Fatal Frost (28 page)

‘I’m positive,’ she said in answer to his question, pointing at the map. She left the path, treading tentatively through the bluebells. ‘I wish I’d worn different shoes. Come on.’

‘Doesn’t look much to me,’ Simms said, following. ‘I wish we had something to drink.’

‘It’s been here thousands of years. What do you expect?’ Clarke tutted.

Derek Simms didn’t really know what he expected. As they approached the burial mound, Simms noticed that the vegetation increasingly fell away and the flowers thinned, exposing a crust of earth, still damp after the recent downpours.

‘I’m sure we didn’t come here yesterday,’ said Clarke.

‘Hush,’ Simms hissed, ‘get down!’ He could see a figure crouched beyond the mound. ‘Slowly creep forward,’ he said in a whisper. Clarke did as instructed.

They moved quietly, approaching to within a few yards of a crouching figure in a denim shirt, then Simms made a dash.

‘Blimey, you scared the life out of me!’ screeched a flushed DC Myles, getting to her feet and brushing woodland debris
from
her bare legs. She was wearing a matching denim skirt that was definitely too short, Simms thought, regardless of how hot it was.

‘Sorry,’ Clarke said. ‘We thought you were … well, to be honest, we didn’t know
who
you were. We just saw someone and …’

‘Doesn’t matter, though I did tell
him
I’d meet you here.’ Myles pointed an accusatory finger at Simms. ‘Never mind. Come and have a look at this.’ Myles sank to her knees. Clarke and Simms followed suit.

She pointed out some small white lumps on the earth.

‘Wax?’ Simms wondered. ‘Candle wax?’

‘What on earth is candle wax doing out here?’ Myles asked, perplexed.

‘This is an ancient burial mound, so I’m guessing it could be from some sort of ritual.’ Clarke got up, brushing soil from her knees and glancing meaningfully at Simms. ‘So, Drysdale and Jack might be on to something.’

‘Never mind why or what – the question is who,’ Simms said uneasily. He realized they really had to get a handle on who had been camping out here. Until that moment he’d dismissed the theory of a ritual killing as laughable. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

Thursday (5)

‘HERE WE ARE
. Time for a spot of nosh,’ Frost said, holding open the door.

He removed his Polaroids but kept the panama hat firmly on his sweaty head. He wouldn’t look so bad if he shaved every once in a while, thought Waters. In his cheesecloth shirt he wouldn’t look out of place in Acapulco.

‘Billy’s Café: best fry-up in North Denton.’

‘What, surely not in the
whole
of North Denton?’ Waters smirked as they entered the smoggy café. Hell, he thought, this is the last place anyone sane would wish to be on a sunny day like this.

They slid into a booth. The place looked full of people who’d yet to come out of hibernation from last winter, dressed in overcoats and barely conscious.

A buxom waitress in a blouse that left little to the imagination took their order. Frost asked for a fried-egg sandwich and coffee, Waters settled for tea and toast.

‘The rack on that!’ Frost beamed as the waitress sashayed
away.
He’d cheered up, or so it seemed, and the sight of an impressive cleavage on a girl half his age brought the sparkle back into his eyes.

‘In with a chance there, pal,’ Waters teased. ‘See the smile she gave you?’

‘Leave it out, son, I’ve got Y-fronts older than that bit of crumpet.’

Waters laughed.

‘Behold, the prince of darkness himself,’ Frost said, looking towards the door at a thin man wearing a fedora, pencil tie and raincoat, despite it being nearly eighty degrees. He’ll fit right in with the clientele in here, Waters thought. He and Frost looked like alternate seasons from a budget fashion catalogue.

The man looked shifty and uncomfortable as he slid in next to Waters. ‘All right, Jack?’ he said.

‘Sandy,’ Frost acknowledged.

‘Who’s your boyfriend?’ Sandy Lane said, nodding abruptly at Waters.

‘Detective Sergeant Waters of the Metropolitan Police, may I introduce you to Sandy Lane, of the
Denton Echo
.’

Lane’s eyebrows shot halfway upwards. ‘Very exotic,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars, old son.’ Then his eyes flashed with excitement. ‘Say, did that happen here? A race-related assault? Not been one of them since I don’t know when.’ He pulled out a tatty A5 notepad excitedly.

‘No, it did not, Sandy,’ Frost said, as the tea and coffee arrived. Lane waved off the waitress, wanting nothing for himself. ‘John likes to do a bit of boxing in his spare time. He came a bit of a cropper in the ring, is all.’

‘Oh.’ Lane looked genuinely put out. ‘What have you got for me, then?’

‘We need you to make an appeal.’

‘An appeal?’

‘Yeah, you know’ – Frost took a swig of coffee – ‘a plea for help from the public.’

Waters thought Lane looked bemused. ‘
Help from the public?
’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Overstretched again, are we, Jack?’

‘It’s about a dead chimney sweep,’ Waters chimed in.

‘Outside Baskin’s boudoir,’ Lane affirmed, sounding slightly bored. ‘I was there this morning, but you’d already gone. It’s in the evening edition. Bet Harry Baskin’s none too pleased, a dead bloke in his car park. ’Ere, I’ve heard rumours that it’s more than a massage parlour – it’s a knocking shop.’ His journalistic interest was clearly rekindled at the thought.

The waitress hovered uncertainly with their late lunch, then gave up waiting to be acknowledged and placed the plates at the edge of the table, not daring to touch the ashtray which was seeing some heavy use.

‘Disgraceful talk, Sandy,’ Frost snapped, ‘in front of a young lady, too. Of course not.’

‘So, what about the deceased, then?’ Lane enquired. ‘Not much to go on, from what I hear.’

‘People having chimneys swept in May are pretty thin on the ground, so finding witnesses and piecing together his movements could be tricky. You can help by putting in something every day. When did you last see this man? That sort of thing.’

‘I told you, we’re running the story this evening. I’m not sure how much more you want from me. I mean, who cares about some sad old geezer living on his own?’

‘Maybe, but even so, run it again tomorrow,’ Frost insisted.

Waters could see the dismissive look in the cynical hack’s eyes. He attempted a further appeal. ‘Why not print that he
wasn’t
just some sad old man that nobody gave a toss about, he was a hardworking chimney sweep, a pillar of the community. Somebody’s mate. Somebody’s son. Strike a chord; run a photo of the van and equipment. Give him some humanity.’

Waters observed the tired old hack as he took this in. He
looked
suddenly forlorn. Perhaps he was picturing himself in the role of the lonely, forgotten loser in just a few years from now. His sullen, creased eyes glazed over.

‘All right.’ Lane sighed. ‘But what have you got for me?’

‘What d’you mean?’ Frost asked, surprised.

‘Mullett’s press conference yesterday was bloody useless. I mean, he actually found the kid himself, so you might be forgiven for thinking he’d have something to say, but no, just the usual clueless waffle. No idea when the boy was done in, even – nothing. Tell me something useful.’

‘Sandy, you must understand Mr Mullett is not used to being at the coalface. He’s a bit of a delicate flower.’ The reporter shrugged, unimpressed. ‘OK, here’s a scoop. We suspect the Ellis girl – you know, the one found by the train track – was a suicide.’

Waters shot Frost a glance. It struck him as incredibly irresponsible to break this to a reporter when the parents hadn’t even been informed. They should have been given at least a day’s notice prior to it being made public. Although Mullett had keenly advocated the suicide angle, Waters could see repercussions for Frost for handling it like this.

‘Really?’ Lane said. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ Frost said, reaching for Waters’ cigarettes after discovering his pack was empty. ‘Why do we suspect it was suicide?’

‘No, why did she kill herself? Depressed? Mad?’ Lane licked the tip of a stubby pencil, notepad at the ready.

‘We can’t comment as yet,’ Waters cut in, fearing the worst for Mrs Ellis and her partner.

‘That’s not much of a story, is it?’ Lane said indignantly. ‘I need something a bit more juicy.’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ Frost said. ‘Clever chap like you.’

* * *

‘Well played, son,’ commented Frost as they left the café, putting on his Polaroids. ‘About the sweep, I mean.’

‘I see it all too often round my way,’ Waters said. ‘Lonely old bloke croaks in a tower block, for weeks nobody notices until a neighbour complains about a nasty smell from next door. You get to a certain age and people stop giving a damn.’

‘Yep, we’ve had one or two of those down here,’ Frost said, ‘although you’d think a butcher’s hook through the neck would cause more of a stir in the public’s emotions.’

‘I reckon it will,’ Waters said. ‘Not everyone’s as jaded as your charming Mr Lane. Anyway, don’t you think we’d better get over to the Ellises’?’

But Frost’s attention was elsewhere. At the bus stop across the road was a striking brunette in a floppy sunhat and sunglasses. ‘Look over there at that bird!’ he hissed to Waters, removing his shades and shielding his eyes.

‘Haven’t we got better things to do than check out the crumpet?’ Waters exclaimed.

A green double-decker had pulled in at the stop. When it pulled away the woman was gone. ‘Did you see her?’ demanded Frost. He seemed oddly agitated.

‘The Brooke Shields lookalike, you mean?’

‘Who?’ Frost asked, perplexed.

‘You know, that skinny teenage girl from
The Blue Lagoon
. Did you not see that? The one that came out last year or the year before.’

‘She wasn’t a girl, she was older.’

‘More of a young Charlie’s Angel, then? The one in the blue dress at the beginning?’

‘How do I know?’ Frost said wearily. ‘My telly’s black and white. Just thought I recognized her from somewhere, though for the life of me can’t think where. Now, where were we?’

An old woman in a headscarf had appeared to Frost’s left, as if
out
of nowhere. She proffered what looked like a twig wrapped in silver foil.

‘That for me, is it?’ Frost said patiently, taking the gypsy’s heather. ‘Be a good chap, Waters, and give the lady a few coppers. Now then, my love, you’ve just reminded me of something …’

Frost pulled off the Bath Road towards the gypsy camp, and drove along what was little more than a mud track.

‘Tell me again why we’re here?’ Waters asked. ‘Surely we should head back to the station. What time did you tell the Hardys you’d see them?’

‘All in good time, son. That old dear flogging heather outside the café reminded me to drop by.’ Frost paused. ‘Two reasons. One: Mullett wanted our visitors to be made to feel unwelcome. I bet he’d be only too pleased if we pinned those smash and grabs on a couple of gypsies; and I don’t want a young hothead like Simms down here creating a stir. Uniform have already been tramping around.’

Frost concentrated on the uneven track. The cigarette clenched between his teeth dropped ash over his trousers as the Cortina clunked over potholes.

‘And the other reason is?’

‘Eh?’ Frost’s concentration was on the road, which was getting progressively worse. ‘How they got the caravans down here I’ll never know.’

‘You said two reasons.’

‘Flamin’ hell!’ said Frost, exasperated as he saw the camp pass by in the field to their left without their having found a way in. ‘We’ve come up the wrong way or something. Let’s get out and walk.’

They stopped the car and strode across to a dilapidated section of fence. Beyond it was a huddle of gypsy trailers arranged in an abstract pattern. A couple of small children were running around, and there were dogs of assorted shapes and
sizes
snuffling amongst the litter. A fair-haired man with a beer gut and a ragged goatee emerged from one of the trailers.