Fatal Frost (29 page)

‘Mr Frost!’ he said. The gypsies were regular visitors, returning to Denton year on year, despite the condemnation of the likes of Mullett. The bearded man recognized Frost because of an incident a few years back when a young girl from the camp had been hit by a car.

‘Hello there. Mind if we have a look about?’

‘The police have already been here, Mr Frost.’

The presence of a pair of invaders had clearly been sensed throughout the camp. From every corner men and women of all ages began to appear, staring suspiciously at Frost and Waters. Although there was no outward hostility, Frost sensed that the gypsies were ready to stand their ground against further infringements of their privacy. Undeterred, he began to pick his way through the camp. There was little to see: a fire, children playing beneath a clothes line, scrap metal.

The bearded man had followed him. ‘Anything in particular, Mr Frost?’ he said, falling into step.

‘Nope, just a general snoop around.’ Frost took special note of a few adolescents on bicycles, but these were old, tatty objects, not the new BMX types scooting around Denton. He stood in the middle of the encampment, shielding his eyes and looking from left to right. ‘Been into Denton much?’ he asked the gypsy.

‘We keep to ourselves mostly,’ he replied, rolling a cigarette.

Waters caught them up. He had two children in tow, who regarded him curiously, no doubt mesmerized by his wraparound shades and Hawaiian shirt.

‘I saw one of your number selling heather in the street.’

‘Ain’t no law against that!’ The man looked affronted.

‘Not saying there is, chief,’ Frost replied with palms half raised in a placatory gesture. Someone was prodding lethargically the recently lit fire. ‘Smoke’ll get into the laundry,’ he observed.
The
man was unmoved. ‘Look, I just wondered if anyone here had seen or heard anything untoward. It’s like the Wild West, Denton, at the moment. More burglaries, robberies and muggings than you can shake a stick at … not to mention—’

‘Now, just wait a minute, Mr Frost, we just got ’ere …’

Frost held up his hands again. ‘Whoa there, let’s keep calm. I’m not accusing anyone of anything, I just need a bit of help. Perhaps a couple of your kids might like to earn a few pennies?’

The man squinted; whether in distrust or because the sun had got the better of him Frost didn’t know, but he took a step closer nonetheless. ‘How do you mean?’ he said, waving away a cloud of thunderflies that had gathered between them. He was probably of a similar age to Frost, but his rough, weathered skin made Frost’s pale complexion appear almost youthful.

‘The two kids on bikes over there, call them over.’

‘Sam! Megan!’ He beckoned to them.

The children, instantly alert, came cycling towards them. Frost regarded the pair and their rusty bikes with interest. They had the same big brown eyes and were clearly brother and sister. The bloated beardie looked on warily – whether he’d spawned them or not was difficult to tell.

‘What sort of bike is that?’ Frost asked the boy, who was the elder of the two and looked around twelve. The bike had tall handlebars sprouting out of a much smaller front wheel.

‘A Chopper.’ The lad grinned, embarrassed. The girl giggled beside him.

‘Bet you can pull a few stunts on that, eh?’

He nodded confidently.

‘And you,’ Frost said to the girl, who had light-brown ringlets of hair that were falling over her eyes. ‘Quick on that, are you? I bet you could overtake your brother.’

She smiled, head tilted to one side.

Frost bent down closer to their faces. ‘Kids, how’d you like to earn some pocket money? I want you to do me a favour.’

* * *

‘Visiting gypsies, I might have known.’ The superintendent sighed. Wells noticed with unease how the heat disagreed with his commander. He was red in the face and his moustache looked decidedly damp. Perhaps if the uptight commander undid his tunic he might not get so wound up – it was bleedin’ hot in here, after all. It was nearly three in the afternoon and Wells had the fan on his reception desk going full pelt.

‘Hmm.’ Mullett pondered, eyeing Wells suspiciously. ‘Gypsies, travellers – can’t trust anyone without roots. I did tell Frost to check them out, but I was clear I wanted an update this afternoon. When is he expected back?’

‘Not spoken to him myself,’ Wells admitted. ‘Control has been trying to reach DS Frost for me all day, regarding the dead chimney sweep.’

‘Yes, the chimney sweep,’ Mullett repeated. ‘Another body. Troubled and turbulent times, Wells. If we were suitably resourced would things be any different?’

Wells, unsure whether a response was required, said nothing. The super turned round and stood looking expectantly through the bright glass front doors opening out on to Eagle Lane. Hands on hips and pouting, as was his way. Wells had a sudden vision of him as some besieged Second World War commander in the midst of an enemy onslaught and deserted by his troops. The super didn’t weather stress well on his own.

‘Mr Mullett.’ Wells looked at his notepad. ‘Mr Hartley-Jones called again.’

‘Did he?’ Mullett replied without turning round, foot tapping on the polished floor. ‘Is Simms making progress with that line-up, I wonder? Not that some teenage oik will be the one responsible for stealing my friend’s wife’s eternity ring. I don’t suppose you know Simms’s movements either, eh, Wells?’

‘DC Simms is still in the field, sir, with DC Myles and DC Clarke,’
Wells
said hopefully. ‘Though he was calling with regard to his niece, sir, not the burglary.’

‘Of course he is, of course he is,’ Mullett replied with a hint of exasperation.

Just then the swing doors opened and two figures entered. Wells couldn’t make out their features – they were in silhouette, because of the sun – but their shuffling gait and the way they leaned against each other told him who they were: the bereaved parents of Tom Hardy.

Waters finished talking to Control and replaced the radio handset. Frost should have asked what was happening at Eagle Lane but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. It was unlikely to be good news. Unwelcome thoughts still clouded his mind: Mary, her mother, the School of the Five Bells. Frost hadn’t mentioned this last development to Waters. Was it embarrassment at his own wife being embroiled in some bizarre schoolgirl cult? No, it was twenty years ago. He needed to check with Records before going public with such information, that was the reason. But in any case, what was he driving at with this theory of a witchcraft link to both St Mary’s and the murder? Would teenage girls really do something that horrific? It wasn’t a thought he could countenance.

‘Jack?’ Waters was saying. ‘Hey, Jack?’

‘Sorry, pal,’ Frost apologized. ‘Lost in thought.’

‘Mullett’s on the warpath, Jack. The Hardys have turned up. They’re with him now.’

‘Shit,’ Frost said. ‘We’re late. Better bite the bullet, then, and head back to the station. He’s the last person you’d want to get any comfort from.’

Thursday (6)

SUPERINTENDENT STANLEY MULLETT
paused while his secretary placed glasses of water on the coasters on his desk. He looked over at the Hardys. It was a good few years since he’d been in such direct contact with grief. Where the bloody hell was Frost? It was him they were here to see.

‘Thank you, Miss Smith,’ he said deliberately, eking out the moment as long as possible.

Mrs Hardy finally moved the handkerchief which had obscured her features since she’d entered the station and began to speak. ‘We thought, Mr Mullett, as Mr Frost was delayed … and as you found …’ she shuddered, searching for the right word, ‘… T-Tom. We thought, as you found our son, it was best we come to see you directly. After the TV and everything.’

‘Of course, and so you should,’ Mullett said, trying to sound sincere. ‘I want you to know we have our very best men and women working on this terrible, terrible tragedy.’

‘But, sir, the bigger concern now is our daughter. She must
be
found alive. Yes, we want our son’s killer caught, but it won’t bring him back.’ The mother sobbed.

‘We need everything focused on finding Emily,’ reiterated Mr Hardy, who looked as though he’d not slept in days. He wore glasses not dissimilar to Mullett’s, behind which his eyes were livid red.

Mullett swallowed hard. ‘Yes, we’re exploring every avenue,’ he insisted, conscious of having little idea which avenues these were and how they were proceeding. Hadn’t Frost been to the girl’s private school this morning? That was all he really knew.

‘But you’re the one leading the investigation,’ Mrs Hardy sobbed, ‘so why are you just sitting here in your nice office? Why aren’t you out there combing the streets?’

‘Now, Mrs Hardy, please try and stay calm.’ Mullett was terrified she would become hysterical. ‘I have to remain here to direct operations.’

‘But where is she?’ Big, racking sobs had now engulfed Mrs Hardy and her face disappeared into her handkerchief again. The father seemed lost in a world of his own. Mullett’s own pulse was soaring.

Suddenly the door flew open. In came Frost and Waters. Thank heavens.

‘I’m sorry we’re so late. Traffic …’

‘Yes, please come in, both of you.’ Mullett felt able to regain some composure, all eyes now being on the two dishevelled detectives. ‘Mr and Mrs Hardy – have you met Detective Sergeant Frost?’

The Hardys looked less than impressed. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone. We’ve met Miss Clarke.’

‘Detective Constable Clarke reports to Detective Sergeant Frost who is heading the operation – in the field,’ he added, as if to emphasize his own importance.

‘Mr and Mrs Hardy, I’m so very sorry to meet you under such
circumstances,’
Frost said solemnly. ‘Apologies for not getting to you sooner. My colleague DS Waters and I have been out to St Mary’s to see Miss Sidley.’

The parents looked expectantly at Frost. Mullett felt a pang of irritable envy. They now clearly thought this untidy individual held the key.

‘Now,’ Frost continued, ‘how can we help?’

‘We thought you should know,’ Mrs Hardy said, ‘that usually we wouldn’t expect Emily home. She sleeps over at a friend’s on a Wednesday.’

‘At Two Bridges.’ Frost nodded. ‘Which reminds me, and I hate to bring it up at a time like this – Emily is only fourteen and really should not have been left alone for the duration of the holiday weekend.’

Mullett felt the colour drain from his face. He watched the distraught parents regard each other. Their expression betrayed the anxiety of guilt; they knew they were at fault and the blame was just beneath the surface.

But Frost was swift to move on. ‘Am I correct that Emily was expected at Two Bridges?’

‘Correct,’ said the father.

‘Yes. It was that evening when her friend at Two Bridges – the one she was supposed to be staying with – telephoned to ask where she was,’ Mrs Hardy added. ‘We thought you should know …’

‘Which friend might that be, Mrs Hardy?’ Frost asked.

‘Gail. Gail Burleigh.’

‘We appreciate you coming in like this,’ Frost said diplomatically, ‘but it’s best all round if you let us get on with finding your daughter, which is our prime concern at the moment. I understand it’s tough to sit at home just waiting, but I’m afraid it’s the best course of action.’

Mullett watched the exhausted parents rise to their feet to take their leave. He had to hand it to Frost; vulgar though he
was,
he knew how to deal with civilians. At certain times, at least.

‘Well done, Jack,’ he said after a WPC had led the Hardys out. ‘What do we reckon on the girl? Dead, do you think?’

‘That’s a bit premature, sir. I believe she may well still be alive.’

‘Well, let’s hope so. Keep up the good work.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Oh, before you go, Records asked me to hand you this.’ He passed across a faded foolscap file. ‘Girl’s suicide from twenty years ago.’

The dazzling afternoon sun caused DC Simms to brake suddenly as he pulled into Eagle Lane station.

‘What the …’

A huge truck was obstructing half of the car park. In front of it was Superintendent Mullett lambasting PC Pooley, his face glowing with anger and sweat. He was holding something on hangers encased in plastic wrapping. Was that his dry cleaning? Simms wondered.