we open at eleven, for Denton’s ladies of leisure who want a bit of pampering, and all that.’

‘What does a “pampering” involve?’ His gaze still lingered on the girl.

‘Nails.’

‘
Nails?
’

‘Yeah, you know, fingers and toes.’

‘Oh.’ He was pretty sure the drunks he saw on Tuesday night weren’t after a manicure. Still, he didn’t have time for that now.

‘Good.’ Baskin coughed, looking at Forensics packing up. ‘Let me know if I can assist with your enquiries in any way. Any way at all.’ He grinned. ‘I try to look after you coppers where I can.’

‘A pillar of the community you are, Harry. My superintendent was saying so only the other day.’

‘Mullett?’ Baskin raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Queer one, him. Saw him at the golf club yesterday. Horrible business, that. Got your hands full at the moment, ’aven’t you? I’d best let you get on then.’ He made to leave.

‘We let your lad go, Mark Fong,’ Frost said.

‘Wondered where he’d got to,’ Baskin said. ‘His uncle must have pressed him to come forward. Any use to you?’

‘Nope,’ Frost said. ‘I don’t know what sort of deal you’ve struck with him, but I’ll be watching out for that lad.’

‘If he doesn’t like it, he knows the alternative – the first slow boat back to China.’

Baskin clearly couldn’t give two hoots about the welfare of his staff, and Frost was determined to be true to his word and keep an eye on them. Of more pressing concern to the gangster was why a murdered man had been left in his car park. And a good question it was, Frost thought. Why here?

‘Harry, one final thing,’ Frost called out. Baskin stopped and faced him. ‘I’m sure you’ve already given PC Jordan a statement, but bear with me a sec. The body was wrapped in dust sheets in the back of a Transit van, in an empty car park, left some time in the last twenty-four hours. When did you first notice it? What prompted you to break into it?’

‘Bastard was in my space. Couldn’t park in it this morning when I arrived.’

‘Of course, fair enough.’

‘And I didn’t break in – it was unlocked.’ Baskin turned his back and made for the old laundry, the girl scurrying along behind him.

‘Morning, guv.’ PC Jordan had appeared at Frost’s side as Baskin and the Chinese girl disappeared inside the building.

‘Morning, son. So, the van was open, then?’

‘Yes, and keys were in the ignition. Pardon me, sir, but on a different subject, I’ve just had a message from Control. DS Waters’ motor was done over last night. Tyres slashed – he had to walk to the nick, and he left the keys at the garage next door.’

‘Flamin’ hell. I wondered where he was this morning.’

‘Also, Mr Mullett would like an update on the burglaries.’

‘
Burglaries?
Sod his posh mates’ cut glass – I’ve got two dead kids and Dick Van Dyke here to deal with.’

Frost looked at his watch – 10 a.m. This new body had really thrown him off course. That was the job, though, and he knew it. And now he’d have to go to the lab yet again, on top of everything else.

St Mary’s School for Girls was out towards Rimmington. Right, he thought, I’d better get my skates on. School first,
see
my old mate the headmistress, then stop and see Drysdale about the sweep, then I’ve got the Hardys arriving at the station, and Mullett wants an update this afternoon. In between all that he had to type up the Ellis report. Before he even started he’d have to get back to the station to pick up Waters because his car had been vandalized. What next? Flaming hell, this week was getting complicated, all right.

Simms had arrived at his desk at just gone eight thirty. He’d left Waters to lie in – he knew John had been out on the tiles, not that the nightlife here had that much to offer, as far as Derek Simms was concerned.